In case you haven’t seen it yet, I recently released the 2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge guidelines. We’re just a little more than two weeks away from poemania! Click here to read the guidelines.
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For today’s prompt, write a poem that plays with the idea of disguises. There are physical disguises, of course, but also emotional and psychological disguises that most people wear to some extent every day.
Here’s my attempt:
“Hit the road, Jack”
The beginning is where the end
should be, she tells me, so maybe
we should just call it a day, but
then again, there are the children
to worry over and the bills
aren’t going to just pay themselves.
In a panic, I wave my hands
in the air and say, What are you
trying to tell me? Are you not
happy? Do you need a little
space? I’m sure we can work this out.
Oh sugar, she says, I just meant
we have a lot of work to do
before we can hit the beach and
let the waves take us away.
*****
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*****
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Beauty tried to hide.
Under matted hair
and mottled clothes
she shuffled through
wet grass and fallen leaves,
picking up stray slugs
and carrying them to safety
before cloaking herself
under piles of orange
and umber.
But green eyes
and giggles
give her away.
Ahhhhhh, Jerry. How I love having a daughter, and reading your amazing words knowing you have one, too. Just beautiful.
Thanks, De. It’s amazing how she has made me a better person.
Vivid. Love shines from this poem.
THE MASKS WE WEAR
“Well we all have a face that we hide away forever
And we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone” ~ Billy Joel
We think we know who we are,
molded into this “someone”
we would like others to see.
But it is we who are duped
into thinking that hiding behind
the person we aspire to be,
we will keep us from becoming
this parody of who we are.
“To thine own self” falls by the wayside
and we hide the flaws and imperfections
for the protection of our egos. Feelings
will be hurt no matter, be glad in who
you are at the moment. Embrace
the face in the mirror, and hear the cries
of non-deceiving eyes. In all fairness,
keep your awareness focused,
the joke is on you.
Acceptance come from within,
it is a sin to think otherwise.
Remove the masquerade and parade
yourself in your finery. The Emperor
may be naked, but there is no mistaking
he hide nothing from the world.
Midnight strikes and the ruse is over. Unmask!
Brilliant!
Missing
She was lost in a fog,
blind to all those before her;
They went on with their lives
never realizing she was not there,
not missing her,
not wondering where she had gone;
She wasn’t gone,
she was still there
just biding her time;
Then, the moon in her luminescent cloak,
peaks through the clouds
backlighting the disrobing branches of autumn.
MIchele, how beautiful, especially the last line.
lovely.
Masquerade
Her heart aches
but she wears a smile
to hide her bruised feelings;
Her body aches
but she wears long sleeves
to hide her bruised body;
His job has disappeared
but he continues to laugh
to hide the fear rising within his chest;
His best friend died
but he crawls on the floor with his baby
to hide the anguish screaming in his head;
Her mask slips a bit
as she makes a wrong turn
causing the car behind her to honk
adding to her feeling of loneliness and of being unwanted;
Her mask slips
and she is a little less polite
in the checkout lane making the customer
disgruntled wondering what her problem is;
His mask slips
as he cradles the gun within in hands
but he sets it down and walks away;
His mask slips
and he feels the gentle hands of a baby
touch the tears streaming down his face;
Let us hope, when our mask slips
we are met but the unconditional love of a baby
by all those around us
as we weave our way
through life’s masquerade.
You must be on a poetic roll. Both poems are excellent.
Really great poems this morning.
Disguised
His crude manner
keeps people at a distance.
They shake their heads
at his unkempt hair and beard,
his worn tennis shoes,
holey jeans and tee.
He has no sense of decorum
and on occasion offends,
especially the perfectionists.
Yet he gives selflessly,
works hard helping others
and is particularly tender
to those most vulnerable.
He’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
She Smiles
If you want more from life than
Minimum wage or
Endlessly riding the bus
Some will say that you’re greedy
Discontent or worse
Envious and selfish
Still others will say
You’re not applying yourself
Not chasing your dreams
Underachieving
There is no such thing as pleasing people
Some demand that you marry
And have lots of kids
Still others will say
This is frivolous
Too risky given our economy
Even dangerous in today’s society
There is no such thing as pleasing people
Some will even dare tell you
How to dress
In frilly things
And floral prints
Still others will say
That neutrals are best
Classic
Timeless
Elegant
There is no such thing as pleasing people
Too polite to tell them
To get off her back
She has her own choices to make
Frustrated
She just smiles
Placating…
I’m not sure if the metaphor comes through clearly in this one… critiques and suggestions more than welcome!
TRYING ON HATS
Flaunting my way through
the hat store, I find one
that seems to fit well-
price is right, style and shade
flatter my shape, match my eyes-
and so pulling out plastic
I trade numbers for fabric,
march out the door with
head held high under
wide brim and leather.
Then rain drops,
mud splatters-
though disguised
still recognized-
new hat doomed
from first fitting.
So back to the hat store I go,
sift through berets and fedoras,
pom-poms and feathers, seeking
something outside my ordinary,
a fairy tale to dream under-
some distant world where I can be
superhero, adventuress, conqueror-
anything to replace that boring old
piece of cloth on my closet shelf,
the hat with my name on it.
Uncapped
She’s pretending not
to be a poet
again.
Putting on other
hats:
Mama. Mediator.
Personal Shopper. Argument Stopper.
Trainer. Tutor.
Poop Scooper.
Trying on beards:
Pasted on smile. Genuine laugh.
Grin. Yawn. Guffaw.
Even playing dress up
once in awhile:
Business Woman. Mentor.
Athlete. Scantily Clad Maiden.
Pen tucked tightly in belt
anonymity intact
the lone member of some
writer’s witness protection program,
careful not to let her
words run out into the streets
where someone might
know ’em.
(PS: This is not a poem.)
I love this line:
“careful not to let her
words run out into the streets
where someone might
know ’em.”
Too bad it’s not in a poem
Bril. If it’s not a poem, is it a documentary? –
Good job, el Mosk
What Jerry said!
Love!
Lol…. wonderful… and so true. I love it.
A Troupe of Wandering Minstrels
Rolling on through the hot desert night
The motor coach with its collection of characters..
The harlot studied her mirror, then added
A few touches of magenta to her eye shadow
In the seats in front of her, Romeo and Juliet
Studied their homework. They had borrowed
A flashlight from Lady Macbeth who used it to
Encourage her potted fern to stay alive.
Across the aisle, Lady Macbeth and Othello played
Poker. The humming of the motor coach was quiet
Enough for the harlot to hear the slap of the cards.
She and Lady M. kept an eye on Romeo and Juliet.
The new Romeo had a wandering eye and hands
To match. Lady M. also played the role of Juliet’s
Nurse, a role she took seriously.
The harlot was the harlot’s favorite costume.
She wore a bright taffeta slim skirt with a
Slash down the side. It reached almost to
Her waist . She noticed Iago watching
And drooling. Desdemona was her least
Favorite role.
Wasn’t it time for a rest stop? They could all
Take a break from traveling. This time of night
Few people were around to notice the odd
Assortment of characters. Their next performance
Was in New Mexico in a newly dedicated
Auditorium. Perhaps some people might show?
They were the Flying Dutchmen of Shakespearian
Actors, doomed to travel the highways of America
Bringing the Bard into every hamlet, no matter how
Small. They performed best without an audience.
MY BEARD NO LONGER SCRATCHES
I’m growing a beard.
Always wanted one; it is an afront to you.
Your fair-haired boy stands determined,
yearning to be free from the tyranny
of your iron fist. The last time we kissed
my face was clean and you leaned in
for more and more. But now, I just
let it grow. I know you hate it. I feel your burn.
I yearn for the taste of you, I am not
through with my adventure. My beard
no longer scratches. It matches your heart,
there but unfeeling. It never replaced the
face that was here before the hair.
Now, I care about it more than you.
Walt, you had me at the title.
ALL DAY
at the computer’s flat bright
screen, you’ve been filling out
surveys (do you support or
oppose laws that allow… on a
scale of 1 to 10, your stress
level is… the impact
of special interest money…).
At last, you turn it off, walk out
under oaks.
What’s that hazy glow – not
quite gold but more than silver –
why, it’s the moon, not quite
full. A Hunter’s Moon! October –
almost Halloween,
your favorite holiday.
Remember back when everything
was masked – mysterious
in glitter-black.
Take off your flat-
screen mask, and dance
under the almost-perfect moon.
disrobed
bare, brilliant, blinding:
my essence,
freed of my meat suit
I offer my heart;
a bloody heap steeped in pain.
Will it beat again?
For this week, I’ve combined last week’s October theme with this week’s disguises theme.
OCTOBER IN GEORGIA
The weather plays Halloween, too.
In cold, gray dawn, the sun wraps a scarf
Around its rays and contemplates the day
While waiting for his car to heat up.
Leaves tremble at the wind
As it come rushing down the lane
Like a high school line backer
Enjoying his glory days.
As the coffee kicks in and noon
Comes to pass, they all change
Their minds and shed their sweaters.
And wonder just what season it is.
As a fellow southerner (SC) I was thinking along these lines at first, but couldn’t figure out just how to write it. Love every bit of it, especially the first line.
Grandpa Dracula
He used to be sexy
with his slim figure and
sharpened fangs.
His cool demeanor
and sartorial elegance
mesmerized women
into breathlessly
offering up their necks
as prelude to
their pulsating
sweet
essence.
Flowers with
thick eyelashes
shiny red lips
and pendulous curves
would avoid his gaze
for fear they’d be tempted
past the point
of redemption.
But now,
he’s Grandpa Dracula,
fat, toothless
and domesticated.
They look
straight into his eyes,
and chat with him easily,
and it is
worse
than being invisible:
he is deemed
cute and harmless.
The eternal life
he coveted,
remains forever elusive,
as he replays his memories,
which mock him
like an endless stream
of Viagra commercials.
I.Love.This. Tickled my funny bone AND touched my heart. Perfect.
Perfect mix of humor and truth. “worse / than being invisible”–this part really hit me in the heart.
So cool and so chilly.
BEFORE SILENCE KILLS
The faucet drips a stream.
A slow and steady drop of hot turned cold,
tapping upon the porcelain-clad iron.
The intonation is empty; as hollow
as my chest feels without the beat
of you within. Sounds like tin being
rapped with a hammer; a faux sound.
Not a sound at all. In the kitchen,
my pots stay still. No accompanying
trill to join this metallic symphony.
A cacaphony that ended in a solitary note.
The sound of your anger; shattered like glass
against the wall. The shards fall in silence.
Our unhealthy relationship took a turn
for the worst as far as I can discern.
WOW! My senses are heightened, I am transported, I feel hollow from the loss in this poem.
Pet Disguises
Stained
Cujo-like teeth
open wide, signal
rancid faucet mouth
chatter fearlessly
a crescendo of cries
like a wounded wolf,
perhaps in disguise;
the toy poodle
chases runners
down the street.
Laurie … Thanks for the smile
Aww… Pearl… thank YOU!
GHOSTS OF THE PLACE
(a tartoum)
They say these hills are haunted.
The seacoast’s known for bogies and ghosts.
The old rector’s soul is a black cockerel.
The seacoast’s known for bogies and ghosts,
they walk the landscape and the stair.
A lovelorn girl of mists and a murdered lady –
they walk the landscape and the stair
and disappear before your eyes.
The devil’s coach is drawn by headless horses
that disappear before your eyes.
Who moves the church-stones every night,
cemented up for all eternity?
Who moves the church-stones every night?
Is the man-of-god really a smuggler?
Here, only the living wear masks.
The old rector’s soul is a black cockerel
cemented up for all eternity.
The devil’s coach is drawn by headless horses.
A lovelorn girl of mists and a murdered lady –
here, only the living wear masks.
The form is perfect for this… the repitition is like an eerie echo.
Every time I think I’m up to date on my forms, you come along and present a tantalizing new one.
I’ll have to keep this one in my pocket for Halloween…
In the innermost lining of my coat
I hide, tucked away with hidden treasures and lint,
From the glare of shining outside buttons
And binding threads of someone else’s design.
I find myself struggling with the silken material
To break free.
And yet I am bound
In a Trousseau that I will never show –
Until stitches meet seamstress, and unravel freely.
Justine, this is wonderful. I relate to so much here.
SCHOOL DAZE
Hold head high, shoulders back
Eyes straight ahead, do not veer or tack
From locker to classroom through teeming hall
Do not reveal your stabbed and bleeding soul bereft
The wind whistled chasm of your bloodied heart axen cleft
Under no circumstances let them ever see
The success of their puerile vicious victory
Blink away bullied tears from stinging eyes
Laugh like anyone else and leave to later the wondered whys
Good one, Pearl. Such a sad situation… smiling and/or laughing can be so hard to do.
Play it, Sam
I smile, I nod
I walk and talk
I’m efficient
and capable
and ever so smart
But that is the me
that works at a desk
in an office
in a fancy building
with travertine tiles
and elegant decor
The real me
is at home
wearing worn sweats
and no shoes
with a cat on my lap
and Casablanca on TCM
Cathy Earnshaw
Trying so hard to be
Catherine Linton
yet the moors
and Heathcliff
call
so persistently
She knows who she really is.
Deception
Beneath the push up breasts spilling soft mounds allure
Under the stringed thong separating for maximum appeal
Barefooted when the stilettos flung hidden on the closet floor
Lashes lifted from eyes to secreted case
Makeup washed reveal a poreless shining face
Pull the long tee shirt overhead
Atop soft cotton panties, slip into the virginal childhood daisied bed
Quickly, before they open up the door and whisper soaked sugar softly through the night
“Sleep well, sweet girl, sweet dreams.” Conceal contempt as they pad away and turn out the light
Hope it’s okay to also share an old one, that’s on topic…
surface tension
she is tired
of pasting on the faces
tightening the laces
of proverbial social corset,
the mumblings of
carefully weighed words
heavy in weary mouth.
she longs to
flee barefoot through roses
strike scandalous poses
of provocative social force, yet
the rumblings of
quiet quaking anger
steady her shaking hand.
she wishes
to file all masks on the shelf
just be her raw self
a profoundly flawed source, set
for tumblings of
bare phrase, true words
rare heart, real love.
WOW,! I don’t remember this one…a stunner!
The search for the real self— who are you? Liked this very much.
Exquisite.
‘Nother new one.
Image
She mugs
once
more for the mirror
tired heart
still trying to embrace
this face.
Almost too brief, but still beautiful. (2 in one day? I’m impressed.)
Yep, Mosk. 2 in one day. Isn’t that what you meant by “double” dog dare?
Old Flames
In the book of second chances,
they will not find us: for we lived among
ricepaper doors and folding screens,
constantly revealing and hiding
at once, every action
done in silhouette
and so we entered briefly into
each other’s orbit, curious for a while,
then spun out into the world again:
it was me, really, who didn’t
recognize the signs and codes
(but I’m a slow study in
the cryptography of hearts)
like when you and me and a long
white telescope were up on the roof:
pedantic romantic, you were
showing off the sky (the Crow, the Bull,
the Scales) that you knew at least
as well as me,
then, or at the piano bar pressed
into each other, or passing round
joints at a party, or any other
moment of a million: how many times
did I wonder
if Love (being blind) even knew himself
what he looked like, thinking
I could have kissed you, and maybe
I should have already.
Terrific opening …”book of second chances “! “rice paper doors….and… folding screens” ..? middle and clean tight final lines… Truly beautiful
,should have read middle sections carry and twirl a poetic and tantalizing narrative onto a clean crisp ending….. Truly beautiful
Defense
She shames them for calling me
an old bat, a crazy blood-sucking clown,
feeling at once vexed at students’ rudeness
to another teacher in her presence
and exhilarated that she is not
a vampire crazy clown bat herself,
but a good example who teaches children
to refrain from name-calling.
She frets about whether she should tell me
about this episode and how she can help me
overcome the hurt those comments will cause,
until she sees me in the cafeteria,
fanged and caped, in my bat hat and clown’s nose,
looking disdainfully at the salad bar.
.
Indian Summer in Gloucester Bay
The sails barely shift
under a hot sun.
We peel shirts
and shoes,
wave at the
the lobsterboat,
see cormorants
skim shallow waves,
and wonder at
the board paddler
with a dog between
his feet.
How far out
will he dare go?
How long can
this blue sky
last?
We listen to
a fiddler play
“The river is wide”
and turn to
the harbor, where
soon we’ll totter up a
long ladder
and try standing still.
If a bottle could
capture a day,
this is the day;
when fall is summer
and summer is
always.
..
I love how each line (or almost each line) is its own little particular bit of the scene, and the way they’re all linked together. Makes it that much more ephemeral and beautiful.
In the Masked Ball of Life
She steps out the door with relative ease
‘Tripping the light fantastic’ occurs to her
Briefly but it’s gone as quickly as it came
So quickly in fact, she wonders if she’s
Imagined its existence …
Knows imagining anything is a fool’s game
At least for her, and she’s not ready
To play that game again, at least
Not yet … too soon, too soon
The locks are barely sprung, her mask
Hardly fixed in place – no need to
Let slip the bonds of normalcy;
So hard-fought to gain this stage
What are the steps again?
Ah yes – slow, slow – quick-quick
Slow – she knows them by rote
As long as she doesn’t think too hard
She won’t, she muses, she won’t …
Don a mask
And a voice
One that’s loosed
By the mask
Fervent
Or strident
Or bored
Hone the voice
To become
Channel for
What’s unvoiced
Disguise
unmasking
New chords
Bowl Full of No Thanks
There is a dustiness,
an orange
lingering stain
that bites
into our cuddle
on the couch.
Your orangeness
threatens
to separate
our elbows
onto opposing
armrests.
I love you.
just don’t kiss me
with those Cheetos lips.
Patricia! This one gripped me, then guffawed me. Love it!
Drag
Everybody could count on Paul. Dressed as Aunt Bea, he sat primly,
legs crossed at the ankles, stockings rolled down, wrinkled
as an aging elephant. Wearing a nice summer hat, net whimsy
demurely over his wigged forehead, adorned by cluster of cherries,
he kept time with a funeral parlor fan depicting a somber Jesus
praying at the Garden of Gethsemane. He wore nice clip-on ear bobs
that matched his Sunday-go-to-meeting frock–and looked nice
with his eyes, he was fond of hearing. Not speaking until spoken to,
he always replied in a thin falsetto, “fine, thank you” to anyone’s
“How d’ do?” The next year, he might appear as Madonna,
wearing kitchen funnels spray-painted over nonexistent breasts
or ruby-skippered Dorothy, all gingham and braids. He bore
well the ribbing from the other men in cowboy hats and jeans
or their camouflage worn regular in deer, dove, and duck season.
Their wives, though, were charmed, sidling up next to him
for a little gossip, enjoying the charade. But when they asked
his wife how she got him to play along, to go all out,
she clucked and said, with just a hint of mystery and a wry
laugh, “If you only knew. If you only knew.”
Intriguing, charming and as usual beautifully written with a signature twist of wry
Bad Luck Tale
There once was a masked man from Yale
who was thrown in a county jail
He had a fake gun
tried to hold up a nun
who was really a cop on detail.
The Vice Girl
She worked Vice, posed
as a prostitute, undressed
to the nines in stiletto heels.
Deeply enmeshed for so long
in the life, she struggled
to remember who she was
underneath the wig
and heavy makeup,
or even if there was someone
else under there at all.
The Sign Says “Keep Your Coins, I Want Change.”
It is easy to give the credit to William Carlos Williams
for the newsworthiness of poetry
but not to get it back,
engulfed in and distracted by that part about the misery
of every day life, of what is found and what is not found.
The mob believes in revolution for the sake of revolution,
more government fixes and less government existence,
poetry, and other tasty treats.
Faced fears converted into assets
and growth, flamboyant umbrellas
because they were the only ones left on the rack
during the storm.
It’s hard to tell if a creak in the floorboard is just a creak
or if it’s something else, a mouse under the sink,
your dog sneaking away with another one of your socks,
wind sneaking into the bedroom and groping the brick wall,
the building telling of its loneliness and attachment issues.
Heavy are the burdens we create for ourselves,
many are the shirts I tried on before this one
without once looking in the mirror.
Even the children are holding cardboard signs appealing
to the Roman gods of revolution and future,
but it is still hard to tell the hiders from the hidees,
cracks in the system from cracks in the sidewalk,
the difference the lightning and the lightning bug.
I see you
Hiding behind
The shape-shifting cloud
In the light navy evening
When clouds disappear
And you should premiere
But you’re shy tonight
A beautiful, teasing shy
Your rays pouring out
Of dark cloud
Silhouetting wolves,
then dragons,
then sharp footed jackals
Though it’s intriguing
I’ve rather have you
Your gray-freckled
glowing white face
Lighting the space
Between earth and
starry sundown
I’d rather lay my back down
on crinkly green wetted ground
You beaming,
proudly overhead
I’d rather have you
than any other ‘ol thing
that you could change into
Catch and Release
Betrayal suits you,
smiling, hand-shaking, chuckle and hug,
compliments filled with innuendo,
who me innocence written over your every feature,
as you circle the woman in the room,
including the wives and daughters
of your best friends, congratulating the men
on their excellent choice of ladies,
all of them charmed to receive your toothy attentions.
But I have eyes to see you with, my dear,
new angles of vision opened to me
these seven years—the number of completion—
and I am finished with pretending on your account.
Still I am saddened, not so much to see
your usual feeding frenzy, but to know
they are all buying your game as I once did.
You are the shark in our fish tank,
and you know it.
But I’ve learned a few fishy tricks from you
myself, about how to hide in plain view.
Now I’m a stronger swimmer;
once hooked and pulled along by your lies,
I now release myself to fairer waters.
Ah the tension in the poem and the cool swim of release that you leave behind with the reader…. Delightful ” fishy tricks” and that wonderful ” release …to fairer waters”
Camouflage
Lay real low, not for show,
stay on the watch.
Hues blending, no mending,
tattered brown swatch.
Face painted, life tainted,
smeared on green blotch.
Bend and break, big mistake,
someone carved notch.
By Michael Grove
Costume Ball
A little black dress
and a business suit,
traded glances.
Point was moot.
Dark sunglasses,
bleached out hair,
painted faces.
Pockets bare.
Lively spirits,
another round,
stayed up late.
Laid them down.
Misguided trust,
took the fall,
no recourse.
Lost it all.
By Michael Grove
This has a tapping on the table terrific rhythm …. terrific for a costume ball!
BECOMING MY FATHER
My elbows hurt. Years of swinging
a heavy framing hammer takes its toll.
Just like my father, the first thing to go.
To extol the virtues of hard work
hardly works for one bred and raised
into it. A good fit for a blue collar guy.
Big plans and ideas; a mental diarhea
that clouds the here and now. How did
I not see it before? Sure, I’m enough
of my own man to matter, and still
enough of my old man to not care.
Where do I draw the line? It is a fine line
at that, and that begins the tale. The travails
of this life, rife with pitfalls and victories
are visited upon the son; the one most like
the man he aspired to be. My shuffle is
more deliberate. My vision waning.
My voice, still strong on paper dissapates
like vapor when I speak. I seek approval
to verify my insecurities. The purity of
thought and deed in need of a boost. No better
place to roost than in his shoes. These blues
sound better with a strong drumbeat; a sweet
syncopation to drive this transformation homeward.
The signs are tell-tale. The change is nearly complete.
I mailed my registration to AARP today.
All for a six dollar savings on a safe driving course,
to get me a ten percent discount on insurance rates.
I am becoming my Father. My elbows hurt.
Wonderful circle you’ve provided here in language ( beginning and closing with hurt elbows is truly a satisfying read) in rhythm in emotion… A beautiful poem
And The Last One You Ever See
like a scarecrow actor
I keep my faces like a deck of cards
a facial expression, a headspace
where I can project what people want to see.
A young woman, struggling in a sea of faces;
an idiot savant, filled with wonder
at the shape and colours of leaves;
a busy shopper, forgetful and apologetic.
Others see the confidence
the semi-skilled swordswoman,
martial artist, artist, novelist;
the fledgeling playwright, poet, craftsman.
The dominant dominatrix, skilled
with scalpel, needle, flogger, rope;
the skilled Top, confidant lover.
And last but not least
the gentle english lady
taking her dogs for a walk around the cemetery
or taking tea among the roses and lupins
on a summer afternoon.
TUMBLING OUT OF DREAMS
Sunrise be thee night’s disguise
Sounds of dark we memorise
Shadow chasing, fantasise
A veil of sleep across our eyes
Tease truths into blackened lies
And bring us to the edge of cries,
Where sunrise is night’s disguise.
Oooh Misk…. A truly classical feel … I can see school children memorizing this one!
Hi Pearl! Thank you for your comment. Wouldn’t that be fun to hear children reciting this one? As someone once said … in your dreams.
There’s a slightly revised version of this one on my blog because I made a few mistakes. Like thee instead of thy.
Thanks again for your comments.
I could hear them in my mind’s ‘ear’ would be lovely to hear children recite this poem in ‘reality’.
Wonderful poem. I love every line for the images they create.
Thank you for your kind comments, Sara.
We Are Who We Pretend to Be
I open the door to another
trick-or-treater, Donald Duck
and his mother . . .but, no.
Mickey Mouse! The small voice
is firm behind his duck mask.
But, you’re Donald Duck, I reply.
No! Mickey Mouse! he insists.
Mom shakes her head.
She has given up the fight.
Couldn’t find the right costume.
But, he doesn’t care.
I apologize with a smile.
My mistake, sir. Didn’t recognize
you at first. Happy Halloween,
Mickey!
Nancy…. Captured both a new level of the prompt and the innocence of childhood that on its purity does not yet subscribe to the bonds of what is and is not ” possible” Brilliant, while sweet exposition of the true meaning of disguise!
This reminds me of a little boy last year who appeared at my door three times. The first time with his baseball cap facing forward, the next time it was facing left, and the final time it was twisted to the right. When I said, “Oh, hello, again,” he insisted he hadn’t been at my house. It struck me so funny that I gave him a huge handful of sweets…no wonder he kept returning.
Here we go
Up and down
Running all around the town
Down the street
There to meet
Oneself rushing
Ourself to greet
my friend Hise
Higgely jiggly
My friend Hise
Lives a chameleon
Life disguise
Is whoever does arise
Higgely jiggly
switch!
my friend Hise
Diss guise
I plan to diss
all lies and such
don’t care what’s said
about me much
Tried suck it up
so good
living underneath
the hood -
no good
Running down the white
Powdered sand
Dropping all ain’t it grand
Here some panties
There a skin slicing bra
Running, skipping not quite far
To the turquoise toe sucking sea
Fluttering the breeze with each degree
As warm clear water succors me
Restoring all that truly be
Who are you today?
Can I look-
behind the mask-
Are you crying?
Are you happy?
Please, let me know.
Stop hiding
Come here
Come near
Let me care for you
just as you are.
Lovely, Joyce…..what a friend, you’ve described.
my thoughts are disguised
by costumed words which speak with
kinder, gentler tongues
###
No Camouflage
What I am looking for is a blessing not in disguise. ~Jerome K. Jerome
I wish I didn’t have to wait
for luck to show up at my gate
and dressed unrecognizable.
I wish for joy that’s flagrant, bold
without agenda, hidden, cold.
I know that wish is sizable.
My world view is simplistic but
I’d rather get it straight, uncut.
Naïve ‘though realizable.
###
The Mask
The weakened soul
Hides behind an occasional fist
Yet somehow says
That it’s her fault
And her voice is silenced
Still…
How I hate watching the news these days.
The Philosopher of Nightlife
He was a philosopher of nightlife
and we surrounded him like a school
of fish seeking safety
from the percussion of life’s
shocks. A school of fools,
convinced of his fancy ways
as we hung over an abyss
clutching at his words
and promises. A philosopher
of nightlife, poorly disguised,
he was every deadly sin.
Rusted Inside
They gravitated
toward his magnetic manner
blind to base intent
Pied piper led them
down corruption’s corridors
They lost to a flute
The Art of Disguise
Saturday morning
I was sitting in bed writing,
and your love arrived in a demi-mask
of coffee and a warm scone.
I grinned. It wasn’t really hiding.
At other times,
it may wear the suit, tights and all,
of Emptying-the-Dishwasher. Or
the magnificently costumed,
Taking-Out-the-Garbage.
I pretend not to recognize it making tea:
Yours isn’t the only love with secret identities.
IN DISGUISE
At the end of a familiar street,
inside a forest of orange-trees, hid
the peeling white Victorian.
Who lived there in the dark?
One flashlit Halloween,
we knocked. A laced hand
opened. Bright eyes, instead
of nose, a lacy filigree.
We had no word for cancer.
We clutched our grocery bags
sagging with small sweet bribes.
The old lady watched us
behind her noseless mask
as if she always wore it,
then opened thin, laced hands
and filled our sacks
with a bounty of candy, more
than we’d find at any other
door. She thanked us for our
disguise. We never went back.
CLOAKED: A CRIMSON MYSTERY
Maybe it’s just my nature.
My charade has made me one of the ones
who looks at every curse as a gift.
And I can always tell which ones are good;
it doesn’t take a detective to solve that mystery.
Failure would turn my face a vivid crimson;
the redder, the better. The fact is, I look good in crimson.
You can’t find this shade anywhere else in nature.
This veiled mystery
is a puzzle I can’t keep to myself. But, it’s not one
that even pure-hearts deemed as good
would receive as an unexpected gift.
For no matter what it is I give,
those worthy would want nothing more from this crimson
clad lad smelling of holly and living the good
life. I came from the same place as Mother Nature
and the furry Easter thing. Sorry to boast, but I am loved by the little ones.
My identity remains a poorly kept mystery.
I bask in the glow of Borealis; another beautiful mystery.
Seeing this phenomenon daily is a blessing; a gift
never returned or re-gifted. Truly one
to share with all from the bottom of my crimson
heart. I’m a list maker by nature
and I constantly check to make it twice as good.
I can deal with bad, and I can appreciate how hard it is to be good.
I have a well-known history; it’s more myth than mystery.
These are the facts as they’ve always been. I love nature.
An excited smile is the best gift
that was ever given to this Crimson
Crusader! I’ve saved every one.
Each new year has the potential to be one of the best ones.
It is a real joy to do this much for the sake of good.
From the snow-capped forest green, to this tunic most crimson,
my disguise does not lend itself to mystery.
If you truly trust me, maybe I’ll leave a special gift.
As I’ve stated, it is in my nature.
These are my rules: Human kindness is the best human nature. That is number one.
Two: Every gift from the heart is especially good.
Three is really no mystery. I am Santa Clause. Believe in the man in crimson
Disguises Lies with Truth
He disguises
lies with truth,
twisting words,
aiming where
she’s insecure.
His boldness
baffles.
His confidence
distracts.
Turning it
around.
It’s not him
it’s her.
Her truth
must be lies
formed inside
her damaged mind.
Her past makes
her paranoid
he claims.
Is she crazy?
She frets.
But soon lies
spill out.
Illuminating the
truth in her
doubt.
His disguise
slips down.
Who was that masked man?
Who didn’t know
If you listened to the radio
Imagining a wild prairie scene
Horses galloping through their dreams
A place where buffalo still roamed
Every night the wild wolves moaned
The bad guys trying to break the law
The good guys perfect, without a flaw
Did evil win – not ever, no!
Because the Lone Ranger made it so
That justice triumphed in the end
The masked man and Tonto, his red man friend,
In that glorious landscape, wild and free
Imagination triumphs over history.
I wanted to use that line, but couldn’t make it happen.
Not much room for ambiguity in that wide wild prarie.
A little grisly, perhaps, but after all, Halloween is just around the corner – mwoo-hahahahaaa…..
Mask
That smile, all smarm
and pasted sincerity –
let’s peel it away,
strip the lips,
leaving just the teeth,
a manufactured leer.
Pull the skin away from the face
like a dieter does with a chicken leg,
leaving variegated tendons
and muscles gleaming red
from work and blood.
Next, snap them all off
from the joints like bungee cords,
clean the face of meat and gristle,
veins and fat, leaving
a slick staring skull,
eyes like bubblegum balls,
jaw clicking like porcelain.
Finally, cut a circumference
around the crown,
smell the burnt bone,
and lift off this new dome
like a cookie-jar lid.
Peer into the brain pan,
so we can see
what you’re really thinking
if indeed
there’s anything inside.
Playing Dumb
The girl stands on the pier and later
will crawl when the waiting feels slippery
Flubby tummy in and down and around
the plastic owl on the wooden rod with lightning eyes.
I am not a pretty lady but I will take you out for tea.
What thoughts ramble around inside these long, steel minutes
as she is bundling up herself for another long cold something or other?
She watches him watch her from a distance watchpoint.
The father is a shaking man and an angry one and he is stomping clomp
Clomp
Clomp
Down the pier to the girl.
She grins at him all of the waiting training splayed out on her face like hands on a watch-face.
Ready? He is asking her this but he is not wanting an answer so she keeps
the flubby tummy tucked in
(I am not a pretty lady, but take me out for tea?)
Quiet some more until she knows when the time is no longer right
for the silence of fish.
WHAT THE EYE SEES
dressed in their Sunday best
they sit on the right
three rows from the front
an architect, he is senior partner
an elder
little league coach
a mom, a wife
volunteer of the year at the auxiliary
nursery worker
a lovely home
even lovelier children
regular attendees here
they are admired
envied even
by all who see them
surely
God must be
pleased
2011-10-15
P. Wanken
“But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not look at the way he looks on the outside or how tall he is, because I have not chosen him. For the Lord does not look at the things man looks at. A man looks at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7 ~ New Life Version)
Pingback: What the Eye Sees « echoes from the silence
Dress in Tattered Jeans, and on the Phone
Well-coached words deceive,
and while I sit in a cubicle
safely out of the caller’s vision,
I wear tattered jeans.
I force myself to sound professional,
to say “Yes,” instead of “Yeah,”
and avoid cussing or complaints,
even when off the phone,
to avoid the risk
that the next caller might hear.
I force myself to talk
when flipping through screens,
even when I don’t feel like talking,
to fill the void
between the caller and me.
I act like an expert
when advising
on things I barely know
and speak with conviction,
relieved the caller believes.
The caller talks about sunny weather
and visions of another world,
as if I can see
through the walls
surrounding me.
It’s Just Me
When the first strands fell,
I felt no pain
as they swiftly slithered
down the drain,
until the whirlpool
no longer spun
when my showering time
was done.
Then I bought
some Liquid Plumber,
but that was then,
when I was dumber.
What happened next
caught me unaware
when “several strands”
became a hank of hair
and, I realized that
soon I’d be,
as bald as that cueball –
proverbially –
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
it came a-calling,
and showed me that
my hair was falling
here and there,
without a doubt,
revealing parts of
my pink scalp.
So, off to Beautyland
I went –
’twas the best ten bucks
I ever spent
to have it shaved
all silky smooth.
And now my baldness
is my groove.
So, one bright day
if you should see
a cute, bald chick,
well, it’s just me.
This chemo stuff
is quite perverse,
but all in all
it could be worse.
If the toxins chase
my cancer away,
then I’ll stay bald
for a thousand days!
INVISIBLE MAN
Please don’t look for me. I will not be there.
If my spirit lingers, it’s out of fear
of leaving this place unattended.
My worn and ravaged heart has been mended,
but the scars are much to much to bear.
In the shadows I stay, lurking here where
I remain covered and concealed there.
My heart torn actions have been defended.
Please don’t look for me…
You fail to see me, and you do not care
that I had given all I had. But dare
I ask for its return it would end
terribly. You can see nothing, my friend;
there’s blankness in your eyes, that distant stare –
Please don’t look for me…
“Never did find that Allen wrench”
Shouldn’t we guffaw continuously
at our pretense of being civilized
units and not weird-wired colonies
who have so underdeveloped our eyes
we can’t detect what we ourselves comprise?
Finding cracks in our masks is as easy
as eating your lunch while driving your car,
Fresh Air playing, cold drink between your thighs
and the taste of onions—no metaphor—
though the one who thinks “onion” is disguised
as one who thinks, drinks, changes lanes and hears
dissonance of siren and FM talk.
Tongue swallows. Heart pumps. Foot flexes. Hands steer.
Villi stir. Stirrup, hammer, anvil click.
Protein sheaths retract. Hormones galvanize
this semblance of one body politic
to turn quick, tap dance and stomp on the brake.
THIS MASKED NIGHT
Tonight, nothing is as it seems.
A princess in pink sequins and tiara,
how do we separate her
from the awkward girl next door?
Our own black tomcat glides
under streetlights like a panther.
That figure wrapped in a sheet
from someone’s clothesline – is it
a terrorist or a trick-or-treating ghost?
And what of the burly man
sniffing a rose across the fence?
It could take a detective to know if
he’s a country-gentleman
or a burglar in disguise. Tonight
we abandon our daily masks,
we become our wishes
and our fears. The dark night
knows us.
Lost a day traveling yesterday…
You pour on your mask
Slosh the alcohol into glass,
Into mouth, glaze eyes,
Loosen libido
I don’t want alcohol laced kisses
Alcohol induced sex
Alcohol numbness
I just want you
Free
No haze of vodka
Clouding judgement
Hiding you
From life
From me
From what could be
She pulls her cashmere on,
smooths it over a bra filled with cotton,
pulls on her wig,
her hat,
her scarf,
whichever she chose for the day,
pastes on her smile that says “all is well.”
Takes a deep breath.
And wonders if the cancer is really gone.
She teaches school,
runs errands,
laughs with friends,
and wonders if the cancer is really gone.
She drives home in impatient traffic,
Funny how chemo teaches you,
it’s only three minutes at a red light.
Two minutes for the jaywalker to get across,
one minute to let someone else go first.
and she wonders if the cancer is really gone.
She feeds her children,
tells her husband she had a good day,
Laughs at their favorite sitcom.
And wonders if the cancer is really gone.
She paid with her breasts,
her hair, her toned muscles,
her stomach lining,
she paid with months of sickness,
finally a little strength comes back.
And she wonders if the cancer is really gone.
Everyone says, you are doing so well,
we are so glad for you,
God is good,
and she is thankful. But deep inside,
a fear she has never felt before,
because she knows now,
and she wonders if the cancer is really gone.
CHANGEABOUTS
Tonight the membrane
between living and dead is so thin
and porous – between fantasy
and footstep – I see you
swimming with Orca among
Greek islands, becoming myth.
Under blue waves, ghosts of sailors
with a whale’s siren-song
twining their ears
as monkey-flower bursts
in Aphrodite-bloom from bare rock.
This disconnect of dream.
Now you’re sitting in olive shade,
hair dripping sea-pearls,
eating the dessert of gods – wild figs.
A picture so sweet and perfectly
impossible. Except on this night
of masks, of passing
through earth’s crust, casting off
the complexion of bone.
apology interrupted
by juanita lewison-snyder
“i’m sorry you took it that way,”
he says, disguising his apology
when a plain “i’m sorry” would have sufficed.
“i’m sorry you feel that way,”
he responds, in place of a
“i’ll never do that again.”
“yeah, whatever,”
he offers with passive aggression
instead of just “sorry, didn’t realize.”
and he wonders just when it was
that his apologies quit mattering.
© 2011 by juanita lewison-snyder
sharing an old piece that likewise fits the prompt….
Family Man
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Coach
Patriot
Deacon
Benefactor
Family Man
Salt of the Earth
Pillar of the Community,
a heart the size of Texas
a serpent in the Garden of Eden
stalking Liliths and Eves
under a bruised moon
with teeth sharp to
rid the world of
transgressions
against men,
–gluttony
–anger
–pride
–lust
once
and
for
all.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder