This is the month a spread my wings and fly away to poetry contests, to Lucidity in Arkansas and Poetry at Round Top in Texas. They couldn’t be more different or more cancelled. Luckily I have NaPoWriMo to fall back on. And I’d be amiss if I failed to mention the d’Verse Poets Pub whose doors are always open. I hope they’ll drop by here.
Maureen Thorson’s first prompt took us to an amazing site that cranks out metaphors. Try it ya’ll, its fun. She also suggested we employ a simple action as a metaphor for our lives. I combined both prompts in the following poem, with apologies to my wise partner for using poetic license so liberally. I’m pretty sure you can guess which line the metaphor machine spewed out…
He thinks he can reads me like a book,
but our bookcases reflect such dichotomy
I wonder what he’s reading? He seems
to lean toward memoir and biography
creating a constellation from favored snapshots,
photo-shopped with nostalgia and sentiment.
He takes his clues from little things – my style
in jackets changes year to year, yet always retains
some shade of red; my hair gets worn short or long,
but never dyed and I rarely wear make-up. I know
how to make him laugh, comfort, curb my tongue.
He rarely glimpses the vaster range of characters
who dwell behind my pleasant face and dancing eyes.
O yes, we dance in here. We are wailing, vibrating,
pungent, syrupy, and transparent. He ought to scan
my shelves, take note of mystery, fantasy and sci-fi,
the volumes on Jung, quantum physics, symbols and myth.
I confess to a secret sweet tooth for romances, though they
must have a feisty heroine who claims her sovereignty
before succumbing on her own terms. My life is not a secret.
Everything displayed openly, spines facing forward, only,
I loathe self-help books, never owned a manual.
Guess he’s on his own.