Frequently, (I dream of)
Achingly (familiar, a)
Revolting, (similar,)
Cursed, (prosaic)
Eventualities. (odd duality, double acrosticize.)
Uncategorized
On the 8th Day of PAD, Blindly Struggling with BLIND
Dear God, please forgive my vain imaginings.
It seems to me the epitome of symmetry,
The way that youthful beauty in our vague beginnings
Gradually recedes to ghostly courtesy.
As my countenance resigns itself to tiny lines,
My lover’s eyesight fades to far and away.
If, in youth as in the middle, love is blind,
Then the figurative is made flesh in wisdom’s doorway.
Also deaf and can’t remember well,
Love sleeps in and doesn’t mind the snoring.
With gratitude and faith, I dare tell,
Love is smooth and satisfied like purring.
And so, dear God, I thank thee for thy humor.
Blind as all that, me and my baby boomer.
2nd Poem-a-day Challenge
Together Again
Remember the tender
forevers we penned?
If ever we tend to untether
and bend to the weather again,
my friend, kindly endeavor
to never pretend again.
Poem-a-Day Challenge, 11/1/14, Game Over
Like Dominoes, we all fall down.
three of a kind
or a run of one suit;
i like hearts, he likes the sixes.
the king is dead, long live the king!
he used to say.
also, praise the lord and pass the ammunition!
i used to like to play gin rummy with my dad,
right up until the day i caught him pulling cards
out of his left sleeve.
and finding four more cards up the right sleeve,
i was righteously aggrieved.
i can’t believe
you were trying to cheat a 10-year-old! i said.
we were sitting at the dining room table.
the white table cloth was coffee stained
and ashes overflowed the abalone ashtray.
smoke hung in the air like it did
when everyone smoked indoors
and the sliding glass door was too fingerprinted
to fool any crow who could’ve crashed our card party.
he said, cheating is part of the game, baby,
i’m just trying to teach you the ways of the world!
let me impart my vast wisdom before i pass on, baby,
it’s not illegal if you don’t get caught, he said.
but i was too hyper-calla-moralistic to receive it,
to this day, i pray to an atrocious god,
stabbing with verses in the dark,
leaving karma to attend to revenge,
and yet,
i quit playing card games with the cheater.
takin’ the moral high ground at the tender age of ten.
Game Over, Dad. i win.
i wanted him to–
half-expected him to–
let me win.
and, in his own way, he did.
i still recall the feeling of utter disbelief,
how the flower lost its chlorophyll
and story lost its moral.
my first recollected moment of an awareness of cognitive dissonance.
my dad is now dead. long live my cheatin-death dad.
(c)2014, victoria h.
poetvictoria 