my private serenade:
weeknight wonderful
while playing hooky from
accountability. Drinking
in dreadlocked dulcets--
full bodied and fine
sweet like sugar, he
whisper sings to me
while I ask for more
Cabernet. Brilliant
temptation with just
six strings and
five fingers
Does anyone remember my previous post about Adrian Bartholomew? The boy is trouble, but Irresistible (with a capital 'I'). I ran into him a few nights ago when I was with my book club...
hoping for matching socks
and meals that magically appear
an obvious paradox
both far and very near
mother's little helpers
play well with pinot grigio
one day whispers
yesterday is long ago
a sink full of dishes
hard to swallow screams
it's always Prozac wishes
and sweet Ambien dreams
written after drinking micheladas with my brother
if you squeeze
one unbruised lime into
a heavy glass mug
then add
a pinch of good salt
a handful of ice cubes
made with spring water
three dashes of the hottest sauce
you can stand
two long shakes
of smuggled worcestershire
and one ice cold Corona
you'll have
a michelada--
twelve ounces and
four satisfying syllables
of paradise
This poem is in my book: lavish lines/luscious lies. I think it begs to be read aloud!
Should I
open this box?
A polite trespasser
Dom knocks
Fern green box
a constant taunt
unsealed, available
what I want
Escape, I think,
if I relent
restraint devours
this wicked torment
opening this box
my quick fix
on my travels
along the River Styx
So, I made a bet. A stupid, f***ing bet. On Saturday night, I bet a friend of my husband's that I could go two weeks (two weeks!!!) without having an alcoholic beverage. It didn't seem like any big deal at the time I was making the bet--I have two children, after all--and I never drank when I was pregnant. I did make the bet after enjoying a few glasses of wine so my judgement might have been slightly impaired. The bottom line is this: I can not drink until 7PM on February 16th. Pray for me, Readers.
All I can think about is
Booze. Pretty bottles, entertaining spirits, the
Clink--ice dropped into a heavy, crystal glass.
Disappointed? Don't I know it.
Everyone seems to think that I
Flirt too much with Chardonnay,
Grey Goose and Guinness.
Heavenly, the variety
I'm normally able to choose from
Jumping up and down--a
Kid in a candy store or
Like a woman at Neiman Marcus. This
Myriad of mixes tempts
Not only me, but myself and I.
Often, my
Palate and my determination will
Quarrel. Quit it, my
Resolve
Says
To my palate
Understand this, my discipline keeps talking,
Vino isn't a necessity
Why won't willpower shut up, I wonder? I wish I lived in
Xanadu, where both
You and I know that
Zealotry is outlawed.
This is an example of an abecedarian poem. I would explain, but I think you probably get the gist. Plus, I'm too sober.
absinthe
sweet green fairy
anise flavored liquor
psychoactive and powerful
burns through my granite facade easily
melting a fireproof box full of
good intentions, virtue
restraint on fire
absinthe
I have two different things to tell you, Sweet Readers. First of all, absinthe was very popular with 19th century intellectuals, poets and artists like Oscar Wilde and Vincent Van Gogh. Besides having a very high alcohol content (120 to 160 proof), Absinthe is said to induce a dreamlike state, enhance creativity and facilitate artistic expression. (Of course, I wouldn't know anything about that). Absinthe was banned in the United States in 1915 because of the high doses of thujone (the chemical found in wormwood). In March of 2007, the FDA approved a specially manufactured version of absinthe that doesn't have the high levels of thujone. Now, American absinthe drinkers can buy and enjoy the liquor legally.
Okay, now about the poetic form. The above poem is an example of a rictameter, which is a nine line poem with a very specific syllabic count. The syllables count 2,4,6,8,10,8,6,4,2 with the first and ninth line being identical. There is no rhyme scheme whatsoever.
