it's impossible, on reflection, ever to say
clearly enough merrilly enough
how glad I am never to have been
featured by Sour Puss Press
which, if I were rich enough to buy it
would immediately be renamed by me
Lemon Tree Press. Then, Lemon Meringue.
There. Doesn't that sound better?
I imagine jawbreakers of the Christmas variety
lemon, lime, tangerine
the kind that last all day
the way a good poem should.
a good poem.
You know. The old neighborhood
with the lilacs over the fence.
don't wince.
It makes you feel good
when you read it, You need it.
or transported on a Christmas train.
Lord, they hate my Christmas train poetry.
Choo choo, I say
I'm coming through
with tinsel askew
and holly berries.
Make way.
Or get run over by angels
chortling in bumper cars.
Haha. I don't care who you are.
I don't want to wear a black beret
a pencil skirt you can't even walk in.
and, oh dear, a turtleneck. industrial grey grey grey
I want to smile.
I can't help it. I can't keep it down.
my face is going to spill
like pink lady apples
all over town.
right in two
all creamery butter too
I fully intend to be
because I write with glee. with a quintillion adjectives.
scritch scratch.
you're not crossing out that.
not even for a prize,
your snazziest one with
a lifetime income
in pink bullion.
all heck with it, who cares.
about your market shares.
pushcart. smushcart.
and though it isn't politically wise
I'm so darn happy to be alive
singing the bluebirds out of the trees
making lemonade.
sugary as all get out.
swinging on a porch swing
in a rosy gown
with feet that don't touch the ground.
cloud bound. gold dust or bust
metaphor metaphor metaphor
image image image
frosting frosting frosting
extra icing on the side
multisequined for the bride.
ice cream sprinkles too.
on every poem
I bake for you.
mary angela douglas 26 april 2019
No comments:
Post a Comment