True Blue

They called her Melancholy Molly.
She was shy to a fault, a bit sad
and assured that her malaise 
would last for days and days.
Happy was a state she never visited,
she never left her apartment. That's no lie!
She was truly melancholy!

(c) JPW - 2014

I Know It Was You, Fredo!

You broke my heart, as brothers sometimes do,
and look at you, you're pathetic. A simpering,
whimpering Don Juan-a-be. Bimbos and markers,
donkey shows and Johnny Ola have taken their toll.
I had control of the five families and there
our similarities took a decided turn. If you'd only learn,
"Never take sides with anyone against the family again!"
You're nothing to me now. You're not a brother, not a friend.
If anything in this life is certain, if history has taught us anything, 
it is that you can kill anyone. Pray for the fishes,
you'll be sleeping with them now!

© JPW - 2013

dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics Italian-Style 

Poets United - Poetry Pantry #171

www.digplanet.com

Painted Lady's Lament - Memories

Her father called her Kat, always with tenderness. From the time she was in the cradle, Catherine was her father’s angel. He doted over her and protected her. When Catherine was three, he had taken her to the county fair; a good ol’ country girl who loved the animals and the simplicity of life. She told stories about how she loved peering into the animal tents to watch them munching on apples and corn. But she also remembered seeing other things, secret things the “carnie” teens did exploring their youth and each other. But she had sent those memories into exile. When her father had died, Catherine’s mother became unhinged. Her spirits plummeted and a tension had built between mother and daughter. This angst clawed at Kat’s heart and left her a ravaged heap of humanity; a pile of confusion – she lost her father and was losing her mother. When she turned eighteen, the memories of those young people in the animal tents haunted her. Catherine made the rash decision to find her comfort elsewhere, in the arms of strangers. She called herself Kit, a bastardization of her father’s love. That’s all everything had become now!

Her loss brought her pain.

Nothing could ease her struggle.

That was her first clue.

© JPW – 2013

Painted Lady's Lament - Part I

The SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #127

Mirage

Your eyes are deceiving you
and your heart believes that you
are seeing what it wants you to!

It is her that you see, a vision
in misty faded wisps. You envision
beauty with beholding eyes, indecision

fills your mind, your pulse races
and your can swear her faces is
hidden in remarkable places.

You blame the lateness of night,
you blame your meal, the light
and try as hard as you might,

you cannot erase her.
You cannot replace her
and God forbid you deface her 

memory. You could swear she is there,
her perfume, the smell of her hair
a gentle hand gracing your shoulder to repair

the loss you feel. It seems so real
and you thought you could deal
with it, but you continue to feel

her presence near.
She is right here,
and you’re not clear

if you want this mirage to stop haunting 
you, the task of waiting till mourning is daunting. 
You reach to touch what is not there, leaving you wanting.

© JPW - 2013

Poetic Asides by Robert Lee Brewer - Prompt #237 Illusions

Poets United: Poetry Pantry #168

Painted Lady's Lament

She was born Catherine. A brunette of beauty and style and a smile that could melt hearts. But her confidence existed only in theory. The memory becomes a bit blurry. In her day, she played in their line of vision; a vixen, vivacious and classy and a bit too sassy for her own good. Would she be that sweet young (never innocent) creature again, her life would be vibrant once more. But a friend once told her, “Don’t sell yourself short!”. Deep inside, she believed she shouldn’t have been selling herself at all! Now, this was the life she had chosen. She stood frozen and cold, scantily dressed; sumptuous and manipulative, she could give them her eyeteeth, just to take their cash and valuables. Instead she found it easier to slather these ego-maniacal “johns” with faint praise just to get a rise out of them. Girls like her stayed single. Dreams of the picket fence never entered her ravaged heart; her thoughts remained vacuous. She starts to tear up at the recollection, staining her violet swatch of a frock with saline.

She spreads herself thin.
A slave to all who could pay;
she had one ma$ter!

© JPW – 2013

The SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #126

From God to Godot

Sometime today.

Or tomorrow, I’m not sure.

He said he’d be here by then,

but when? We don’t know.

Philosophy escapes me.

It takes my mind away from

the task at hand. This grand

stand has me annoyed…

beside myself. And I’m a man

who prides himself

on being patient.

Okay, so I’m impatient

but he should be here!

Passers-by and posers,

Lucky asses and hosers …

I can’t remember yesterday.

Spare me your angelic messengers,

my guess is I will die by my own hand

if I stand here much longer.

My resolve is not as strong as

when I started waiting.

Sometime today.

Or yesterday? I’m not sure;

He said he’d be here!

I’ll wait until the end.

These shoes aren’t even mine!

© JPW – 2013

Poetic Asides - Prompt #236 - Appointment poem

Poets United - Poetry Pantry #167

My Hair

My hair glows

for it is blonde.

From the day I sprouted follicles

I carried a golden hue.

It’s true.  These Aryan looks

(as seen in history books)

make my blue eyes blue.

Not bad for a West Coast Jew

who has an upper hand.

But I never brandish it in spite.

(Just to remind them when I’m right!)

My hair fades.

At fifty, I’ve become a shaded gray.

Had I heeded my father’s warning,

I would have seen this coming.

Age has a nasty way of relegating

us all to the same playing field.

Every patch of gray should yield

a wisdom beyond our years.

But it just makes my ears seem

to protrude a bit more.  Not such

an eyesore to what was in store.

My hair departs

and has become a memory.

Hair today; gone tomorrow!

Such is my sorrow since

my hair on hiatus now takes the color of skin

as in, “Why in the hell didn’t

my father tell me of THIS cruel joke?”

It’s like a craggy jab at my virility!

My pate craves for warmth, instead

I get a buff and polish. Now I shine

despite my stressed tress whine!

© JPW 2013

Margo Roby's Poem Tryouts - Choose a Body Part 

Poetry Jam - Lost