An Ornament of Solace

Sitting on it defies the codes of its purpose

Defies the purpose of its existence

Dies the logic of its monetary expenditure

Meant to sit two, it sat none

It is the reminder of hopes not purchased

Of languid, windy days not experienced

Of loveseat’s unsatisfied requirement

Sitting on it defies the logic of its positioning

Out, front, center of my mind’s sense

It has never been sat on

It has never been visited

Still, joy it gives in its neglect

Being present is reason enough

Being absent creates a yearning, a void

An ornamental discontent

Yet an ornamental solace

Meant to sit two

Never did serve that accepted duty

For me, it has served plenty of purposes

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Fighting With Food

Must I fight with food

My desire only to savor cooked

Why must I fight with food

Meat fried so hard the fork’s afraid

Some of Frances' favorite fruits

Knowing it cannot pierce outer layer

Fish fried dry to the bone

The oil feels so cheated

Demands its vanished self back

Noodle so tasteless

The dog spews all out in anger

The coffee so terrible

The mug jumps away fast

Refusing to be poured into it

Why must I fight with food

Potato salad so horrible

The bowl flips over the edge

Choosing to break itself instead

Why must I fight with food

I choose to avoid cooked hereon

I choose to eat raw vegetables

I choose to eat fruits, not drink them

No one can bungle raw

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

A Lie Became the Truth

Frances @ 165 pounds

I am woman given to delusions of slimness

I am woman given to whims of fancy

Society expects no lie but with exceptions

Women hold fibbing license boldfacedly

Too lax, too lazy to work at its achievement

The chant I offered to those demanding

Once upon a time, 130 was mine to sway

Sauntering with a model’s insouciance

Fitted with a model’s draped egoism

The accelerator sped with fast calories

Birth and deaths shoveled fatty tissues

They failed to ask my desire and piled high

Future Frances @140 pounds

In retrospect, 130 was a skeleton walking

I wanted meat on bone for man to hold

I wanted holding place for man to pull

No fear of breaking me in half, should he

Declared my weight 150 with bold face

Repeating many times, I bought belief

Chancing a glancing in that crystal ball

Showed clearly the achievement of a lie

No stopping now when lie becomes truth

Next stop, my weight 145, now a lie

Will become the truth one day soon

Why stop there? Next stop, 140

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Dried Leaf Music

Dissonance was uninvited with discord partner

Rapture wanted sought-after invitation

What reached my sleepy ears

Hesitant chords of attempts at lilt

Turned me into an unwilling choir director

Imbuing, cajoling, a plucker of unwillingness

Cacophony acquired another name

Showing the struggle with sweet harmony

Not its fault, this insufficiency

Blown, scattered where they lay

Buffeted by nature’s powerful mouth’s air

Caused unpredictable migration

They landed where they landed

Unorganized orchestra of unawareness

No longer cosseted by lack of wind

Bullied into attempts at musicology

Discordance, the nature of their product

Caused the body to burrow, to find escape

To be spared, to be released from bondage

Helplessly bound in bedchamber

Shut eyes no shelter from inner turmoil

Not music, this apprentice’s jarring

Stingy rain droplets frustrate musical blend

No mellifluous perfection here

No blending of different sounds

Scattered drip-pause-drip of inconsistency

Chased sleep away with alacrity

This choir director failed woefully

Rain’s authoritarian dictatorship trumped

My gentle attempt at musical sanguinity

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.