I Touch Beauty Daily

I Touch Beauty Daily

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

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.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

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.

Friday, April 6, 2012

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.

Monday, April 2, 2012

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.