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Friday 12 July 2019

Two Poems with a style I call Prosetry.

I call this style of poetry Prosetry, a combination of alternate Prose and Poetry.  Generally the Prose tells one story and poetry tells an alternative story, with the final Prose/Poetry  verse combining both.


The Magnificent Magnolia Tree

She wrote with her left hand, the right bandaged from the silly fall the night before. Her epistle was a response to her neighbour, Ian, who wanted the tree chopped down in her front yard. They didn't speak, exchanging letters to forgo the hassle of confrontation. She knew she didn't like him, and now even more, her white magnolia was a pride of place in her cared-for section.

The moon on the car park
shone ghostly on trapped cars,
people a usual pink
positively glowed grey.

The whispering signs reflect sense,
the ones people crane their grey necks to read,
the security guard warns children
no skateboarding.

She finished writing, rested her hand, not used to such a task, plucked an envelope and stamp from the bureau, and set them all down, done and sealed, on her white winter coat. The post box was a mile down the road, she dared not place it in his letterbox in case he used that as ammunition against her private life.

The car with the red rear lights
blinking on and off, off and on,
drew the attention of a thief,
the young man realised the security system
was malfunctioning and ripe for picking.

The life in the car park took on a surreal look,
the post box, now the cloud had come
stood dark moody red and grey
in the murkiness of night.

She donned her coat, grabbed her purple handbag (all her fashion accessories were purple, shoes included) and picked up the letter to Ian. She dared not use his surname, he didn't merit that association. She left her palatial suburban home, and headed off down the road, her security system set. She noticed there was no wind, and the clouds had come to shade the moon. She also knew it was dangerous walking the streets at night, but this mercy mission in defence of her tree warranted risk.

He was in the car, 17 seconds
and backing out of the park,
he gunned the Subaru's engine
dropped the clutch and scarpered.

The unlucky owners were moments away,
held up talking to a sausage sizzle lady
collecting donations for a school trip.
They saw their car disappear, maybe for good.

She changed sides of the road, walking under the pale orange street lights. As a habit, she counted lamp posts to and from her home, always sure that the day she didn't get it right, she'd be lost. Reassuringly, the same lights had the same numbers, and she knew that in five minutes, she'd be at the post box.

He crashed into the fourteenth lamp post
the car a total right off, the steering wheel
collapsed from the impact of his chest and head,
the blood flowed quicker than ink on paper.

He'd only gone a short way to glory,
now his glory would be the people
swarming to try and help him, save him,
but they didn't come, his life ebbed.

She saw the car heading straight for her, and suddenly ducked behind the protection of the post. It hit with a mighty bang, and her letter was lost in an attempt to shake off not only the glass from the windscreen, but her own fear, as her life was suddenly at threat. Ian's desire for her magnolia was lost in the action of picking herself up, and to see the draped figure with blood pouring from his face. She got out her cell phone, dialled the emergency number, and walked on. Her sense of responsibility recognised he wasn't wearing a seat belt, and that fact meant he wasn't a responsible driver, and knew the risks.

The car engine thrummed.
He could see the lady in the white coat,
could see her ring on her phone,
what he couldn't understand was
why no one stopped him from dying.

The letter posted, by the mall, she turned and saw a couple looking for their car. She asked what it was, and when she heard the description, she told them about the car around the lamp post. They all then heard the sirens. Her immediate thought returned to her precious tree, and the idiot next door.



A Conspiracy of Blonde and Brunette

She melted my heart, her blonde locks blinding my shallow heart. I could sense in her the means to turn men to molten jelly, the ability to make coherency unutterable. She wears a wedding band on her long ring finger, the rest of her hands suggesting delicacy.  If one such as her could invigorate growth and consistency, she must be a special creature indeed.

Her short hair radiated dense,
the brunette hue confusing.
I tried to look at her hazel eyes,
but they just averted love.

I sensed by her pulsating body
the exercise machine
was honing her sexy drive,
inviting a workout of another variety.

Her hand extended to mine, was she guiding me into her realm, or was she just a paper thin replica of love by extension? We smiled together, the nervousness of us both melting in a gesture of intimacy. Her hair lit my aura, the sparks dancing in delight across eyes glowing with radiance from both. I told her “I don’t prefer blondes, but in your case I lose.”  She laughed and placed her other hand on my shoulder and stroked my long hair.

The label on her tracksuit said Ergo,
therefore I go, I thought,
but her butt bounced on the treadmill,
her very long hair streaming around her,

I took a photo, as I do, you know,
beautiful women fill my life,
just ask my first wife (and second)
yes, I play the field, a romance man.

She drove like a mad woman possessed, belying her angelic look. Her car, not mine, a Mini Clubman, fills any space on the road. She mentioned peroxide and I suddenly needed to be in my own car. I hate fake tans. I ask her to drop me at the next corner, so I could walk back to our meeting place. Her smile died and a fearful banshee howled. What had I got myself into? She drove on past the next corner, and the next, and I suddenly knew I was about to be devoured.

Yes, her hair shone like fire,
a tinge of red, auburn, maybe,
never mind, her butt enticing,
all energy, business-like,

we played eyeball games,
me doing arm curls and squats,
she just running/walking on the spot.
I  knew that look, knew the dangers.

I appeared the next day from 32 Johnson Crescent.  I’d had the ride of my life, and a bottle blonde at that.  She begged me to stay for another round, skip work that day, but I needed to rebuild my reserves. I drove my 1967 Jaguar 4.2 home in automatic mode, my head swimming with a long lost lust and now filled with possibilities. She said her hair was a natural red, and knew blondes have more fun.

Her husband showed up,
his muscles far superior to mine,
I averted from her eyes, a tease,
I showered and dressed,

She was gone, too, no doubt to shower
I pushed my bag in front of me
and daydreamed about a bottle blonde
and the chance encounter.

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