by 
Hangover
at the grocery ~
Meeting accidentally in the wine section
you sip me shyly with gentle conversation
and read the label on my selection,
your hand brushes mine, a sensual appeal
It’s for drunken pasta! I explain,
you laugh and say you’d rather drink than eat it
your eyes are Wedgwood blue and hold a wistful smile
you imagine I’m something fine, a vintage port
you’re flushed with the fancied sweetness
I could drink you too, a sturdy Bordeaux
but I no longer deal well with hangovers
To the Frog at the Door
if you kiss a frog, so I’ve been told
there’s a chance he’ll turn into a prince
a frog prince, which means you have
you absolutely have to love him
and i’ve loved a few frogs, at least
i think i have, they never became princes
nor did their love morph me into a princess
i’m still a cranky old crow, we are what we are,
loving frogs and crows isn’t transformative
….why should it be?
one woman’s frog is another woman’s prince
…….as for this old crow
………….she loves flying solo
…….not that you asked
© 2013, poems, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Illustration ~ Wine and fruit photo courtesy of Jean Boufort, Public Domain Pictures. net and The Frog Prince by Walter Crane (1845-1915), U.S. Public Domain
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
Because love poems are elegies (if you don’t agree, pretend you do for the sake of the exercise), write an unRomantic poem.
If you feel comfortable doing so, leave your work or a link to in the comments section. Responses to Wednesday prompts are published on this site on the following Tuesday.
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Here is my response to last week’s prompt. You can read it at https://reneejustturtleflight.com/2017/07/24/a-favor-to-a-friend. Good responses all. Enjoyed your poem, Jamie.
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your innocence
I forgive you –
the essential being
I am in love with
that looked down at little flowers
and took up whims with passion;
you are innocent in thinking that
you yourself deserve forgiving
well then I forgive the innocence
but nothing else:
perhaps there is nothing else to forgive
it being all your secret
and therefore nothing to do with me
forgiveness is an arrogant intrusion
into somebody else’s life
when I say it was
an elaborate charade
I do not mean you deliberately
tricked me rather I acknowledge
that I believed my own
solution to the discrete acts
you put on for me
to suggest the whole world was ours –
person place and thing
this fool
blinded by spot-light
entered into the spirit of the game
you’re so relieved to quit
one more day
to endure
(this I think you think)
of living where I fit
quite comfortably
our life ends
the day after tomorrow;
our brief life once
so promising
and I can see
you are excited –
something I might once have loved –
like a little kid at the start
of the summer holidays
I’m not sure that this answers the prompt. It comes from 1982 – getting on for half a life away! It’s just a bit of straight-up misery. I remember it well…
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Third response, thanks Jamie.
294.
it all shows through
the other side
and backwards,
said
we the warriors
try to hold our own
under chaos
and scrutiny
invade the private place
at peril
you will kiss us,
kill us
is this love
or captivity?
sbm.
LikeLiked by 3 people
Second response –
.. somethings cannot ..
some things cannot be put to word.
i try. hard. you lay there cold.
i stumble stutter say sounds backwards.
think i know? i thought i knew
you know.
there is silence. some socks
will not fit the drawer.
some things need tidying.
regularly.
some things.
there were bits of cabbage in the water,
now they are down the sink.
sbm.
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Thankyou Jamie – my first response…..
:: poet ::
it is just that some dislike
love poems, those that rhyme
all romantic. pretty though
they are.
some write of other
things, in a more
random fashion.
i like things private.
sbm.
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Hi Jamie,
My second response:
Vacuuming her dressing table you, accidentally suck up an earring
and spend most of the day
your finger up the thin hole
of the bag until it drops out,
and you are covered in dust,
empty peanut shells, feathers,
cat fur and damn your OCD.
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Hi Jamie,
My first response:
Forgiveness
is
more work for her.
Always afterwards she
strips the bed,
changes the blossom of linen sheets,
puts stained sheets
in the wash, hangs
them on the line or horse.
On ferries or in hotels
his jewellery catches
on hers, hours disentangling
earings, repairing necklaces.
His sweat drips on her,
not like a veil,
too soon, fat not muscle
flops over her.
He makes work
of her temper.
Takes too much time
to find sheet corners
that are never pulled
tight enough.
To her his help
is more hinder.
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