She Looked Pale

At first, she only looked pale
But didn’t we all, it was the middle
of winter with less than eight hours
of sunlight to toast our cheeks
Tanning beds were verboten

Unless one was Glamour-Gal
At first, she only looked pale
Not even as  wan as her sister
who lived in Memphis,
which was two zones warmer

But then we noticed her baggy jeans
and the belt notched to the limit
At first, she only looked pale
We thought nothing of it, we all
looked like ghosts coming out

Of the winter solstice, the tepid sun
making a show in the western sky
but unable to make a dent in degrees
At first, she only looked pale
So when the light finally shined

Brightly enough for the truth
Our hearts sank for there could be
no other reason for her meek demeanor
her listless pallor and papered hands
At first, she only looked pale

Once Upon a Bed

Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress
You’d never know, to look at them, they weren’t married
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

They shared two children, a dog, with great success
Between day-care, school, and work, they often ferried
Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress

A trip to Dr. Bahrain, lymph nodes he did access
At that precise moment, they began to feel harried
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

Where does one go when one seeks to convalesce
With family? Alone? The choices were varied
Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress

Lou said to Tracey, “Back to your mother’s, I would guess.”
But, “Tsk, tsk, tsk, it’s a shame you never married.”
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

Two rings turned up on that last day along with fancy dress
Into the crypt went mother’s tears; the rings regretfully they buried
Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

The Reluctant Villanellist

Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?
Has he ever tried writing a double-wrapped sestina?
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough

So I’m telling you, in today’s column, punt and free throw
Just like that, he says, write like a poetic ballerina
Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?

I throw my hands in the air, too disgusted to just “let it go”
Heck, I’m the Mindful Poet™, covering the poetic arena
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough

So I tell him, Mr. Robert, form poetry is a lot of show
But it has no depth, no imagery, no rhyme, and no patina
Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?

Form poetry is a waste of time, stupid, dumb rondeau
Those of us who are smart will write like Sappho or Athena
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough

So take your forms and stuff it; I’ll write like Vince Van Gogh
And with my satchel bulging, jet off to Argentina
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough
Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?