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"Romantic
Repercussions"
It nears the
time of seasoned rhymes:
that day we
designate Valentine’s.
Rapt roses
grow into money trees
and grown
men grin on bended knees.
Although
I’d rather spend my day
in stores of
fancy lingerie,
I find my
fingers clenched instead
on
pitchfork, tossing Dobbin’s bed.
“A rose by any name smells as sweet.”
Could Shakespeare accomplish words so fleet,
while standing downwind of soiled peat
or with manure massed beneath his feet?
I
contemplate a gift of candy.
Oh my, a
sweet tooth becomes handy!
Chocolates
and hearts of cinnamon
pounce upon
tongue with savor uncommon.
What flavors
now grace these lips of Winter?
Bermuda
twigs and Chap-Stick’s linger.
I tend to
taste a bit of grain
just to
prevent mildew’s pain.
I wonder,
How can Cupid’s arrow
take away
this old wheel-barrel?
As fingers
freeze on frosty morn,
young Dobbin
paws his pail of corn.
While
pondering why “Dob” prefers dirt
to pan I
cleaned through
sleeting spurt,
I recalled
14th ’s of February past
and
shoulders shivered, remembering last.
Miracle of heaven proofed on earth:
my spouse remains with goof of hers.
Past years thrice, emergencies
kept romance bayed through urgencies.
To make amends with prominence,
I promised ‘V-Day’ with my princess.
Just as postman prides his job,
no prologue would pre-empt or rob.
Now, my gal knows that duties call.
She’s quite reasonable, after all.
But, waiting dressed for longed occasion
transfers desire into angered frustration…
The water
trough is iced three inches
and frozen
hose caused hole at pinches.
When thawed
by sun at noon minus one,
the leak
prevailed over loved-one.
I meant to
spend this ‘Trend of Mends’
on lunch
with spouse that lavishly lends
more finance
toward a barn and field,
than common
stock and bonds with yield.
Then came
another important matter.
A
‘horsey’ friend began to chatter.
The nag had
torn a blanket on snags.
Could I
repair that pile of rags?
I could have
bought a new turn-out.
But, seems
we spent our pay on route
of dually
truck and trail-ride trailer.
Now, I laid
stitch for checkbook’s failure.
Oh my, the
time is passing faster
I still must
turn the mares to pasture.
I only need
an hour to prep
For
“Dear”, I promised ‘Date of Depth’.
The cell
phone rings. I know who’s calling,
just to
remind me of my dawdling.
And as I
answer sweet and true,
there’s
hay to pitch and foals to view.
While
reserve awaits at “Rosignerl”,
the favored
restaurant of my girl,
I ask my son
to contemplate
the pressure
of his Daddy’s fate.
Could he
help stretch a piece of wire
that somehow
dropped from post to mire?
“No, Dad.
Don’t you know I can’t come,
I made some
plans with my someone.”
If only
Valentine’s celebration
came after
thaw, in Spring’ s jubilation,
then I could
find a small bouquet
along the
fence to last gateway.
Alas, I
enter at dark past thirty.
with cowboy
hat in hand, and dirty.
Waiting
alone on stool, sight alluring,
is
“Angel” with a glass she’s swirling.
The wine she
bought for us to share
had dwindled
in sips of mental repair.
She tried to
think of reasons why
her life
revolved around horseflies.
And as she
lifts her smiling face,
and her eyes
face hubby of disgrace,
there comes
a glow, even I unexpected.
Steven
King’s nightmare resurrected!
Among the
flailing arms and glass,
Came words
t’would torment sailor’s past.
Not cussing,
as I so deserved,
but cutting
speech, to pulsing nerve.
I knew to
shower, dry and dress
while
‘Sweet Thing’ got it off her chest.
As shirt
tail tucked and boots pulled on,
I heard her
crying on the phone.
Not
“Rosignerl” to confirm reservation,
but calling
Mother, affirming aversion.
Already hung
in shame this day,
this head
dreads wrath of my Mom’s way.
I must
suppose we find some good.
In every
challenge, a lesson’s construed.
Though I
must suffer awful fate,
Be sure
you’re timely for your date.
C Taylor,
Jr.
02/03/2003
(Copyright applied for as part of a collection, hopefully
coming soon to your bookstore!) |