We’ve played with words from the day we’ve assembled in this garden. One of the most challenging romps is to be given a list of words to be included in your poem (Brenda Warren at THE SUNDAY WHIRL has had great success with the weekly Wordles). What we propose is similar, only instead of words we are providing you with random phrases that must be incorporated into your poem. You pick the poetic form (or none), any (or all) of the five offered phrases, and the subject matter. You took the hook, we’ll feed you the lines, and it’s sink or swim as far as poetry goes.
Your lines:
“in the doorway where she stood”
“he had gotten a taste of regret”
“please, don’t squeeze the ________” (Fill the Blank)
“a blur of self-doubt”
“Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”
MARIE ELENA TAKES THE BAIT
SOLO
He lingered a good long while in the doorway where she stood, looking confused and forlorn those last moments they had spent together. A blur of self-doubt, she begged an explanation. He had none. He didn’t mean to hurt her. Simply, he had gotten a taste of regret. A taste – an insignificant sip – was all it took to leave remnants of love tossed to the wind to scatter like thistledown? And now, a new and permanent supply of regret seized and overwhelmed him. He stepped clear, closed the door, and locked it behind him. © Copyright Marie Elena Good – 2013WALT’S HOOK:
ELVIS PRESLEY IS NOT DEAD!
In a blur of self-doubt, William Stanton
waited for the emcee’s introduction.
He had his instructions to begin
when the music reached an ear-splitting din.
Stanton’s impersonation was spot on!
He knew of its import, he was a good sport
but he had gotten a taste of regret.
The silhouette in the doorway where she stood,
was no longer hers. Rhinestones glimmering,
slick hair shimmering in the spotlight –
the time was right. This was his night.
The ladies screamed and dreamed
of his curled lip; he was so hip!
“Please don’t squeeze the Hunk of Burnin’ Love!”
It’s like he’s back in the building.
Long live the King!
© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Good prompt!
Dis-Grace
She gave Graceland all it knew of grace, her figure silhouetted in the doorway where she stood, hesitantly but forthrightly looking over the men in the room. Was she searching for someone? Her eyes shone with intense emotion. In a blur of self-doubt, he beckoned to her, wordlessly offered her a chair, poured wine into a glass for her, watching her eyes glisten and burn. What would it be like to possess such a woman, to make her smile, laugh, moan? Watching her torture her napkin and ball the table cloth near her lap stabbed at his heart, for already he had gotten a taste of regret. “Darlin’, please, don’t squeeze the table linens so,” he said softly, offering to take her hand, but she suddenly looked at him with horror, jerked her hands away, and snapped, “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!” She was quite mad, of course, but he had carried a number of dead rockers living in him as well, so who was he to judge her for being the King’s fanatic. She was just so damned pretty she made him want to sing, “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true”, knowing he would never have the chance to love her tender.
I enjoyed reading that, and the ending had that “sneaky fast” quality to it, again.
Yes…
This is going to be a hard one to beat. BRILLIANT, Jane!
Marie Elena
“She gave Graceland all it knew of grace, her figure silhouetted in the doorway where she stood” <— Awesome words. Great storytelling. I am loving this. ^^
Wonderful story-telling, Jane!
This is brilliant Jane. It gave me goose-bumps actually and made me sad at the same time…very fine work.
Thanks, friends.
Beautiful, Jane.
He’ll never be Elvis, and that’s a shame. Strong piece…I love it!
Love the title, too!!
Just loved this Jane. What deep emotion it pictures.
Good one, Jane.
A MILD ARGUMENT
In the doorway where she stood,
in an old, forgotten neighborhood,
she never had a blur of self-doubt:
she really knew what she was talking about.
“Elvis Presley is not dead
but Pat Boone is, instead,” she said.
Her aged spouse was quite upset,
for he had gotten a taste of regret
at what she said. He knew full well
that Boone was alive and Presley, in Hell.
Hearing his words, she thought him silly.
“You eat those words,” she said, shrilly,
“for if you don’t, I’ll have your head.”
“Please don’t squeeze the trigger,” he said.
copyright 2103, William Preston
“Please don’t squeeze the trigger,” he said.
Great last line!
I agree. Great poem as well!! 🙂
I love that you have the two ‘kings’ and their pop styles at the heart of this argument. Who’s dead and who’s alive? Depends…
Well done William, and rhyming couplets all the way through — no mean feat here, in my view…
Thanks, everybody.
Your rhyme scheme works well for you here, William. Well done. A fun read.
Obsessions over Elvis lead to bizarre behavior, no doubt! Love the lighthearted feel rhyme added to your piece.
A heart stopping last line!
She’s Gone…
Her scent
Still lingers in
The doorway where she stood
All those years, watching and waiting
For him.
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope
This is a wonderful Crapsey cinquain, very evocative.
Thank you, William. 🙂
I agree, William.
YES. Excellent, Erin.
Thank you, De and Sheryl! 🙂
Oh, this is so sadly beautiful… !!
Thank you, Hen. ❤ I definitely like sad poetry best…
❤ it! 🙂
Thanks!
Wow!
🙂 !!
Erin, this is a perfect example of less is more. Wonderful.
Thank you so much, Jane! ❤
Sigh… My daughter and I were just talking about how much of our lives we spend waiting. This is an entirely different type of wait. Strong and concise.
Erin, you are so good at packing it in…so much lifelong anguish in a momentary breath, a brief inhalation.
Thanks, Damon! You’re so sweet. Good to see you here, as always. 🙂
(A Haiku)
A blur of self-doubt
Clouded her senses – her love
Remained unnoticed.
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
…life…
Yes… 🙂
I like them both very much Erin. Very nice
Thanks, Debi. I realized after I posted them that they kind of go together, although I didn’t write them that way on purpose. 🙂
She needs to take a plunge! Go for it, or she’ll never know if the chance will be realized. I like your work a great deal, and like the way these two pieces complement each other. Well done.
She does need to take a plunge. Unfortunately, she (I) is just 16. It’ll wait a little longer. Thanks for reading Brenda. 🙂
I agree with all the comments Erin but Brenda’s most of all…this is great work, as per usual..
Thanks so much, Sharon! I’m so glad you liked it. 🙂
And again…
😀
This is an intriguing prompt…!
ENVIRONMENTALIST
To help
Mother Nature,
it’s good to plead without
surcease, but please, don’t squeeze the trees
too hard.
Ha, tree hugger, I almost let that slip right by me. Nice
Haha! Nice Cinquain, William!
😉
Lest they become toilet paper…sorry, couldn’t help myself. This one brought a chuckle, thanks.
A valid plea William…as brenda suggested plastic is no substitute for some things.
LESSON LEARNT
I knew a retired martinet
who was mellower since we had met,
for his wits were at end
when he lost his best friend;
he had gotten a taste of regret.
copyright 2013, William Preston
Sometimes you have to learn the hard way…
Ice Breaker
In the doorway
where she stood
a blur of self-doubt
masked assuredness,
heat lightning a brief flash
pursuant task– confidence.
Back straight, chest back
each breath a forward step
sipping courage, no regret
she offered him a light.
Great use of the phrases, Laurie! Nice!
wonderful images, from heat lightning to a light.
Yes, indeed.
I love how you built her up for us. Courage is like that. Well done!
this is lovely Laurie…truly…
Self Doubt
In a blur of self doubt
As if walking on eggs
So quick to bow out
In a blur of self doubt
In search of escape route
Confidence begs
In a blur of self doubt
As if walking on eggs
I love this. I love triolets anyway, but this one is superb, in my opinion.
Awesome!!! 🙂
Splendid, Connie!
love it, Connie.
At different times, I can relate to this one. Repetition strengthens the feeling.
yes…an excellent triolet Connie…you do the form so well…
Wonderful use of triolet.
espinela (decima?)
She’s Leaving
Finally, he had gotten a taste
of regret. She said, “I’m leaving.”
And he sat, watched, disbelieving,
in a blur of self-doubt that raced
through disordered thoughts. He braced
for the pain. “Please, don’t squeeze the life
from me. It pierces like a knife.
But in the doorway where she stood
in her fatigues he understood.
Doubting no more he kissed his wife.
“Please don’t squeeze the life out of me” is a superb completion of Walt’s hook. Great piece!
Marie Elena
Yes, your squeeze line is great! all I could think of was ‘please don’t squeeze the Charmin’,lol
had that stuck in my head too…
Me too.
Sadly sweet…
powerful images here.
Thanks all.
The finishing lines make this, for me. Wonderful.
I’m loving the squeeze line, too. Charmin kept me from using it… Wonderful write.
What a cool take on this prompt…especially the “squeeze the life out of me” line…I really love it!
In and Out the Doorway
In the doorway where she stood
She pushed back her little red hood
Eyeing the quaint room inside
She’d like to rest. She bet she could.
And so did not do what she should.
All caution brushed aside
She wound up breaking Mama’s chair
Eating Baby’s porridge that was there
And mussing up Papa’s bed
The bears came in and they did glare
She awoke with fear beyond compare
So out the doorway, she fled
Lovin’ the creative take on this, Connie! Excellent!
Marie Elena
And in form, too. Wonderful!
Aww! Love this!
Mixing it up with Red and the bears. Love this for its whimsy.
so cool and original a take…brava Connie
Yea!
Heavy
“O, please don’t squeeze the aubergines,” she cried.
“It makes a mushy seedy mess inside.
We are not making moussaka today.”
A blur of self-doubt carried her away—
perhaps a parmesan was what to bake
or an “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!” Cake.
Such names they put on recipes these days,
as in the doorway where she stood, she sways
remembering a slow dance with her spouse
to “Love me Tender” lilting through the house.
She cannot bring herself to serve him light
fare, something that can make his middle tight.
Instead, she makes his favorites, all heavy,
and his thin belt hardly contains that levy.
For twenty years, he’s faced caloric threat,
and he had gotten a taste of regret,
for every dish his wife prepares is more
than his hungriest dream would bargain for,
such savory delights, or saucy sweets…
his dancing days are done; he sits and eats.
Great poem, Jane! I love that first stanza!
I love that last line. Very nice.
This is a bit sad, but compelling. Thanks for offering.
You had me at “aubergines.” Yup.
Beautiful cadence, and message. Love this piece. Love it.
This is wonderful and it does sing! Great take on the prompt…
“Love is Blind on Such Midsummer Night”
T’was on a summer solstice such as this
when drunk with idleness, our Bottom napped.
Awakened then, his new reflection kissed
two donkey ears, a toothy grin; a sap!
“Hee haw!”: a screeching noise that made him frown.
But through her eyes, a BLUR OF SELF-DOUBT CEASED.
Thus, Bottom, hero to Titania; bound!
So, love is tilted as the summer breeze
with lofty dreams and sprightly attitude.
Sure, Oberon’s pretensions might be blamed
for all the fairy pleasures of a brew.
But, caution! Maze of errors might inflame
for love is blind and surely ecstasy;
Old Shakespeare knew of love…and you and me.
I love this!!! ^^
Same here.
Love it! Midsummer’s Night Dream is one of Shakespeare’s best! 🙂
Oh, delightful! One of my favorite of Shakespeare’s comedies so well encapsulated.
Lovely sonnet a la Shakespeare. He’d love it, too.
This is perfect! Such fun…
Please don’t squeeze the poet
Please don’t squeeze the poet
for she is not a pimple.
Her one chance: she won’t blow it.
Please don’t squeeze the poet.
The words will flow and show it
is kismet, pure and simple.
Please don’t squeeze the poet
for she is not a pimple.
JACQUELINE!! How fun to see you and your zany humor!! Love it!
Smoooooooch!
Marie Elena
Thanks, Marie. Smooch back!!! ^^
Great fun, this.
Creative, indeed.
Oh my… This is great, Jacqueline!
Thank you all. ^^
Nor is she simple. Clever write, even if it did evoke a puss filled poet. 😉
ewww….but well done.
Gee, thanks…I love your name, lol.
I love your name too. It’s so pretty!!! ^^
Know When to Leave the Building
It was a quiet night
As quiet a night as he could remember
Although his mind was filled with other things
Right up front was a blur of self-doubt
Spurred by an innocent discussion that
Exploded into the fight of the century
Son against mother over something stupid
Things said that shouldn’t have been said
Bad things that gave them both a bad taste
But he had gotten a taste of regret that he
Just couldn’t seem to get out of his head
He knew better
It was his mother, for crying out loud
His dear, sweet, and very old mother
Set in her ways and stubborn as an ox
Just like the son that she raised so well
Or maybe too well
Why had he forgotten her number one idol
Why was it that he made such a stupid statement
And why, oh why, didn’t he just laugh it off
Instead of insisting on following in her tracks
And winning at all costs
It was time to eat crow
Time to admit fault
Time to get on the floor and grovel to his mother
For arguing with her when she uttered these words
“Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”
© 2103 Earl Parsons
I like this a lot, Earl! I see myself in it though, stubborn as an ox, so it’s humbling for me too. 🙂
Arguments can burn bridges. My dad and I never discuss politics, because both of our bellies are full of crow.
Oh, I hear you Earl…this is delightful.
I like this one, Earl.
In the Doorway Where She Stood
Elvis Presley is NOT dead,
he said, and swear by her blue
suede shoes, she believed him.
From the brim of his hat
to the tip of his
(what’s that word?)
tongue, he had gotten
a taste of regret.
Don’t fret, she purrs
but please, don’t squeeze
the blur of self-doubt
I’m about. He
(pause for effect)
sneezes,
leaves.
.
Love it! 😀
Ditto, Erin. Oh, De…
Bingo!
” but please, don’t squeeze the blur of self-doubt I’m about…” LOVE this!
as always De…brilliant…cool…wonderful!
Meadow Tree
By David De Jong
He road a blue roan, sweeping across the prairie and plains,
Searching a vision, extraordinary, to some insane.
She came in a dream, at Leaping Wolf’s winter hunting camp.
Warmed by the fire, its flames a transcending, hypnotic, lamp.
The great chief’s pipe was passed, trinkets traded, stories retold.
The smoke lingered in the air, like ghost, from their tales of old.
They called her Meadow Tree, because she was so free and tall,
Silken blonde curls, blowing free with the amber leaves of fall.
She brought them warm wool blankets, muffins, gooseberry preserves,
They loved her for her beauty, but also admired her nerves.
Holding on to aimless hope, while her husband long since passed,
Taken by the fever, not the prairies first, nor its last.
Smoke took hold; his eyes began to fade into frays of grey.
She beckoned to him in a dream, and quietly walked away.
Wearing a long white dress; trimmed in sea shells, leather, and lace,
Deep emerald eyes, long dark lashes, blonde wisps held her face.
He woke in a start, his heart pounding, gasping, just because,
She was an angel, without a doubt, if ever there was
“Come find me, bring me home” is what she whispered in his dream.
Words that rolled in his mind like snow melt, rushing through a stream.
He couldn’t rest till he found her, longing to hold her, he must.
Her cabin; empty, shelves bare, except for spiders, and dust.
Just then, a Diamond Back grabbed his thigh as his boots hit wood,
Meadow Tree reached for his hand, in the doorway, where she stood.
David, this is very nice work. Reminds me of the John Wayne movie, The Searchers, huh?
Thanks – miss those old westerns
So beautiful, David!
Totally absorbing tale. Wonderful.
Yes, absorbing!!
me too, Pilgrim….
Love this, David.
[…] .. Written for Poetic Bloomings. […]
Chickens in the Morning
In the doorway where she stood,
Stephanie could feel the warm air
Of the stove on her back and the cold
Slap of early spring on her face.
A clear day, she thought, turning
Back to the kitchen table and the bowl
Of fresh eggs, waiting to be turned into
Breakfast.
“Freeze!”
It was the twins, up at dawn on a Saturday
When there was no school.
“Please, don’t squeeze the eggs” she warned
as two pairs of pajama-clad arms stretched
across the table.
As she broke the eggs into a bowl, she had
Gotten a taste of regret. These were Annabelle’s
Eggs and Annabelle was the second hen that had
Gone broody. How many future chickens were
They about to destroy?
A blur of self-doubt came over her mind as she
Remembered that the rooster, Elvis, had not
Been in the coop last night and so far she
Had not heard his familiar crow.
The twins must have been following her thoughts
They opened the door and looked outside.
“He’s probably dead”, their father muttered
Suddenly there was an ear splitting crow.
The rooster had spent the night on the porch.
“Elvis Pressley is NOT dead!” the boys shouted.
😀
This is an interesting story. Now I have to “look it up” to discover why ‘hens go broody’ and what that means.
Sweet!
Marian, you had me at “chickens” but this was such a finely wrought story with heart.
Delightful
A wonderfully spun tale. I love Elvis and the whole gang.
oh I remember what broody hens want…more chicks,yes? cool poem…
Squeezed
A blur of self-doubt
made its way to his stomach.
He, a, Shakespearean-trained
actor, was waiting his turn
to speak this stupid line.
He was an adult
for goodness sakes.
Why was he here?
Oh, yes, his wife, his kids,
and their many bills.
He was told this could
supplement his income.
Now, take a deep breath,
he told himself. You can say it.
“Please don’t squeeze the Charmin.”
Ha ha – Love it – Kinda dates us all though
David, frankly my imagination did not take flight on this one, so I went with the most obvious.
Well, at least you got Shakespeare and Charmin’ all in one story. Quite a trick, Sheryl, lol.
😉
Whoops. I forgot to use the ® after Charmin ®
Shakespeare and Charmin ® together – your talent knows no bounds, Sheryl! 🙂
!! 😀
AUGUST’S HAUNTING
Every night it’s the same:
The phone’s strident ring
splits the dark like an axe
Her hand reaches, flutters
ghost-like, mirrors her heart
hammering so fast,
it’s a blur of self-doubt
And always, that oh-so-recognizable
voice in her ear pronounces,
“Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”
From the doorway
where she stood
her Mama—eyes wide,
moves to her side,
grabs her hand so tight,
“Mama, please don’t squeeze
the life outta my hand—
I’m okay—really—”
They stare at each other…
Neither one wants
to say it
But eventually she gives in,
her voice as wistful
as always,
“Do you think if he had
gotten a taste of regret,
he’d still be in the building?”
The dark closes over them
like water, like curtains
being drawn.
This is superb, breath-taking work, in my opinion.
Fantastic, Sharon. Truly awesome writing here.
This is wonderful, and wistful, Sharon.
This is just great, right down to the “left the building” and that final image is magic. Wow!
Thanks all! It was a fun write…
In The Doorway…
In the doorway where she stood
Just before she left for good
In the doorway that she walked out
Leaving him with a blur of self doubt
What had he done that made her leave
To face the rest of his life to grieve
In the doorway she left a note
Her reason for leaving on it she wrote
A reason that bit him like a snake
Reminding him of his biggest mistake
In the doorway he learned too late
A life without her would be his fate
He had gotten a bitter taste of regret
So bad he regretted the day they met
In the doorway of her last stand
He wept and mourned a lonely man
© 2013 Earl Parsons
Ohh… your last line hurts me…
A Tanka
In the doorway where
He had gotten a taste of
Regret and self-doubt
She stood squeezing out the words
Elvis Presley is NOT dead!
© 2013 Earl Parsons
“squeezing out the words…” Bravo!
Performance
A blur of self doubt
darkened her thoughts
in the doorway
where she stood,
about to take her place
on stage to begin
this long awaited performance.
She breathed deeply, slowly–
in and out–hoping she would
not find herself in the same
place where he had gotten
a taste of regret.
She stepped out on stage,
smiled, bowed briefly,
and took her seat at the piano.
This vignette speaks of “butterflies” before a performance, to me. Well-drawn work.
Thanks, William!
Oh, the courage…
I cannot even imagine it for myself.
Beautifully etched poem…I can visualize this easily.
Thanks, Sharon!
A GREY STUDY
Golden October was blowing away,
leaving skies of heavy grey;
leaving dreams of other years
to ease the first November day.
Yet, through a mist of budding tears
and memory torn into arrears,
he saw a face that spoke of love
and felt a voice caress his ears.
Then, like a frightened homing dove
returning to a velvet glove,
his heart felt, briefly, loose and gay,
unleashed by scenes that he dreamt of,
but truth would not be held at bay,
nor time be chained to endless May.
for he had gotten a taste of regret
that lonely, cold November day.
The heartless grey was heavy yet;
it lasted till the gloom had set
and blackness spread its heavy net
on dreams he had no chance to get.
copyright 2013, William Preston
…how sad…
A sad, lovely write, William.
Forgive and Forget
He had gotten a taste of regret;
And she was ready and willing
To end the quarrel, forgive and forget;
He had gotten a taste of regret,
At his confession, her heart upset:
All her love started overflowing;
He had gotten a taste of regret,
And she was ready and willing.
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
Aww… that is soo me, too… 🙂 !!
I’m glad…thanks, Hen. ❤
One Of These Days I’ll Break…
“You know
I love you, but
Please don’t squeeze me so tight
With your enthusiastic hugs!!”
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
hee, hee… :)!
🙂
Still, I Have My Work
In the doorway where she stood
staring
All of her books, her silent children
waited patiently.
This pictures, for me, a veteran teacher, perhaps hesitating to step into the classroom again. Very nice vignette.
Thank you, William… I like your interpretation… 🙂 !
Lovely poem, Hen…kind of bittersweet. ❤
… yes… thank you, my friend!!
You make me feel this one intensely, Hen.
I am so Honored, thank you, Sara!!
The Virtue of Patience
In the doorway where she stood
she wondered
WHEN he would ever say
“hello”.
Haha, too cute!! 😀
… she just keeps wondering… 🙂 Thank you, Erin!
Summerfest
If I could ever come back from the dead
I’d be that chick with the pink tambourine
swaying to the beat onstage – with those mean
curves under the bright lights. That’s what I said
to Hank at the sound booth. He shook his head
You’re crazy man, you gotta live a clean
life to get that lucky! From what I seen,
you’ll come back as an old fat guy instead.
Jenny walks up behind us with a beer
and laughs, “You’re already halfway there, hon!”
She tries to pinch my butt, but I won’t go
there: “Please don’t squeeze the merchandise, my dear!”
I drawl. She looks so fine there in the sun,
I’ll worry about karma tomorrow.
Love this, Andrew. It takes me back…
Awesome, Andrew. In form and well-flung phrase. 🙂
Very cool, Andrew.
If Only
I may be wrong but never in doubt, he boasted,
unaware of the mocking he prompted
behind his back. He might have caught
just a blur of self-doubt in the mirror
as he shaved if he’d ever taken off
those rose-colored glasses. But no,
he may have paid his bills on time,
but he’d never learned to pay attention.
He’d flatly deny now that he used her
to sharpen his wit against, a scratching post,
never thinking of the damage done.
Arguing just to be contrary, just as quick
to take one side of the other—Elvis Presley
is Not dead—or he is. Marilyn was killed
by the Kennedys or the Russians.
Please don’t squeeze the Charmin,
he’d goad strangers in the store,
then pick up the twelve-roll pack,
snuggling up like Mr. Wipple for laughs.
Not until he saw her, in the doorway
where she stood arms akimbo, bags packed,
did he acknowledge that blur of self-doubt
that would for the rest of his life, haunt
his dreams like some old daguerreotype
of how things might have been. If only.
Wow. No doubt about the quality of this.
Is there ever, with Nancy? Nope. 🙂
ELVIS PRESLEY IS NOT DEAD
There was still mistletoe hanging
in the doorway where she stood.
It was 6-months old, straggly
and touched with mould, but how
could he know that he missed
his chance at Christmas to sow
romance and plant one on her.
Hesitation was his life’s regret,
and he had gotten a taste of regret
at the Christmas party. She’d
puckered up and closed her eyes,
but to her surprise he shouted
at the guests, “Please, don’t squeeze
the fruitcake!” which of course put her
off him quicker than a flea’s blink.
And now she stood there in the doorway,
lips sweet and inked with ripe cherries,
and puckered up at him again. He felt
out of his depth and a blur of self-doubt.
She opened her eyes and stared at him.
“Have you nothing to say?” she said.
He flung all hesitation aside for once,
and blurted, “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”
“…quicker than a flea’s blink…” Misky! You are hilarious :D!!!
[…] Poetic Bloomings #113 Hook, Line and Sinker […]
Alleyways and Passages/Despair and Redemption
Our hero (or villain, you must judge for yourselves) sat in the all night diner across the street from the alleyway. He’d been down that alleyway more than once in both despair and desperation – visiting the tenants of the dark, dank tenement block that lay at its furthest end.
Maria (that was the name she gave and the one he had used, though he doubted its authenticity) gave a smile, a wink and a nod to the sign that hung on the wall in the doorway where she stood which stated “please, don’t squeeze the merchandise”,
there was a cartoon of a voluptuous, young (very young, it seemed from her face), Latino girl, “unless you intend to buy”.
Behind Maria, a dimly lit passage way led to a stairwell. The stairs went upwards but surely guided the passenger down to the eternal fires of damnation by way of the series of rooms opening off each landing that were in turn as much purgatory as any described by the Southern Baptist preacher who regularly stood outside the diner condemning the sins of the flesh.
His conscious had got the better of him this time, he had got a taste of these forbidden fruits too often for his own comfort and now he had got a taste of regret which stuck in his craw and turned his stomach, turned his face away from the mirror behind the counter to glance uneasily around the room. A life size poster of “The King” was emblazoned with the slogan “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!” He had not felt so dead inside since the day Elvis had died (in spite of the proclamation on the opposite wall).
Our protagonist (let’s leave it at that and let the preacher and his maker sit in judgement), gulped down his burnt, stale coffee and rose to his feet. He said “goodbye” to the counter-girl who responded with a “see ya later, Mac”. “No!” he retorted, “goodbye!” He stepped out into the hot, still, summer night air and in a blur of self-doubt he crossed the street and made a single pace into the alley. He stopped, frozen, mesmerised by the faint light behind the unmistakable form of Maria. He spat, cursed and turned on his heel, striding quickly away. at the corner of the thoroughfare he hailed a cab and bid its driver take him home (if that is what you might call it – a place to sleep and keep his other suit was about all it amounted to).
He halted the taxi’s progress uptown and went instead of “home” into a swish hotel lobby, took a room, took a drink at the bar and took the elevator to the roof.
The morning paper stated that Jessie, a waitress at an all night diner and a working-girl who gave her name as Maria, identified the man as a frequent customer of both their “establishments” but were unable to offer a name to go with the now battered but peaceful face. The hotel lobby bartender recalled that he drank bourbon on the rocks and said his name was Elvis.
Iain
Whoops!! Bit of a long one and not really a poem!
This had me hooked immediately. I thought it was brilliant.
I agree… it reminded me some of the work that an old poet friend of mine has written… Thank you, Iain!!
Thank you both so much 🙂
You made me shiver, but I love how you told this story! It’s so real and vivid…
Thanks Erin – maybe it’s flash fiction?
Maybe…but I really like it as a prose poem. Very nice. 🙂
This is my first entry at Poetic Bloomings. Thanks for mentioning The Sunday Whirl. The title links you to the piece on my blog, undercaws, but it looks like most post here, so I will, too. Here’s my take on your prompt:
Without Saying Good-bye
A taste of regret lingered
in the doorway where she stood
breathing in the barn’s fecundity.
Outside, swallows darted and dove,
swimming through sporadic wind currents
between two towering grain elevators.
A blur of self-doubt
fluttered in her chest, then
she pictured her heart rusty,
dulled like the hinges on the old barn door,
their original sheen eroded
over time’s long passage.
As sure as swallows ride the wind,
her heart would die there
nailed to the old barn door.
She breathed in one long last feel for the place,
then left without saying good-bye.
Brenda Warren 2013
Welcome, Brenda!
Awesome poem, and great seeing you here. 🙂
Marie Elena
Thank you, Marie. Hopefully summer will afford me the time to write more. I always appreciate inspiration. It looks like good things happen here.
Great to see you here, Brenda. As usual, your work is stellar!
Brenda! Welcome to the Garden. Glad you’ve made it over. You surely will add to our already wonderful bouquet of blooms. Marie and I are happy to have you!
A real poem this time:
The Writing is on the Wall
The walls and woodwork
were daubed with graffiti
in the doorway where she stood:
“Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”
and “Carrot Soup is Best!”
amongst the “Call Tina or Lulu for a good time”
and less attractive suggestions,
for Mary, Jasmine and Billy.
She had got wet walking there,
she was wetter still now,
as the doorway sheltered little.
She had got a taste of regret
and an empty feeling in her stomach
that was slowly gnawing away at her soul,
as a ravenous beast might on carrion.
She waited an hour,
three busses had come and gone;
she caught the fourth.
The rain on her face hiding the tears.
Carved on the back of the seat in front of her was
“Oh please! Don’t squeeze lemons if you don’t want lemon juice”
next to a crudely drawn cock and balls.
She smiled and thought
“Stupid prick! I deserve better!”
Lemon juice!
Bitter like her tears.
Iain
[…] for Poetic Bloomings Prompt #113: Hook, Line and Sinker – write a poem using one or all five phrases offered (I used three: “…in the […]
I posted a version of this at Poetic Asides today, too…this is the edited/”final” version.
///
In HIS Honor
In the doorway
where she stood,
she knew she must be
obedient
to her Creator.
Yet
she still asked
for the cup to pass.
With His eyes,
she had seen him,
who he was
created to be.
He had allowed the enemy
to wreak havoc
in his life;
a blur
of self-doubt
altered his path…
and hers.
With His heart,
she had loved him;
and he broke it.
With every piece
of her broken heart,
she spoke
the truth in love.
Together,
they cried…
he had gotten
a taste of regret.
With His strength
she said goodbye.
2013-06-26
P. Wanken
…oh wow…