It's almost wedding season

Well, when I first read PoeTry ThuRsday's prompt for the week, I thought, hmm...not for me. I don't think I've ever read a conversation poem. I've written poems in voices, one voice, and even poems for two voices (Ralph Fleischer). Then I thought maybe I'd better do it. I've been gone from PT for far too long. Then, I thought, ah well, maybe just some other poem.

But then! Then I went to my first therapy session in years. That's as "bloggy" as I'll get about that subject! So, as I was saying, But then! I had a poem idea. A conversation popped right up onto my computer screen. At least it wasn't in my head!

Let's see if blogger will let me post it from Word with tabs. Oh. Not well. Not well at all. I just don't have the patience for HTML--or the skill. The thing is, I really like these two poems next to each other, one left justified, one tabbed over. So, I will post the complete poems following. No crazy spaces or funky spacing, just so you can read them separately. Bear with me. I worked on this HTML for an hour!

On the Occasion of The Wife’s Eighth Wedding Anniversary: A Conversation

Drag them to the altar,                     Isn’t there anyone to stop

your feet, cemented in suede           me? Friend, mother, lover?

pumps, poised to jump                                   Read the script. You are cordially invited
through the hoops of marriage,                 to maul the mailman. Just jump the guy
scurry through the whale bone                  take back the invitations
.
of ivory crinolin.                                              Hunt down the bluejays
If you can’t wait to wrap                      making love in the bushes,
your young frame in gingham,               humping through the air.
draw the apron strings tight                   Give them a room far from my
you have been worshipping                   watery eyes. We are all doomed
at the wrong altar,                                     to drown in our sorrows one way
you missed your stop,                            or another. While you are out there
missed your cue, missed the point.       rustle up the dressmaker
Mark my words bride,                         rip your bodice from his hands
you will miss the Miss.                   stain his fingers with the sweet cherry
                                                      of a fine cigar. Bring me the butt. 
 
 
On the Occassion of the Wife's Eighth Wedding Anniversary
 
Drag them to the altar,                       
your feet, cemented in suede                          
pumps, poised to jump                       
through the hoops of marriage,           
scurry through the whale bone            
of ivory crinolin.                                             
If you can’t wait to wrap                                
your young frame in gingham,             
draw the apron strings tight,                          
you have been worshipping                            
at the wrong altar.  You missed your stop         
missed your cue, missed the point.                  
Mark my words bride,                          
you will miss the Miss.
 
 
Miss: In Reply
 
Isn’t there anyone to stop
me? Friend, mother, lover?
Read the script. 
You are cordially invited
to maul the mailman. Just jump the guy
take back the invitations.
Hunt down the bluejays
making love in the bushes,
humping through the air.
Give them a room far from my
watery eyes. We are all doomed
to drown in our sorrows one way
or another. While you are out there
rustle up the dressmaker.
Rip your bodice from his hands,
stain his fingers with the sweet cherry
of a fine cigar. Bring me the butt.
 

Out my window

Bluejay on table.
Seed, grass, feather, string.
Picnic without me.

Song of sweet william,
Lily of the valley hymn.
Church of the back yard.

Wind spreads unseen seeds,
pollens, bees rejoice aloft.
Where are the secrets?

Leaves bristle in breeze,
green light stretches past shadow.
Errant artist paints.

Inside child cries
throws bag of red grapes on lap
nature is here, too.