Once upon a time in the rarely talked about Frosty sector of Fantasyland, a tale is told about a magenta-haired girl named Wren. Wren lived with her parents in an Igloo where they had to put down stakes for back-door reasons. The maid was slender and so innocent she would blush when she would hear her name being called.
One morning while picking frozen Apricots (which would be squashed to sell for desserts) she was distressed to see her Igloo home begin to soften. Her Father, a thief whose only talent was looting and plundering, would be no help in this or any other crises. Wren's distraught Mother looked out of the scullery window, lips pursed in anger, as her house warmed into a puddle.
Fear was now at its zenith when, like a bolt of lightening, an incredible memory of great significance came to her. She recalled a hidden bag of magic seeds purloined some time ago and given to her by, you guessed it, her husband as his gift for Valentine's Day and to celebrate the day their child was born. She felt it came to her just at the right time and anyway funny stuff happens in Fantasyland.
Could it be that her shifty mate's love gift would be their salvation?
Now unearthed from under the floorboards, the small leather pouch yielded a papyrus that read; "WARNING PLANT ONLY ONE OKRA POD AT A TIME" In smaller yet and nearly unreadable lettering at the very bottom of the page it read: "Enchanted Farmers Inc. Herby release any and all responsibility for the undisciplined growth of these contents," and in even smaller print was, "Shuck at your own risk."
The pod grew, all the igloos disappeared, and magenta-haired Wren, her mother, and the now celebrated ex-pilferer continue to live quite contentedly in their ever expanding house in the little known and rarely talked about Frosty sector of Fantasyland.
The assignment is to write a poem, memoir, or non-fiction in 200 words or less using at least 10 words from a list of 113. The subject is St. Valentine's Day. This assignment from an instructor who's own poem on the subject is titled Road Kill. Mercy! (1) Given the title of her poem, it doesn't surprise me that the list includes the words: ruthlessly (2), undertaker (3), and algebra (4).
If I'd ever been to Paris (5), Madagascar(6), Amsterdam (7), or (8) Iceland, I might wax poetic about their beauty. And I don't find the romance in okra (9) in the marketplace (10).
It's all extra credit now baby!
St. Valentine poem of love.
_______________
Giving up on a Litany-
A wave is acknowledgement of existence
A smile is acknowledgement of love
A blow job is acknowledgement of the universe.
_____________________
OK, ok. Not one word in the above poem is from the list. I think existence, universe, and blow job were worthy candidates. Especially since hiccup (11), bellybutton (12). and sober (13) made the list. I hiccup for your love. Doesn't make it. Is your bellybutton an innie or an outie? Hardly romantic. My sober thoughts make me drunk for your love. No.
Hallelujah! (14) The assignment is over.
At that talk I attended with Linda Watanabe McFerrin she mentioned an exercise she uses and handed out a list of rather sexy sounding words: tongues, Paris, salamander, lush, indigo, vanish, braille, silkily, Argentina, lips, apricots among many. She said, "don't think about it. Pick 7 words. Write a sexy scene using these words." I asked the class to pick their words and write whatever sexy thing they could think of, be it memoir, poetry, fiction. The following are some responses:
Her mirror’s reflection, mocking, as she stands bare.
Reflecting back, yikes nothing’s there.
I’ve seen other girl’s grow, big and thrive.
Isn’t it time, for mine to arrive?
I’ll love them fondly if I get a darling pair.
Perfectly perky and sweetly fair.
To Victoria’s Secrets, a bra for them to caress.
So hard to choose, I leave the display a mess.
****
Finally they come, I redden and blush
Return to Victoria’s in a hell of a rush.
I find the perfect bra and press it to my lips
I check it in the mirror, my God I’m getting hips.
I pick the one with a touch of glitter.
Then a selfie, I post it on Twitter.
A lush photo, of my two stunning sisters
Once lovingly in play, the envy of misters.
In deft darkness, my fingertips braille your face.
In silence, they dance across the beckon of your cheeks.
As a thief, they secretly kiss your lips, and
In heart’s desire, they silkily caress your hair.
They hear the whisper of your pulse, and
The blossom of your breathe.
They catch the subtle quiver in your skin, and
Even the glitter of your starry want.
They be not sinister in darkness, but brilliant hero.
My father bellows thunder, it fills us with despair.
Does reason slumber or will he be fair?
We have adored each other with eyes and hands and lips
But pungent prejudice swirls and forbids.
His soul is indigo to me now, the color of midnight.
Yours is white, the color of light.
Why can’t he see your soul and forget your ebony skin?
Must our love vanish into the darkness of ignorance,
Or might it be allowed to take wing?
Don’t stress, regress.
Don’t pine, recline.
Be mine, supine.
Say “yes,” me bless.
Acquiesce, caress.
Don’t go, let’s flow
into the night
of delight
and the dawning
after-glow.
No “no”!
‘Sweet Salamander’
whispers Dragon lovingly from her magenta cloud,
‘Slow your pulse and sleep a while longer
in the mercy of your hibernation underground,
For my time has come,
and as your damp skin is singed by the heat of my caress,
You will no longer breathe
And when you vanish?
Oh slender thief of my heart,
I shall be
so
lonely.’
Paris sweetly singes my tongue
fondly remembered
as lush apricots
devoured in the heat of summer.
Tobe and I fell in love thirty years ago in Stockholm. Six months ago he found me on line. it was the week of my seventy-first birthday. That would mean he was sixty-one.
We spoke or emailed daily and soon, ever the romantic he sent me a round trip ticket to his adopted Argentina. What could I say?.
On the plane, a complimentary Vodka in hand, I re-created fragments of our long ago lovemaking. If a heart could glitter from the inside out, mine would be seen like the stars in the heavens.
We were single-minded in that a Niagara of water had passed under our separate bridges. Would we be so clear when we met? I was excited, happy and getting more romantic by the sip.
The plane landed at Ezeiza International, and there Tobe stood, tall and straight, by the exiting corridor, as noble as he had been in Stockholm with one red rose in his hand.
We stood, stared and flew into each others arms. When his lips touched mine, a tiny nucleus of heat began to rise deep within my very belly button.
“Take my pulse” he whispered, “if I’m not dying, I want you now, right now and I don’t care if it makes the front page of La Nación”.
We were married three weeks later at the airport. I carried one red rose.