Diva Heart in Denial
Her heart was not one that accepts age as
progress toward wisdom a crown of silver
Hot flashes were mere preludes
In tinny wraps, her stylish tinted glints of
highlights, long tresses still brisking bare shoulders
in waves of tragic peroxide passion
The insidious flaps under arms, on her belly,
her lazy limbs and gut splitskinned and resewn
A Bonwit Teller Raggedy Ann
French tip the perfect nails; affix false lashes:
Color her vivid. Boy Toy Nick not allowed to drift far
He stands flexed, assurance of her youth, her comeliness
She will not go gentle into that good night
but brittle, breakable, frightened, but
always with a mirror at hand
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl (Wordle belw; thanks, Brenda!) and Trifecta, which wanted a poem about heart as personality or disposition. Also at my poetic salon, where we’re all GORgeous, Poets United. I’ve known women of means who have had their faces lifted so many times, their noses begin to turn inside out, a slight ring around each nostril.
Rich Men Suck
Sheep without shepherd,
Raw thread sans loom…
O, rich white man, is that how you see us?
As ants scurrying to gather your crumbs?
Does this vision strengthen your egos?
Give me your hands,
your fingertips, softer than mine –
pushing paper and counting money all day.
Opalescent nails, polished and perfect.
(I can’t afford a manicure, sorry if I offend.)
In your mind, you picture
raw, thirsting power.
A lion’s heart with the speed of an elk.
The virility of a man’s man (who doesn’t really NEED the Viagra).
But I’ve spied you in the office corridor,
side-glancing in the gilt mirror,
yearning to look like Don Draper.
Real power needn’t preen
nor reassure itself.
Real power was in the humanity you left behind
when you bought your first pair of Guccis.