Three poems, I am queen
I am Queen
Your King, pale like a young man
Faced with his death,stands stiff
Behind his pawns. His eyes are wide
At the sight of my black-clad battalion.
Our armies are in tight formation,
The battlefield is before us, spread out
On a card table with spindly legs.
You move first. A tentative pawn,
Slid two squares to the front.
This will be a messy battle. You look up,
Watching as I laugh triumphantly
At the start of the game.
Lamentations of the Early Morning
Underneath a starry sky,
with blue rings underneath each eye,
ringing sounds of radio,
filling the cab of her dumpy auto,
moans the morning worker,
"Not I, not I!
I dearly want my beauty rest,
of which my sore looks can attest.
I hate my quickie makeup job,
It makes my face feel like a blob.
Give me one more hour to freshen up
before I must drink from this coffee cup,
and hurry down to my frightful job
to searve the smiling earlybird mob.
Pretend to be cheerful, pretend it like heck
when all I want is a decent sized check."
Trees clothed in gypsy colors
Sway to the shiver of a tambourine wind
A red leaf whisks into the crowd
Lured by an insistent billowing partner
Who shook her from the deadwood
And pulled her down to dance
She twists to the tumbling beat
Still swirling her crisp red skirt
Long after the remaining crowd scatters
Piling in drunken heaps