Woman Unseen

can you see me
over here
still alive
still breathing
still wanting
still needing
needing what
I just don’t know
no longer young
but don’t feel old
not enough wisdom
in my weary soul
lived all these years
and learned
so damn little
Rome burned
while I fiddled
where was my heart
where was my mind
picking up sticks
wasting time
erstwhile friends
slipped away
to a time and place
of yesterdays
children grew
and moved away
don’t need me
to find their way
when I was young
and not yet old
still traveling
an easy charmed road
did not think
this day would come
old as the hills
but still 
too young

©2021 KT Workman

(Note: Though this doesn’t seem to apply to men, we women of a “certain age,” become invisible. This poem is for all the not-seen ladies out there.)

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

March Chimes

Spring was my mama’s favorite season. She loved gardening, whether it involved vegetables or ornamentals, and when one visited, spring, summer, or fall, outside among the growing things was where one would likely find her. Her front porch sported a multitude of wind chimes, and when I hear mine (on my back porch) “tinkling in the wind,” I think of her. This one is for you, Mama.

 
 
 March chimes tinkle in the wind,
 Telling me spring is on the way,
 Chasing away dark winter days.
 And I wonder where the wind has been.
  
 Unlike winter, spring sports a grin.
 Yellow-bold, bright and warm and gay.
 March chimes tinkle in the wind,
 Telling me spring is on the way.
  
 Sometimes brash, chimes dance, drunk on gin.
 Or perhaps weed entered the fray.
 Drunk or high or merry, who’s to say?
 They jump and jingle as they spin—
 March chimes tinkle in the wind,
 Telling me spring is on the way.
  
 ©2021 KT Workman
   

(Note: Originating in French lyrical poetry of the 14^th century, a rondel poem is a fixed form of verse based on two rhyme sounds and consisting usually of 14 lines divided into three stanzas. The first two lines of the 1^st stanza are repeated as the refrain of the 2^nd and 3^rd stanzas. The meter is open, but usually has eight syllables per line. Rhyme scheme: A-B-b-a, a-b-A-B, a-b-b-a-A-(B)—capital letters represent lines repeated verbatim.)

Image by Carla Burke from Pixabay

Johnnys

The morning is heavy, pregnant with spring.

Dew sparkles on the new blades stretched in mass,

Testing their new-found strength; in shouts of green

They greet the rose-soft sunrise, raise their glass,

Salute their warm savior with verve and sass.

“Hello!” shout the iris, waving blue heads.

“Hello!” shout the glads, white, pink, and red.

Near the barn, johnny-jump-ups perk their ears,

Wonder why the fuss from their vain cousins.

After all, from early March they’ve been here,

Yellow and purple, dozens and dozens,

Popping up while the ground is yet frozen.

Johnny’s are trailblazers, fearless and bold.

What’s the big deal about a little cold?

©2021 KT Workman

(Rhyme Royal–7-line stanzas, usually iambic pentameter. Rhyme scheme: a-b-a-b-b-c-c)

Image by Couleur from Pixabay

Poker Face

his familiar face…earnest, free of artifice
or perhaps cunningly cloaked instead
constructs expressions conveying love and sincerity
and I’m so easily led

and his smile…warm and pious and bright
could effortlessly pull me under
choppy waves of helplessness, hopelessness
and tear my heart asunder

if I dare gaze deep into his inscrutable eyes
just what will I see…
true love and honesty and loyalty
or trust’s death looking back at me

I wonder…

if I strip the skin from his poker face
tear off his smiling lips
pluck out his beguiling eyes
until all that’s left is bone and blood’s drip

what would I find…

©️2020 KT Workman

Distressed Damsel

the damsel strolls in step with the night
snuggly swaddled in its ebony cloak
it has always been her one true friend
her moonstruck muse, whom she often misquotes

she scribbles her wishes on its blank black canvass
staples her dreams to the backs of dingy doves
nails her hopes to the wings of ravens
and sends them all to the stars above

she grimly dances with detestable devils
a wild, wicked waltz of spreading blight
hoots and howls at the muddy moon
scares away all the shiny white knights

©️2020 KT Workman

Around the Bend

running down
that dusty road
impervious to rocks
her shoe-leather soles

chasing sister
chasing brother
watch the baby
said their mother

her short legs
falling behind
a dollar short
and always behind

alway a bother
always a chore
sometimes left alone
and often ignored

she didn’t talk much
cried not at all
and stone by stone
she built a wall

to protect a heart
too tender to show
keeping it hidden
from friend and foe

every passing year
saw more bricks
added to the wall
rick by rick

until one day
she opened the door
stepped outside
joints stiff and sore

and hobbled down
that dusty road
cut and bruised
her old thin soles

chasing what
she didn’t know
only knew
it was time to go

she was ready
to reach this end
maybe it’d be better
just around the bend

© 2019 KT Workman

Photo via Pixabay

Forever Isn’t Forever

friends walk away
pass you by
many times
you don’t know why

what did you do
what did you say
is it your fault
they act this way

never drop by
never call
not there to catch you
if you stumble and fall

ones who loved you
turn their backs
don’t care to see you
take it as fact

they promised forever
to be your friend
but that didn’t happen
time to stamp “the end”

©️2019 KT Workman

Photo via Pixabay

Little Girls and Old Ladies

Taught to honor and obey
Little girls can’t find their way
Lips zipped against food and speech
Gotta stay skinny, gotta stay meek
Or lasting love won’t come their way
Submerging self, the price they pay
Striving to be who he wants her to be
She loses her and becomes his she

Put Prince Charming on lofty pedestal
Feed the ego of immature male
Make him feel like a mighty king
No matter the fact you’ll never be queen
For him, queens are the porn-star pack
Perfect dolls all waxed, maxed, and stacked
Standing by, always ready, willing, and able
Not real women…just juvenile fables

Poor little girls become old women
Before they realize there is no winning
For the enlightened, this epiphany brings joy
No more worries about pleasing a boy
Just march to the beat of your own crazy drummer
Pick white daisies in your own field of summer
Dance in the rain while the devil beats his wife
And lest it be you, carry a big suspicious knife

©️2019 KT Workman

Photo via Pixabay

First Lesson

she turned fifteen
on a warm summer day
saw him on the beach
coming her way

hair thick and brown
eyes bashful blue
her heart skipped a beat
and her senses did too

she fell in love
like many girls do
before knowing the boy
she gave her little heart to

she though he was hers
she though she was his
but learned she was wrong
when along came Liz

who took him away
with a flip of her hair
which showed the girl
that boys don’t care

about what’s inside
about what is true
they see what they see
and want what is new

the girl learned a lesson
on that bright summer day
don’t believe, don’t trust
because boys won’t stay

© 2019 KT Workman

Photo via Pixabay

Wolf

the wolf is at the door
he growls…I moan
he knows I am in here
afraid and all alone

the wolf is at the door
he claws the ancient wood
he knows I am behind it
he knows I will taste good

the wolf is at the door
his nose draws in my smell
he tastes the sweetness of my fear
his appetite I will quell

the wolf is at the door
I rise to let him in
this night will be an atonement
a night to pay for sins

the wolf is at the door
I gather my courage close
my fingers curl round the icy knob
I let in the lupine ghost

the wolf is in the door
he howls…I scream
thrust my knife into his heart
carve out his bloody wet dream

the wolf is on the floor
I smile in satisfaction
he thought I would be an easy meal
too weak to take bold action

the wolf dies on the floor
no longer a threat to me
I write my name in his cooling blood
for other wolves to see

©️2019 KT Workman

Photo via Pixabay