The first time I ever saw your face Getting off the morning train My hear went boom boom pow! I may not have been a pretty flamingo You too were no puppet on a string! I remember that Monday Monday when you told my mom Mrs. Brown you’ ve got a lovely daughter Honestly that was somethin’ stupid to do But we were addicted to love And against all odds just beat it All I can say we are as happy as we can be.
Written for dVerse. Today’s host Lillian says: For today’s prompt I’d like you to go to the website https://mybirthdayhits.com and plug in your birthday. There’s a spot in the upper right-hand corner of the site for you to enter your birthdate. Have fun scrolling down the years, seeing what the #1 tune was on each of your birthdays. Pick at least one of the song titles that hit the charts at #1 on your birthday – one that resonates with you – and use it in its exact wording within your poem. Of course you’re free to choose more than 1 title and see where the muse takes you on putting them into one poem! Be sure to give credit to the song titles and the artist at the end of your post – and, if you’d like, share your birthdate with us too! Take a moment and listen to the songs as well! Have fun with this one, grooving down memory lane.
Songs in the verse:
The first time ever…. Roberta Flack
Morning Train… Sheena Easton
Boom boom pow…The Black Eyed Peas
Pretty Flamingo..Manfred Mann
Puppet on a string…Sandie Shaw
Monday Monday…Mamas and Papas
Mrs. Brown you’ve got a lovely daughter…. Herman’s Hermits
Words, words, words! However much I write about them, there is always more to write. They gush forth like a river in spate, giving me no pause to stem their flow. They gurgle happily like an infant asking to be mollycoddled. They are like an earworm refusing to be quietened. They fall over each other clamouring to be captured and meet the eye of the reader.
It is often the paucity of time that puts breaks on their ride. Some wither away, some die with exhaustion and some go in hibernation refusing to be cajoled to grace the pages. Only the hardy ones survive to tell their tale.
Perhaps it is my pact with them that I will give voice to them without being judgemental which keeps them from deserting me.
Raindrops keep falling a backdrop to my musings constant thrum of words.
Written for dVerse. Today’s host Frank says: Feeling a little blocked? Vent about it! Have a story to tell about a recent writer’s block? Go for it? Never had writer’s block? Tell us your secret! However you approach it, write your haibun that alludes to this perennial frustration of writers.
I bottle feelings everyday dram by dram, drop by drop disappointment and despair, resentment and that pain as well as the blinding rage they all go in the same bottle
carefully, without the funnel I pour meticulously; drip, drip, drip spill not even a driblet and get on with the infernal life with a plastic plastered smile
when the sunless cloudscape presents itself I sit with myself the bottle by my side I swallow a mouthful of asperity laced cocktail sip by sip, sip by sip scanning the skies for stars to guide
the inverted questions remain suspended mocking me with every passing moment the knot in my stomach gets tighter weary, tired and angry I sit there with my empty bottle waiting for dawn to pick a fight
same old, same old life goes on with a sigh I get ready to bottle feelings again.
Tired of the congeries of compromise night pauses haltingly to collapse within itself the miracle of solitude no longer thrills her sceptic memories lie frozen in the limbo between shadows and reality gathering its tattered skirt lined with despair she makes way for another day fresh faced, happy draped in an amber glow he arrives on the wings of a birdsong but the rigmarole of humdrum routine leaves grey smudges under his eyes needless to say he realises too late he is just like a suggestion of the previous day.
Let me hold your tiny hand once again I want to relive those idyllic days once more Let us walk down the elusive memory lane When you were my little angel, oh so pure!
I want to relive those joyous days once more To fill my pockets with memories of your childhood When you were my little angel, so very pure I just can’t believe you are stepping into adulthood!
To fill my pockets with memories of your childhood Those sun filled days of carefree gurgling laughter I can’t believe you are stepping into adulthood My little doll is all grown-up, of age from hereafter.
Those sun filled days of carefree, gurgling laughter Let me make a gallery of reminisces once again My little doll is all grown-up, of age from hereafter My heart is filled with such a sweet pain!
Let’s walk the gallery of reminisces once again Let’s chase butterflies one more time My heart is filled with such a sweet pain Let’s catch sunbeams and hear woods chime.
Let’s chase butterflies one more time Let me send you off with a heartfelt smile Let’s catch sunbeams and hear woods chime Your journey will be long, cover it mile by mile.
Let me send you off with a heartfelt smile Though melancholy smites my poor heart Your journey is long, cover it mile by mile And I will from afar play my part.
Though melancholy smites my poor heart I cannot but be happy for you And I will from afar play my part It is now your life to live and pursue.
I cannot but be happy for you My dear little angel, oh so pure It is now your life to live and pursue But let me hold your hand just once again!
She stands in the serpentine queue
with all the eligible voters from her family
under the blazing relentless sun
she is used to the queues,
queues for rations, queues for gas cylinders,
queues for dole,
queues for daily wages after back breaking work
she waits patiently for her turn
(like many around her)
to repay the cost of a saree,
some cash and a bottle of arrack
(for her good-for-nothing spouse)
not knowing that her vote
can make a difference
to the outcome of voting
and make a mockery of democracy.
She sits listlessly
under the humming air conditioner
sipping chilled daiquiri
watching with disinterest the serpentine queues
outside polling booths
not inclined to brave the heat and dust
to cast what she thinks is her meagre vote
(there are many like her)
she has never stood in a queue all her life
and elections won’t change that
her husband has an important meeting
her kids are holidaying in the Swiss Alps
the elections too inconsequential for them
thus democracy is mocked again.
She stands alone and proud in the queue
determined this time not to be bullied
to cast her vote according to others
passionate about voting on issues not the parties
inflation, education, safety, health her priorities
no party wants to talk about these mundane matters
they inflame passions on religion, caste and jingoism
surefire ticket to complete autocracy
she maybe a knocker, called a rabble-rouser and be all alone
registering her voice paramount for her
she won’t allow democracy to be mocked again and again.