Two Chickens
—Photo by Ann Privateer
TRANSFORMATION
—Ann Privateer, Davis
Worry-free me splits
to the quirky aviary
bound by chicken wire
kept in to not expire
from Bavarian resignation
for a shot at redemption.
Fast forwarding
my work, chasing
an olive in the bottom
of a glass of bourbon.
You enter to convolute confusion
by backpeddling my emotion
shrink into your coat, try to find
the persistent mind
that will trade envy
for a decoy
ready to hunt
anything short of a bunt.
Redemption entices
persuasion's vices.
—Ann Privateer, Davis
Worry-free me splits
to the quirky aviary
bound by chicken wire
kept in to not expire
from Bavarian resignation
for a shot at redemption.
Fast forwarding
my work, chasing
an olive in the bottom
of a glass of bourbon.
You enter to convolute confusion
by backpeddling my emotion
shrink into your coat, try to find
the persistent mind
that will trade envy
for a decoy
ready to hunt
anything short of a bunt.
Redemption entices
persuasion's vices.
Three Palms
—Photo by Ann Privateer
ALL THAT GLITTERS AND GLOWS
—Ann Privateer
red sunsets, baby's laughter, news
of a lottery windfall, chickens tasting
winter, squash in butter, a sleeping
child, poems that smile, your
daughter's reminder, your son's
message, your own messy
room, your feet freed, your
dog or cat listening, all
that glows in beauty.
—Ann Privateer
red sunsets, baby's laughter, news
of a lottery windfall, chickens tasting
winter, squash in butter, a sleeping
child, poems that smile, your
daughter's reminder, your son's
message, your own messy
room, your feet freed, your
dog or cat listening, all
that glows in beauty.
—Photo by Ann Privateer
MAKE A JOYFUL NOISE
—Ann Privateer
Purple manganese peeps over
blue corn flowers where wild anise
curbs rows of velocity at the farm
where chickens scurry. We, like them
most likely drunk on Bacardi and rum,
hum the third stanza of Luna Park's rung
exulting simple pleasures, alive near
a stream that flows freely
with stillness in each moment.
_______________________
HEARTBURN—
he’s got it bad
He wants her to teach him
the art of un-loving
un-remembering—
but no one can.
He wants her
to soothe him
with the scent of her skin—
oregano, basil and thyme—
with the comfort of her kitchen.
—Cynthia Linville
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—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
VENUS BOBS HER HAIR
—Cynthia Linville
The 1920s is her favorite decade—
you should see her collection of
feathers and fringe.
She steps back in time to
Paris or New York
whenever the mood takes her—
a sleek brunette in white silk.
A Goddess men call her
as they pour her a pink gin fizz
or light the cigarette at the end of
her long ebony holder.
Those lucky enough to visit her chambers
are awed by the crushed red velvet
on her heart-shaped bed.
Have I died and gone to heaven?
they ask.
Not yet, says Venus.
Not yet.
_______________________
Today's LittleNip:
You’re an asshole
a jerk
a dweeb
a putz
a twit
a dolt
a sap
a prick.
No, you’re an asshole.
—Cynthia Linville
—Cynthia Linville
The 1920s is her favorite decade—
you should see her collection of
feathers and fringe.
She steps back in time to
Paris or New York
whenever the mood takes her—
a sleek brunette in white silk.
A Goddess men call her
as they pour her a pink gin fizz
or light the cigarette at the end of
her long ebony holder.
Those lucky enough to visit her chambers
are awed by the crushed red velvet
on her heart-shaped bed.
Have I died and gone to heaven?
they ask.
Not yet, says Venus.
Not yet.
_______________________
Today's LittleNip:
You’re an asshole
a jerk
a dweeb
a putz
a twit
a dolt
a sap
a prick.
No, you’re an asshole.
—Cynthia Linville
______________________
—Medusa
—Photo by Cynthia Linville