Find a seat
And here we go!
Thank you to our own
I'll make it as easy as possible, as most of you are in line at the (point of no) Returns Counter, being verbally abused by Misty Sue, Asst. Mgr. (Waddya mean dis ain't like the right size?)
So, while you're standing there, put your time to good use and write a poem - any style - about the worst, most useless, most disturbing, most painful, least wanted, most embarrassing, most inappropriate, or stupidest gift you ever received (or gave - if you're brave), all the while hoping that Great Aunt Mildew isn't reading your Poetry Bus blog. She'll disinherit you (again) when you complain, in verse of some sort, long or short, about the (yet another) Christmas sweater made of the yarn she's kept in the attic since 1887. Or perhaps you recall the little gee gaw that your new Mother-in-law
Don't feel like the lone ranger. I haven't written mine yet. It's too painful to discuss. But I'll give my therapist a ring and have her bolster me up.
So write it all down, have a drink and I'll see you on the bus. When you're ready to board leave a note with your link and I'll post the list.
And here it is. Not the "amusing rhyming whitty ditty I imagined, but a prose poem:
A Gift From Mother
Mother excelled in providing me with quality embarrassing moments. Seemed to enjoy and skillfully employ her craft like an inappropriate all occasion card. Moments that still prick at my skin like quills escaping from what could have been, should have been, a comfy down pillow. There was that birthday. I was an innocent uninformed twelve. Hard to imagine now what it was like to be twelve back then. Budding into young womanhood. In need of coverage and support. Surrounded by father and brothers all waiting expectantly for loosed ribbon and tape to allow escape of gifts from white tissue. I don’t recall now what they contained except for that last one. I wondered at it as it unfolded beneath my fingertips. Blouse or scarf or slip perhaps or… what…a bra? A bra. My first bra. Gifted. Lifted high as it unfolded in front of male eyes and the mirthful sounds of snorts and hoots and snickers. She’s no longer here. I cannot ask why she chose this public venue. Was she aiming arrows back at her mother? A kind of original sin explained and retained for another generation. Cake anyone?