Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Postmodern May

        May is bustin’ out all over! Lilacs are going strong. Daffodils are being replaced by lilies. The flowering quince has yielded to clematis. The apple trees are lacy and white as spring brides, and droning with bees.

       Last May I posted this poem, ‘Postmodern May,” and I hope it bears repeating. And I hope it gives you as much fun, reading it, as it gave me, writing it.

Postmodern May

Ms. Nature shuns her millennial personhood
         Rejecting minimalism, Spandex and faded denim
She flaunts her opulence—full-breasted,
         Riotously flower-printed, budding, engorged.
Anorexia is not her style—
         She’s plump and full-hipped.
No cold-eyed stare, no blackened lips—
         She’s tarted up, red and rosy
Showing her sex in every blossom
         Wanton, strumpet-colored, perfumed
Like a slut; still wallowing deep
         In muddy ruts, she powders herself
Lavishly in drifts of pollen.
         She gives cellular and laptop
A different twist, and her blue
         Larkspurs know nothing of S or M.
She’s an old-fashioned kind of a gal
         Who’s abjured car alarms for
The creaking creely-creely of hummingbirds,
         And the chitter of squirrels.
Nothing whited-out or matte-finished
         About her--she’s shiny patent leather
Green, all gleam and glisten and
         Oils on the surface.  She’s given up
Briskness for slow-moving
         Moist, voluptuous airs,
A snip of Queen Anne’s Lace in her bosom,
         A deep moss-green velvet stole about her trunk,
Her head scarved in wind-stretched opalescence,
         And her feet deep in frog-studded standing pools.
She’s a vision; an embarrassment of feminine charms,
         Like some old burlesque queen’s dream
Of youth and beauty. Hear her humming
         Her small songs in the trees, her soft breath
Sighing in little, excited gasps, exhaling
         Essence of a million blooms,
Sweet and rapturous.  Don’t you wish
         You could skip the gym,
Stand up your skinny girlfriend, and roll
         With May on her lush, tassled bosom of grasses?
She’s a phenomenon you can’t deconstruct.
         She’s wet with juices. And she’s beckoning

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