Someone Else's Childhood Memory

It’s not you; it’s me
I’m the one
That needs the work
Forgive me
I shall be myself in a few days

Climbing
Shouting
Anxiety
Bills
Cream

It’s all about the cream
That Damn cream
Everything doesn’t have to be about the whipped cream
Or does it?
Why can’t I have a normal life?

Waiting in line
For an oil change
Came across a little café
We were hungry
So we thought we would grab some lunch

I’ll have a salami sandwich on rye
He’ll have a bowl of your soup du jour
Why are you ordering for him miss?
I don’t know
Habit I guess

He would also like
Your crème burlee
With extra whipped cream
I do?
You always want the whipped cream

I do not
You do too
Can I just order my own damn meal?
You don’t love me anymore
You used to always let me take care of you

There were no kids
Just the car
That was broken
And the salami sandwich and soup du jour
And that whipped cream

Creamy chowder with biscuits
And tomato enchiladas with cheese
You should watch your cholesterol intake
I want you to be around with me until I die
Who says I wouldn’t?

Your diet says you wouldn’t
Says who?
Cheese? Whipped Cream?
You’re the one who ordered the whipped cream!
I was just trying to please you!

Can I get you anything else?
A beer?
A glass of wine?
Oh we don’t drink here
Says who?

I would like a drink
I would like a whiskey
The hard stuff
It’s the only way I’m going to tolerate
The rest of the afternoon

And the bill
For the car
God I don’t want to know how much that
Bill
Will be

New month, new theme

This month, bring out the big guns: CHILDHOOD MEMORIES.

It doesn't matter if yours were good or bad, and the more embarrassing the better. We always say our childhood is the best fuel for our writing, so bring it kiddos. We want to hear about your childhood, in poetry form. Just do it.

My Turn

They tell me I am a child
That I can't do anything
Well, what do they know?

I stand in front of the giraffe
Sucker in hand--strawberry--my favorite flavor
Hoping to reach as tall
As the animal before me

What do they know?
I learn-ed from Mrs. Peabody at school that giraffes eat leaves
And their height works for them
That gots to count for something

Can I? I can!
Be a zookeeper--a vet?
A poet
A artist--Mrs. P. always says my drawings rock her world --
Teacher
Doctor
Fireman
When I grow up
When I grow up
When I grow up
I hate those words

I can also be a mommy too.
Can I save lives?

This scarf is scratchy.
So is this hood.
Why did sissy make me wear this jacket?

They say "Hush Child."
They say "Go Play."
But it's not about "Hushing" and "Playing"

They know that.
But what they don't know
Is that I know too.

Papillons

The bed is a pristine cocoon for this slumbering butterfly.
She dreams of flooding her burgeoning wings
Over dew-laden petals of columbine and honeysuckle.
In her floral haze she laps up the honeyed sap
that the blossoms drizzle in their trembling
haste to feel the iridescent light.
Filtered through her gossamer arms,
the light murmurs as it grazes their velvet centers
with ruby, sapphire and emerald glow.
My mother loved the butterflies in her garden,
swooping and diving into the chrysanthemums,
but they never dreamed.
Summer afternoons would leave us speechless
like a cluster of perch wheezing and squirming
on the prickly lawn, dreaming of liquid revival
but with spade in hand, she would squat in the crackling dirt
and croon to the gasping flowers.
She would sing her Beatles to the butterflies.
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on
was her gardening bible verse, her whispered wisdom
to the fragile bleeding hearts, lying comatose in the shade.
Under the scorching rays of a diminishing childhood
our dreams of milk and honeysuckle
wilted into mulch for earthworms to wriggle over.
We were drowning in crabapple blossoms
drifting down from the uninspired trees
in our safe corner of the world.
We grew tulips from our hair and paraded
along the sable rooftops in our reverie.
If I ever hope to fly I must paint delicate
watercolor patterns on my forearms that echo
the dreams of the embryo, sleeping in her forgotten chrysalis.
Les reves des papillons sont passagers--
The flower buds groan and droop their ripening heads
clinging to illusions of gemstone feather wings
swathed in a stiff, oppressive cradle of silk.