[F.F. Teague]

This is my alternative to 'Nips' (still on Met). 'I' is my character Fran.


A trophy piece

He asks me if I'll wear the brooch tonight
for New Year's drinks. I don't know if I can.
I love the way the colours catch the light,
the blues and greens and gold. I love my man

yet wonder why he had to choose this piece,
a dragonfly with human female breasts.
He told me that it's French and added, Nice!
I laughed, despairingly. And now the guests

are starting to arrive downstairs. I sigh
and try to fix her subtly. It's no use.
I dress so quietly; she's a battle cry
to rouse the spirits of the troops, seduce

with all her rounds and, worst of all, those claws,
a pervy pair of huge and hungry hands.
I peer again and see a serpent's jaws
about to seize. And so erect, she stands,

a trophy piece. That isn't what I want,
but I don't want to argue either. So,
I tie a little ribbon round her front
and fix her to my wrap. We're good to go.

😇

[F.F. Teague]

A little work in progress. The number '14' in the title refers to my age at the time. He was not my first crush, but he was the biggest crush of the school years.


Sonnet-14; or, Crush #1

The bus is late again. I stand and shift
from foot to foot, arthritic and alone
among my cliquey classmates, cast adrift
and old before my time. A teenage crone.
I try to travel elsewhere in my mind,
a place without this puberty-and-pain.
I don't succeed. I'm twinging. I can't find
a way to leave myself. It starts to rain
and suddenly my science teacher's face
appears. I gasp and blush. He smiles. I fight.
I shake my head and, limping, start to pace.
My classmates point and laugh. This isn't right.
But once I'm on the bus, I don't resist
the fantasies. Just one stop in, we've kissed.

💟

[Roger Slater]

I like that one, Fliss, though I'd give it a proper title. No one will take "14" as the speaker's age, especially in the context of a sonnet where the number 14 seems to relate to the number of lines. But the 14 lines are handles quite well.

[Jim Moonan]

.
God! Everything out of your mouth lately is so good! I love these two (Trophy and #14) That's it — well — one word trips me:"twinging". I like the word but it looks like it rhymes with "bringing". Could you spell it "twinge-ing"?
.

[F.F. Teague]

Thanks, Roger and Jim

Roger, yes to proper title. It's just a working title at the moment, I suppose, with a nod to a song by the band Garbage. I hadn't even made the connection with the number of lines, lol. I really am useless. Anyway, I'm glad you like it.

Jim, you're too kind. I'm happy you have love for these two poems. Both were a lot of fun to write. I'll think about 'twinge-ing'. I suppose 'twinging' is with me quite a lot, but not with others of course. Are you tempted to write a first crush poem? I'm sure you'd do that very well 👍

Best wishes,
Fliss

[Martin Elster]

Hi Fliss,

I really enjoyed those two poems. By the way, I pronounced "twinging" the way you intended (rhyming with "cringing").

Best,

Martin

[F.F. Teague]

Hi Martin,

Thank you! I'm pleased you enjoyed them, also that you pronounced 'twinging' to rhyme with 'cringing'. I just need to think of a proper title now.

Another word that rhymes with 'twinging' is 'whinging', which happens to pop up in Sonnet-2; I can't remember whether you've seen this one. It describes my earliest memory, the birth of Bro. A. This is also work in progress, although I do have a title. That might need changing, though.


Up to 5

The Triumph Herald rumbled on the drive.
"Get in!" urged Dad. And Mrs Brewster waved,
her thumb and fingers adding up to five,
I counted, waving back. Quite well behaved,
we didn't whinge about the early hour,
especially when the playground came in view –
the swings and slides, the climbing frame, a tower
of metal bars, the roundabout. "Woo-hoo!"
we cheered. Dad, laughing, whirled us round and round
and round. But suddenly, "Right, time to go!"
And then, the room of Mummies and the sound
of whinging, none of it from our new bro.
He smiled as surely as a Lego head,
in boy-blue blankets on the fresh-made bed.

<-- looks a bit like a Lego head.

- - -
Well, I've just realised I have 'suddenly' here too! So that might need rethinking. The hospital used blue blankets for boys and pink for girls; I pointed that out to everyone, lol.

[F.F. Teague]

Cam and John I. (and anyone else), this is the irregular thing I came up with on Sunday morning. I had in mind to include it in my collection of Pittville poems, only to decide that the episode it describes is better mentioned in the intro.


The park was quiet that morning. Eileen called
for Jack, her Alsatian. He was stalking squirrels,
his hot breath rising rapidly through the cold.
She sighed. He always did this. Hunting thrills.

The cob, old George, was motionless by the pier,
without the pen and cygnets. This was strange.
She walked towards him. "Morning!" He didn't stir
and hung his head a little. Was he in pain?

"Oh God!" She dropped the lead, clapped hands to mouth.
What was this? Something – an arrow? – through his head?!
It entered by his left eye, coming out
beneath his jaw the other side. Looked bad.

She fumbled for her phone and called the police.
"I need the, what’s it? Wildlife people. Vale?"
Now, where was Jack? She stooped, picked up the lead.
"Come on!" He bounded over to her call.

A van pulled up. "He's there!" She pointed to George.
The man was holding a hook, the woman a bag.
The swan did not resist, just gave a snort
or two. "Who'd do this? They must be mad!"

"Ta, love." The man was opening up the boot;
the woman slid their passenger into place.
His head was low, his beak was trailing drool.
The van drove off, at speed, from Lower Lake.

🦢