Red Wolf Wordle – August 15, 2014

 Vanity Fair



Vanity – Auguste Toulmouche, 1890


Life has its odd little swings
Self doubt can bring your world crashing down
Caught in a fish-net of asylum madness
The dust of an inner alley can chill your bones …

Looking in the mirror at her image
She froze becoming a pillar of salt
That glassy face of paper mache
Stared at her, so frayed and mushroom white.

Funny how carnival mirrors made her laugh
Way back in nineteen forty-four,
Now her proud youthful perfection’s gone,
Those same mirrors are a horror in twenty-fourteen.

The roots of her problem – her vanity fair
That strokes her ego and drapes her heart,
Too much water has passed under the bridge
The crisp freshness of her youth was gone.

Fight she may the ravages of time
With pure white Dove, the soap of the stars,
But the wrinkles lay claim to her face …
Her bulbous red nose was now her disgrace.

So she went to her master Beelzebub
To sell her soul for the luxury of youth …
Flew she then through the air on his blackened wings
Through time in his mystic time machine.

Gone were the wrinkles – gone was the flab
And once again it was great to admire herself.
She smiled from ear to shining ear …
Forgetting there would be a price to pay.

But time unstopped kept marching forward …
And great was her consternation to observe
That time like water erodes all things …
Then brings low every mortal, man or beast.

Finally Death knocked upon her door …
She was not humbled nor penitent,
But horror met her as she walked through the gates
She saw her wreaked face in a thousand mirrors.



Happy Notes: life doubt swings
Misky: legs stood crashing
Debi: fight mushroom fiery
Viv: sturdy stern strokes
Ron: nose found ear
Nicole: low asylum dust
Barbara: luxury alley chills
Irene: fishnet glassy rang
Roslyn: frayed wings clasped
Sabra: water roots froze
Jules: soap salt bread
Miss Stacy: turn white soap
Hannah: crisp air gone
C.C.  proud great claim
PuffOfSmoke: miles face mirror
Anya: fence drapes paper

These words were collected from last week’s contributors of the Red Wolf‘s poetic prompt #218 “Time Travel”.

Today is Friday – Conversation Poem


Today is Friday … and in the past
I would have said: “at last!” …
but now, each day
runs one into the other
and whether week day or week-end,
it doesn’t really matter.

A life of work and study
makes Friday a special day for me
but, the realty is that
I no longer have any particular reason
to set my weekly watch on this day.
No work outside my home
no studies for which to roam …
each day is the same …
whether week day or week-end,
it doesn’t really matter.

But still … when I see the calendar
and that day pops into sight,
something quickens in me …
my imagination begins to plan
the weekend that’s up ahead,
then, if by chance it rains,
as so often does these days,
on a Saturday or Sunday …
I feel a little saddened, until I realize
that whether week day or week-end
it doesn’t really matter.

The rest of the world around me
still celebrates this magic day …
and everyone sighs with relief
and each one has his say …
with joy or perhaps disgust,
depending on the weather,
that Friday is so special …
Who am I do deny this habit?
Who am I to deny that Friday
is magic,
to others it is so.
For them it’s a goal, to me,
whether it be a week day or week-end
it doesn’t really matter.

Today is Friday …
and I’m going to go out and buy,
an espresso machine …
mine burnt out last night
and I’m reduced to drinking
moka-made coffee…
it’s just not the same.
So, now I have a special goal
something to look forward to,
because this week-end there’s a
special sale
at my favorite electronics store.
This makes a difference…
now, I cannot say:
whether a week day or week-end
it doesn’t really matter.

A life-time habit,
cannot be whisked under the rug
like the dust of time, that has settled
upon my shoulders and in my mind.
Friday, is another day, ’tis true
I cannot deny that
nor that any day of the week
is more special than another,
except for Thursday…
the only day of the week
when I still work outside my home.
without Thursday …
all the week days and week-ends
really wouldn’t matter.


This week, I presented two poems by Samuel Coleridge to my English Conversation group: ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ and ‘Kublai Khan’.  I also went over Coleridge’s life and omnia of poetry on my own.  Once again, I came across his conversation poems.  I was tempted to present  them … but the other two were more suitable and everyone seemed to have a good time.

I decided today to write a conversation poem, snce the thing started writing itself when I woke up this morning and thought; Today is Friday.  I don’t feel particulary motivated for it to have the scope of one of Coleridge’s works.  I’m not getting into the nature or morality of my subject.

Tell me what you think about Friday, is it special to you?