For the Princess and Her Pea

 “What is it you want, Mary? Is it the moon?

        Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso

        around it and pull it down.” – George Bailey,

              It’s A Wonderful Life



I am

       not a

                frog.
And you’re not a Princess.

This is not a fairy tale
And I can’t bring down the moon
                               for your hand
Or the head of a prophet
                               for the shimmy of your hips.
But I can stack a silver serving dish
     with all that I have:

        Ø Two bum knees and no bank account.

        Ø A smoker’s heart- clogged with mistakes, still beating.

        Ø Shoulders slumped to a perfect fit for your weary head.

        Ø Failing eyes that, anymore, can’t see further
           away than your two freckles just there.

And once the platter’s bare
      I can raise it’s shining surface to your face,
     showing you why the setting sun
     blushes for it’s failure to offer anything
     more dazzling than the light in which you 

                           stand.

What do you want?
I can’t offer you the moon.
For one thing, I’m not Jimmy Stewart
     and I never learned to use a lasso.
There will be no crushed flowers 
     from Zu-zu to tell me I’ve gotten it right
But if you’ll stay the night
     I’ll try to borrow every tomorrow
     from the daybreak’s dappled purse of promises.
I’ll try to chart a course to calmer seas
     for our strange ship to sail.
I’ll try to forge a sturdy anchor
     from the heart-hewn weight
     that threatens to drag us deep.
I swear I’ll see no happier tide
     than the one that rises in your chest.
     as I watch you sleep.
(And if you wonder why we wound up on the sea
     when we started with the moon
     then you only have to look to how gravity
     makes us fall into arms
     that make our bodies sing
     the same tune as heavenly spheres

     content in their own revolutions.)

No, this isn’t a film or a fairy tale.
So, after our smiles
     there shall still be tears.
The forest will still rustle
     with the shadows of our fears
And we will need so much 

     more than just a kiss to

     find our way through this

                      life
                      But,
The apple probably isn’t poisoned
      so we can eat our fill.
If we dance til dawn it probably
     isn’t the shoes you have on.
If you take this walk with me

     we won’t need breadcrumbs.

 

We’re already home.

Reviews

[PianoandPage]

i love this so much. great use of image and whimsy. i love that by sort of using romantic scenes and tales you show us that real life / every day / ordinary love is hands down the sweetest, most rewarding, and poetic thing we can be a part of.

your lines are amazing. i especially loved

"A smoker's heart- clogged with mistakes, still beating."

"And once the platter's bare
I can raise it's shining surface to your face,
showing you why the setting sun
blushes for it's failure to offer anything
more dazzling than the light in which you stand"

(this stanza just blew me the f away)

"I'll try to borrow every tomorrow
from the daybreak's dappled purse of promises."

beautiful. you have a poet's heart and words for sure. this poem touched me.

ok now since this is writerscafe and i should try to also offer some critique i found the end to be a little wobbly and "isn't the shoes you have on" should be "aren't the shoes".

othewise i found this poem to be delightful.

[Ed Hart]

what better praise than to say i throughly enjoy reading your poetry...what a happy mixture of gift and phrase...