A POEM-A-DAY

April is a month of voices; soft ones, bold ones, and everything in between.

It’s a time to celebrate poets; the the storytellers, the truth-tellers.

Poetry gives words to what we sometimes can’t say out loud.

This April, let’s read a poem, share a line, write something of our own.

Poetry isn’t just written, it is lived, every single day.

Try Your Hand at Poetry

Take the leap! Writing can be challenging, but it also can be fun!

We would love to see your creation. Please share if you are comfortable in doing so. We look forward to hearing from you!

A POEM A DAY

DAY 1| April 1

DAY 2 | April 2

RED DRESSES IN THE WIND

In the background, white and blue

outline of the

Rockies.

In the foreground, red

dresses, hundreds of them,

hanging

on barbed wire fencing,

swinging quietly in the wind,

not dancing.

The drums have

stopped, the heartbeats, 582,

have stopped.

There was an honour walk one day

to remember the lives stolen,

snaking along highway one.

I remark, odd

they have an RCMP escort.

Where were they before?

Had they driven down this

highway of tears

and never once looked

in the rearview mirror,

or in the ditches?

She hangs

her red dress

on a tree

like a crucifix

its imprint burned upon

skin,

a branding iron

of destruction.

This is not

my lived experience.

I am not Indigenous.

I cannot know the crushing anguish

of history.

I attempt to be an ally,

because

I am a daughter,

I am a sister,

I am a mother.

This year

I too

will walk.

DAY 2 | April 2

HANDS

Plastic tubing, monitors beeping,

beeping,

beeping.

Your hand rests in mine.

Hands of a farmer, carpenter, gardener, truck driver

tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor.

You are still wearing your watch.

You were always counting

the minutes,

the hours,

the days of your life.

Tick. Tock.

tiktok.

Video of your life story,

ebbing away.

You weren’t a giant of a man

but you were my giant.

Jack on the beanstalk, planting sunflower seeds

to blossom yellow and gold.

Raspberries are magenta. Grass is green.

Are you shrinking?

You look like you are shrinking.

small

smaller

smallest.

I try to hold it in my hands.

The sacredness of this space.

It takes my breath away,

as you take your last one.

Away you go!

Transition to the next valley,

a new space opens for you

for me.

I put my head down on your hospital bed.

without you

my heart is

in the hands of new management.

DAY 3 | April 3

DAY 2 | April 2

DAY 3 | April 3

The Leo Child

Soft, so soft the mother’s eyes

Her fawn it lays nearby

The beauty and grace of the forest Deer

Never to die, to die.

Majestic, courageous, noble, grand

We speak of the Lion with fear

But oh, how tender those precious moments

When mother and cubs are near.

The dream it lives to run like them

Running wild, running oh so free

Pounding hooves on hardened ground

To the sea

With softened hands the angel came

And touched the creature wild

“You are part of each,” she said.

“With the innocence of a child.”

“A horn I give you, twisted and long

You are different and yet the same.

White, virginal, willful, strong

And Unicorn shall be your name.”

It calls to us, this magic horse

For the legend lives on today

Keep the spirit within your heart

Its’ virtues will all come your way.

And so was born this Leo Child

With heart both brave and true

And all the Unicorn’s hopes and dreams

We see each day in you.

This poem was written for a friend who had a baby in August, 1987.

DAY 4

DAY FIVE

DAY 3 | April 3

Women In Blue Suede Shoes

A Haibun

She is wearing men’s blue suede dress shoes. They have holes in both the toes, no laces in the right shoe. The backs are bent down from using them as slip-ons. She wears an army green jacket, with a camouflage backpack. Her leggings are bright blue, to match her shoes, I guess. She is here with me in the ER. It’s a Thursday night. 10 p.m. I’ve already been here for three hours. The discharge doctor tells her she can’t work for four days. I continue to wait for my evaluation. Can barely walk, for sure can’t dance, yet the famous refrain runs continuously In my head, and I can hear the voice of Elvis.

When she shuffles out,

I listen for the doctor.

Is it my turn now?

A Haibun is a poetry form which contains prose, usually a true story, and ends with a standard Haiku of three lines, 5/7/5 syllables.

DAY FIVE

FROM A WALK WITH MY SON-Age 3

We bring home small treasures

you and I

a handful of sand

pinecones

a dandelion puff

P u f f

you giggle as you blow the seeds

away.

We taste nectar

from the caragana blossoms

you call it a honey tree.

I am drawn in by your innocence.

You stop a hundred times along the way

and me and my impatience

hurry you along.

This morning it is cool and quiet.

I hear you breathing softly in your room.

I feel warm.

Three or more days have passed

since our walk

and I try to remember.

I try to slow down.

DAY 6

DAY FIVE

DENOMINATOR OF NINE

Enneagram,

geometric shape with nine points.

A nine-pointed star

emblematic

of perfection

and unity.

Most associated with the Baha'i Faith

symbolizes completeness, the fulfillment

of all prior religions.

The Iranian Revolutionary Army,

more than nine,

eighteen

thirty-six

and on

they march, purveyors of destruction.

Lives scattered like tissues

blood.

The court a sham with

pre-determined outcomes,

one, singular sentence

“guilty,”

one single punishment, divided by nine

divided by ten,

divided by

300 in

1979.

Hanged in a public

square

June 18, 1983

would not

refute their faith,

would not

refuse their fate.

Mona Mahmoudnejad, 17; Roya Eshraghi, 23, executed along with her mother; Simin Saberi, 24; Shahin (Shirin) Dalvand, 25; Akhtar Sabet, 25; Mahshid Niroumand, 28; Zarrin Moghimi-Abyaneh, 29; Tahereh Arjomandi Siyavashi, Her husband, Jamshid Siavashi, was executed two days earlier; Nosrat Ghufrani Yaldaie, 46. Her son, Bahram Yaldaie, was executed two days earlier; Ezzat-Janami Eshraghi, 57. Her husband, Enayatullah Eshraghi was executed two days earlier.

DAY 7

NAVIGATION

As they push away from the

Lighthouse, the lantern swings on a

port side rail,

To and fro. The moon brightens into

day as if it had always planned to

Guide them along the rock-strewn

shore of the bay.

The cigarette he lights, burns red. He

wishes there was some other

Way to follow this arduous and

danger-fraught pathway back

to his

Home.

SKIPPING

Lou, we have been worried

about you.

Lou, we wonder where you’ve been.

You would never

Skip a trip

To the candy store.

My, darling child,

Lou. You are a gift of light.

What is the World’s Best Invention?

There are so many spectacular,

Helpful and grand

Examples of creativity.

Perhaps you have

One you favour, have

Captured it within a safe place,

Kept it zipped up tight,

Except when you reach deep inside

for a tissue,

To find the 5-dollar bill surprise!

These 3 Acrostic poems were written during my weekly Poetry Patch training session.

DAY 8

ABOUT LAST NIGHT

Adam Baldwin sings his poetry through the speakers of my new car.

He voices tales of love lost and gained, of Canada, of Nova Scotia.

We sing as I drive into the city’s heart: Dark before the Dawn, Sparrow Song, I Can Love You with My Eyes Closed.

He is my muse - if women are permitted the conceit.

I pick him, Sadie Hawkins-like.

I met you at the confluence for poetry night.

You’ve cut away your long hair - I cut mine too.

Shorn locks, private talks. I envy your journal,

filled margin to margin in your tiny precise printing.

What secrets & stories & verses are hidden there,

protected by those

hard black covers?

I have a new journal. The front cover says WRITE.

96 blank pages daring me inside.

I think about change:

in my perspective

in my commitment to craft

in my determination.

The poets read

from paper, screen or memory to speak of

winter’s beauty and its terror.

Tiny handwritten words, bird scratches in snow.

Ink blots: what did you see first, a dog or a face?

You say to me, “The poets are all women.”

“Except for one man,” I reply.

“A proud member of the lgbtq2+ community.”

He has letters behind his name.

Do women excel in this arena through courage

or are we more willing to offer pieces of ourselves?

In a room full of poetry lovers, past lovers

You say, “hope is a thing with feathers.” I say, “no coward soul is mine.”

Two different Emilys.

We are poets.

We are lovers.

We are warriors.

DAY 9

THE NEWS

The Emergency Alert!

is rescinded at 1:32 pm

There is no danger to the general public. The victims were known to each other.

The police address the media.

SNAP

First the wrist, then the arm

twisted,

she falls to the ground

yells “take the baby.”

CRACKLE

The sound of the Christmas

wrapping paper being torn,

ripped away by tiny, two-year old

hands.

POP

First her.

POP

Then her dad.

POP

Then her baby.

POP

Turns the gun on himself. Chickenshit sonuvabitch!

The statistics climb. Three months. One province. Six women. One man.

It’s a shadow epidemic, intimate partner violence. 44% of women in Canada have been abused by a loved one. They could be pregnant. They could be trying to leave. They might have a new relationship.

She was cemented into the basement. She was dismembered. She was stabbed 36 times. She was burned. She was buried in the back yard. She was raped. She was strangled.

There is no danger to the general public.

Just to women.

DAY 10

Haiku is a traditional form of Japanese poetry consisting of three lines with a 5, 7, 5 syllable structure. Focused on nature, seasons, or a specific, fleeting moment, these poems often use vivid imagery to create a lasting impression in 17 syllables.

April

Pokes of colour show,

the frozen soil breaks open.

Blossoms in their spring.

The Lake

Paddles move slowly,

mountains reach around my heart,

summer sun, water, blue.

DAY 11

DAY 12

POETRY FOR AN ANALYTICAL MIND

I don’t get it, you said.

It’s just a simple love poem,

I replied.

I’m too analytical. These poems don’t make sense.

They don’t have to, it’s a different way

of expression, of using words.

I don’t understand poetry, so maybe your work is good. How would I know? Maybe you’ll be famous someday.

I appreciate your feedback anyway.

I like going to poetry readings.

So that’s a start.

I warned you, you said.

Yes, you did.

The world is filled with poets and unpublished writers.

Yes, it is. I don’t want to be

famous. I only want to capture a

moment in time, an observation, an

emotion, a random thought, without

writing it in a diary. If you write it in a

diary, people believe it’s about you.

Poems don’t have to be real.

Unless they are.

Everything must make sense, you said. I don’t have time to try and figure it out.

I’ve burned all my diaries, I replied.

DAY 12

PUBLIC LIBRARIES

“Liberal, white-trash whore!” spitting, screaming, contorted

face

red, read.

“Trailer park trash!” I yell back

but only in my

head.

“You think you own this place!”

“You think you can just let your bratty kid run free and look at library books?”

The security guard is talking to the receptionist on the first level, he hears the yelling,

on the second level, keeps chatting.

I am angry! I am vulnerable! I am a lion,

move to surround my cub.

“Liberal white trash asshole!” he yells at my brother.

The guy wants to punch me, my son, my brother.

“Touch me and I call the police!” I calmly say.

Inside my anger seethes.

I want to slap him

slap him

but only in my

head.

A POEM A DAY

DAY 24

THE MOON YOU FLY OVER IS THE SAME MOON I CRY UNDER

It’s taken me a long time to read that letter again-

ten years.

You kept a journal and I realize now

that you were a writer...

and an artist.

I promised myself I would get your graphics published.

I never did.

What anguish your parents must have felt

when they found that picture of you

tucked away in your journal.

A black eye from the time he beat you up

after you found him in bed with…

well, you know the rest.

After that you stayed with me

right up until the night you

rode your bike

and died

on the highway to the airport

at 2 a.m.

damn that drunken

sonuvabitch!

He left you there

with that bloodstain on your cheek

the shape of a teardrop.

A two-line poem

you intended to leave on the window of his plane.

The cop thought it was a suicide note.

It wasn’t.

Was it?

I almost took that

picture

when I was packing

your things

I didn’t want your parents to know.

I changed my mind.

I did want them to know

about you

and him

and why.

And I wonder, does that picture

tear at their insides

as your letter does at mine?

DAY 13

WOMEN WRITERS | For Elly

I read your words

woman’s words

lyrical, poetical

thinly veiled

to cover pain.

Women write of pain and tears and children.

Edna St. Vincent Millay writes of unrequited love

Or was it Emily Dickinson? I can never remember.

Emily Bronte writes of consuming love

Alice B. Toklas of lesbian love

Sylvia Plath writes death.

I read your courage

woman’s courage

lyrical, poetical

to ease us through the pain.

We change our names to George

to write

of pain

and tears

and children.

WOMEN WRITERS |For Mary

Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein

because she had a miscarriage,

which proves my point.

DAY14

A SECOND-HAND STORE ON 13TH AVENUE

The bell at the top of the door

announces my entrance.

She rushes over to me. I don’t know her.

“Oh, just look at the dresses I’ve found,

does this one look good on me?”

She treats me like her sister.

I am her sister,

in some sort of feminist way.

I tell her,

“No, that one’s too dark for summer.”

She tries on skirts over

her skirt

The longer ones reach the

top of her heavy laced up

winter boots

and it looks absurd.

“I don’t like dresses low cut,”

she tells me.

“And I need some skirts for summer too.

Oh, this skirt would be good

for me, or for

you if you like it.”

The store clerk and I look

at each other across the room

and we smile.

Her hair is streaked with grey and her dark eyes

dart around-clear, but unfocused.

I’m not sure what to do.

“That matches nicely,” I say.

I pay for my dresses.

“What about this one? Is it good for summer?”

She draws me in again.

“It’s great, I say”-but it’s

gaudy and dull and I

don’t know why I lied.

I don’t want to leave.

I want to sit on that lime green

second-hand couch by the window

and watch her.

On my way out the door sticks.

Is it telling me to stay?

I start my car, begin to pull away,

but I want to go back,

because my sister is inside buying skirts

and dresses in a secondhand store

on 13th Avenue.

DAY15

DAY14

THE BLUE BIRD CAFÉ

Tonight it’s late.

The streets are empty and warm.

We walk upon rain-splashed sidewalks

in the days when Saskatchewan still got rain.

Your boot heels echo back through the

finely manicured store fronts.

The neon sign over the front window

reflects on the pavement.

The b in birdis broken

but we go in anyway.

“Fries and gravy please,

and a Coke.”

“You play those things?” he says

pointing to our guitars.

“No,” you answer.

We eat, then play

for a handful of people who

have no place else to go.

It’s Sunday night for god’s sake.

They don’t know the songs

one by the Rolling Stones

another by Badfinger,

but the tempo is fine

and they have someone to listen to.

We go to pay

and the owner says, “No,

you sang for your supper.

This one’s on me.”

He reminds me of my dad

nice, but lonely.

I can see him at 2 a.m.

counting out the change

in the till

humming a few lines of

a Rolling Stones tune.

The light from the neon sign washes pale blue

and the b in bird is broken.

DAY 16

LIGHTNING

She waits atop her luminous crystal pond,

Waits patiently for the electrostatic discharge to connect her to the Hindu gods.

Agni-fire, a place on earth.

Yaya-wind, a place in the air.

Surya-sun, a place in the sky. She

Waits to sing the Vedic songs to Brahma.

Lifting her hands in supplication, throat bare, breasts bare, she tilts her head toward the heavens

and raises her voice,

sings boldly, sings loudly

volume higher and higher,

thunderous enough for the gods to hear.

Waits for the storm that follows, a bolt from the blue, intra-cloud, cloud to cloud,

cloud to ground, it cracks the base, moves along

as like a serpent with fork-lightning tongue,

winding, curling, meandering around her powerful legs,

her supple body, making a direct target of the heart,

moving over her braided, twisted hair

to attach to the third eye chakra,

Waits for her to perceive a

cosmic vision beyond the physical.

The tribar symbol on a single arm, multiple, context-dependent meaning,

the equivalence of two different things.

Positive and negative energy.

Waits for her power, she will send shockwaves,

a fire, into the space below.

Historians claim fire-gazing meditatum, made us human, invigorated our brains.

The flower of the sacred lotus grows out of mud. Symbolizes enlightenment, shapes lightning.

She has blossomed. She is serene, she is formidable, she

Waits for Savasana.

DAY 17

CYRPTIC

There are

hundreds

stories

in a graveyard.

I know someone

who is

working

one.

Must I be the one

to tell her

there is no such

thing

ghosts.

DAY 18

Manitou

I swear

God

the name of the hotel

was The House of The Rising Sun

long since boarded up

secrets

protected by cobwebs

driven into white linen sheets

old desires

old tales

you can hear them

blow off the lake

salty

they burn

your

tongue

and drop

down

deep

into the warm sand

softly pushing through

unsuspecting feet

no idea

of the sweet tears

buried below

pulled out, pushed in, pulled out

how could there not have been whores

in that hotel?

I press my feet down into the sand.

DAY 19

DAY 18

ON GEMINI

O Cruel Gemini!

You punish me

with gentle looks and

a feather touch

touch my splitting soul

with gold.

Zodiac: divide the heavens into 12

sun, moon, planets

divide my heart

O Fateful Gemini!

You leave me no choice

submerge, succumb

the strength of two

too

is meant for you.

Zodiac: mythological, geometrical

progression

foretell the events of my birth

O Sweet Gemini!

Are you a savior in

a silver gown?

A brother, soulmate, twin?

Will you deceive me?

Will you win?

Zodiac: cancer, water

gemini, air

moon rules

Mercury rules

O Worried Gemini!

I can hold you within this tattered shell

where sand, nor cold, nor broken dreams

can intrude

where strength and hope survive.

Zodiac: constellations, Aries in Pisces

celestial moonchild

give me latitude

longitude

O Winged Gemini!

Were you delivered by

an Angel?

Whose bronze wings

could touch the sun

the son?

Zodiac: third sign

fourth sign

June, July

according to astrologers

O Beloved Gemini!

For you, this cancer crab

will fight Hercules, Hydra,

demons

will manufacture the impossible

a polished pearl

in a tattered shell.

DAY 20

DAY 18

DAY 20

The Europe Hotel, Prince George 1978

Yellow, brown nicotine

fingers and

beaded headbands.

The fiddler played a Doug Kershaw song

and they danced,

in twos or threes

or not at all…

it’s hardly what you’d expect.

She’s really pretty

a softness that’s

hard to find

in a bar

of loneliness

and ugly brown carpet.

Can we go back

to that tacky red and black cabaret

with bands from Williams Lake

and Prince Rupert

playing ‘til 2 a.m.?

He butts his cigarette on the table.

What are two white people doing

at the Europe Hotel

in Prince George

in 1978…

DAY 21

DAY 20

This poem uses the Golden Shovel form. Here's how it works: take a line (or lines) from a poem you admire. Use each word in the line (or lines) as an end word in your poem. Keep the end words in order.

SUBLIME

You give us doting mothers, and chaste wives.

Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints!
We get no Christ from you,—and verily
We shall not get a poet, in my mind.

Emily Bronte

I have nothing left to give to you,

but is there something you can give

something just for us,

I remember all the doting

and us searching for our mothers,

'round every corner and

streetlamp, keeping thoughts and images chaste

while they’d commemorate the wives,

whose love sublime,

mirrors the Madonna’s,

swaddled in white and

living under the enduring

blanket of the saints!

is this all we

are prepared to get,

shouting no and no and no,

a lost connection to the Christ,

we wander from

the edges of our souls, you

suppose there must be a time and

place, when verily

our lives will merge and we

shall

begin again, but not

without a faithful word, as close as we can get

to our love, a

kindred spirit, a poet,

who carries deep with-in

the shadow of my

tragedy, my shattered, broken mind.

P.S. The line breaks in this column don't allow me the space to lay this out properly so that each end word aligns with Emily's poem, but it does.

DAY 22

DAY 21

DAY 22

SPRINGTIME IN MY NEIGHBOURHOOD

All around us there are

Beautiful signs of spring

Calling to me across the

Dark waters of the lake

Every bird and

Fauna seems to

Grasp the urgency the

Happy time which is upon us

I can hardly wait to

Jump into that blue-green water

Kick my feet

Laugh out loud at the

Merriment of it all!

Never leaving the water til

My hands

or feet are so wrinkled they look like

Plums left out too long

Quietly rotting on the counter.

Reduce, reuse, recycle, or in this case, compost.

Starting from the soil, back to the soil.

Tender seedlings make their way

Up through the muddy earth, the

Verdant and creative ground

Where life exists in its own patterns, like a

Xi in a constellation

You can only see in the spring when the world is at its

Zenith of awakening.

Form| Alphabet Poem

DAY 23

DAY 21

DAY 22

MESSAGES

Calling you again for the third time today,

is this what they call ghosting?

Every time you leave, its always same thing,

what’s your plan this time?

I’ve also left a message; did you listen to it yet?

Starting to think this is how we end,

I’m calling you again.

During my weekly Poetry Writing meeting, I was provided with three letters and I had to write a poem using those three letters to start words. This is the result.

Day 24

AFTER THE COFFEE HOUSE

We went for pizza after the coffee house, carrying our guitars into that restaurant

thinking that maybe someone would wonder if we were famous

like Janice Ian, Melanie or Simon and Garfunkel.

We were 16, or maybe 15 and I was out past midnight

which was unusual for me, but not for you.

You knew some people there, an older guy who was ripping off unemployment insurance

I didn’t even know what you were talking about.

We played safety patrol on the street at 12.30 am.

You were always jealous of me being a patrol leader and you not being on school patrol at all.

You see, it wasn’t only brains, you were smarter than me,

it was more the fact that I was responsible

and you were always out past midnight.

Day 25

Tatanka Reborn

Swirls of bless-ed snow

bristled fur aglow.

Bison,

you are here once more,

mighty beast of lore.

The sun

sings of your great birth,

from heaven to earth,

you’ve come.

Seven sacred rites

to lift, set aright.

Restore,

harmony and light,

prophecy ignite.

Adore,

face of beauty, might.

Run free, friend, take flight,

soar.

Sioux Valley Nation,

cosmic sensation,

you’ve come.

Tatanka elation,

re-generation.

The drum,

an exclamation!

Spirit confirmation.

Succumb.

Wrapped in cloak of white,

streaming, beaming light.

Outrun,

you of girth and height.

Warriors recite,

tales spun.

Let nations unite,

legacy burn bright,

Bison.

Day 26

Far Away Worlds

It was a love he bore to the very tips of his cloven hooves,

a secret mystery unfurled, like the misty breath covering the moors.

“Good morning, my lady” he whispers each morning,

with an affection knowing no bounds, lost in the sounds

of the wild spirit within his soul.

Bowing low, horn touches ground, a healing

spark unleashed below.

She stoked that enchanted flame, her hand caressing

his silken brow.

And in that time and space, she was not ill, the trembling, stilled.

He brought the sun, laid it at her feet, removed the poisoned quill.

He spoke of shelter, in the far-away worlds, an untamable energy,

protection, rejuvenation,

so they would never be apart -- always heart to heart.

He dries her tears, soothes her fears, pawing on the grass.

She drops her head into his silvery mane and lets the moment pass.

Fierce and swift he takes her there, to the security of his lair,

the stars smile down, their holy wishes sincere.

“Good night, my lady,” he whispers in her ear,

strong, and abundantly clear.

Day 27

At Night | For Emilie

I watch you sleep

In, out

in, out

your breath falls so soft and white

small flowers in an open field

surrounded by your colours bright.

I reach out to touch you

Up, down

up, down

my hands move across your face

rose petals on velvet, orchids on silk

surrounded by French cultured lace.

I cannot yet tell you

Back, forth

back, forth

we rock in the chair by the door

my love for you grows with each passing day

and yet, I will still love you more.

I kiss you goodnight

Soft, gentle

soft, gentle

my lips upon your head

I tuck the blanket up around your chin

as you snuggle down into your bed.

I quietly close the door.

Sleep tight, sleep tight.

Day 28

Day 27

Day 28

SUMMER NIGHTS

The tree on our lawn was third base. Mon stopped planting flowers there, there was no point, what with Kim always sliding into third, regardless of where the ball was. He liked dad's well manicured grass, he said.

Hot Saskatoon summer nights. A neighbourhod of 5 kids per family. Ratty ball gloves handed down for years, pancake flat. You never wanted to be the catcher with those mitts.

We'd hurry to finish dinner so we could get out there and start the game. Happy when someone's cousin was having a sleepover so we could field two teams of 6.

We never broke a window, never broke a tree, just a few teenage hearts along the way.

April 27 | Poetry Word Sprints

"My favourite childhood memory."

Day 29

Day 27

Day 28

Hopeful Abundance

We are time travellers chasing the light,

we are mad basement dwellers.

Use the other door,

the model is posed.

This room is suitable for

an octopus in disguise.

It’s a weird, weird world,

reality is optional.

Writing is a journey, a

bag full of secrets.

Please follow the instructions of your instructor,

everyone is welcome here.

You are loved.

If you require

a signature

wait until we can answer,

we are chasing the light

and lucky small things.

This is a "found" poem, written at a poetry session this past weekend. We had to use sentences found as we walked around Cspace.

Day 30

Paper Dolls

We cut a predetermined size and shape.

One size fits us all, and it always must be Small.

We change the paper fashions, a new image we create.

One size fits us all, on a child’s paper doll.

Bend the tab around the waist, be sure to pull it tight.

One size fits us all, and it always must be Small.

Perfect perky breasts, the hip proportions must be right.

One size fits us all, on a child’s paper doll.

The clothing rarely stayed in place, it never fit quite right

One size fits us all, and it always must be Small.

It set a prototype to follow, much to everyone’s delight

One size fits us all, on a child’s paper doll.

The men were all so handsome, chiselled jaw and eyes of brown

The suit, the tie, the hat, the lie.

Bring along the model wife, when you go out on the town

The dress, the shoes, the jewels, the lie.

Vintage paper dolls, costumes pure & virgin white

One size fits us all, and it must be always be Small.

In flimsy camisoles and slips, such an angelic sight

One size fits us all, on a child’s paper doll.

What messages were sent, when those paper tabs were bent.

around those little girls, wearing knee highs, hair in curls.

Fantasy of rape and power, motivation and intent,

what protection is there now, for our Tik-Tok watching girls?