Three Word Wednesday, http://www.threewordwednesday.com/, gave the prompts of “drench, immune, and radiate.” I fear they brought out my age.
This was mostly a freewrite, but I had to edit it to achieve iambic pentameter. I probably spent more time on the last line than I did on the rest of the poem. I put “wizened fear” in and took it out half a dozen times. The words don’t really fit together . . . yet they do—and I really like them; at least, I know what I want them to mean. Finally, I just gave up and made them the title of the poem.
With all the talk lately of the excessive use of adjectives and adverbs, I look at my finished product and weep.
by Mike Patrick
No subtle wiles you bother to employ,
no coy, demure sweet glance from lowered eyes.
Your world of weird seduction screams aloud
from deep-slit skirts which barely reach your thighs.
You turn your mouth into a blood-red slash,
and drench yourself with pheromone perfume
to radiate in trendy celeb spots.
Your lust can overpower any room.
Yet, in a corner sits a man alone,
who looks at you . . . then looks away: immune.
He scans the crowed, then checks his watch and yawns,
as if your very beauty to impugn.
And then his face lights up, as through the door
a simple vision walks in modest dress.
Makeup, so light it seems there’s none at all,
highlights a stylish face, so simply blessed.
He takes her hands to softly kiss her cheek,
and whispers something special in her ear.
With every eye upon her, they both go.
You look upon yourself with wizened fear.