Amid a Bevy of Red Roses in the Bed of a Twaddle Truck

Red Roses

If you don’t get this there’s no need to go radish or knock something over. Red roses remedy the lackadaisical. Would you like a piece of fallen green apple tart, all the way from Wenatchee?

The red roses he gave me I squeezed into gravy he poured on his raspberry pie. By the time we were done on the ceiling there were none of the spiders that had earlier danced in my eyes. In the morning the water was as loose as my garter tossed into the bed of his twaddle truck.

Every day is cusp catastrophe day in the House of Disposition.

He uttered, “Red roses,” with just a bit of a stutter. Maybe he hugged me, but into a pot I was put.

A pan of his ink I placed on the porch with some empty jugs of milk. And never have I smiled as maroon a red rose as he stuck in my mashed potatoes that morning.

It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyways, the roses he sent me were fakes. But I never noticed. I mirrored his psychosis, not to mention my powdered lemon bars.

He sat down to dinner and yarned out a new spinner, wondering did I water his old red roses. He was always away, away on a business trip, away on some sort of boondoggle in his twaddle truck. He was a tinker. He wore red plaid flannel shirts and blue denim jeans all patched in the knees and seams of the seat. But he was handy to have around.

There were years we played games full of crocodile tears, red roses pickled for lapels. At first he was shy, but by the end of the banquet I had removed most of his thorns. Now behind my blue ear sticks a yellow umbrella that shadows my pale ruby nose.

Well, I think we’re ready now. Better put in the extra leaf, and light the buttery candles. These days he wishes plum ditties and fishes, but he’s getting old-timey depression cake frosted with snow.

Soon will come Lent. We’ll clean out the basement, and hold yet another estate sale. Last year we spent the profits on beer and pizza. Then we watched a movie in a tent.

The dishes all washed and put away. Let’s wipe down and pray red roses still hue come our capture and rapture.

The prose poem above is a later version of the more traditionally formatted poem with a different title below:

Red Rover, Red Rover, Let Red Roses Come Over

The red roses he gave me
I squeezed into gravy
He poured on his raspberry pie.

By the time we were done
On the ceiling were none
Of the spiders that danced in my eyes.

In the morning the water
Was as loose as a garter
Tossed in the bed of a twaddle truck.

If you never get this
There’s no need to remiss
Red roses and green apple tart.

He uttered red roses
Maybe he hugged me
And into a pot I was put.

A pan of his ink
I placed on the porch
With some empty jugs of milk.

But never have I smiled
As maroon a red rose
As he stuck in my mashed potatoes.

It goes without saying
But I’ll say it anyways
The roses he sent me were fakes.

But I never noticed
I mirrored his psychosis
Not to mention my powdered lemon bars.

He sits down to dinner
Yarns out a spinner
Wonders did I water his roses.

Those years we played games
Full of crocodile tears
Red roses pickled for lapels.

Behind my blue ear
A yellow umbrella
Shadows my pale ruby nose.

Well I think we’re ready now
Better put in the extra leaf
And light the buttery candles.

These days he wishes
Plum ditties and fishes
But he gets old-timey cake.

Soon will come Lent
We’ll clean out the basement
And hold yet another estate sale.

Last year we spent
The profits on beer and pizza
And we watched a movie in a tent.

The dishes all washed and put away
Let’s wipe down and pray red roses
Still hue come our capture and rapture.

9 Comments Add yours

    1. Joe Linker says:

      A nose by any other meme would smell as nascently.

      Like

  1. bristlehound says:

    Your testing me here, but I think it may be the story of a maiden succumbing to the approaches of a retched cowboy. Mind you, he did drive a Land Rover so he must have had something going for him. The poem goes on to tell the story of aging married couple trying in desperation to hold onto young love. Until his teeth fall out and needs his food mashed or as ‘Plum ditties and fishes’. He then ultimately dies as with all good poems, and she, by way of moving on, clears the house of all his stuff and sets about watching porn on telly. Am I even close? B

    Like

    1. Joe Linker says:

      Ha! Right on! But I didn’t mean for you to try to explain it. God forbid the blog would ever be the subject of a test! But if the reader completes meaning, then can the reader describe that experience? Or something like that, via Barthes. Anyway, “Am I even close?”- I don’t know, but your comment is a very persuasive reading, and matches style and tone, to boot. Right on, we used to say. Does anyone still use that phrase in the old way? “Right on” didn’t necessarily mean “correct,” but maybe something like, “Continue in the same direction – I’m with you.” I thought I had put “Amid a Bevy…” in the post queue for just after midnight (PST), by the way, and when I awoke around 4 in the morning, saw that it had not gone live, or whatever that might be called, then saw that I had mistakenly put it in for just after 12 pm instead of 12 am. Ambiguity surrounds us. I can’t remember the genesis of this piece. Probably something I awoke at 4 in the morning with. Love your ending, and I might have had in mind she’s talking to a daughter or granddaughter, or a sister, maybe, or a mother. Or maybe there’s some special day in the works, and he’s come home to celebrate it, “buttery candles” and the “extra leaf” to expand the table. I love the phrase “light the buttery candles.” Well, seems right on, somehow. Thanks for reading and comment. Great stuff.

      Like

  2. Dan Hennessy says:

    As for me , I got a D in poetry at the U . If this is a test I have to drop the class quick if it’s not too late .

    Like

    1. Joe Linker says:

      John Cage advised get out of whatever cage yr in, and I say, get out of whatever poem yr in. You got a D? Hey, man, that’s passing! Congratulari! You were a poet in residentia. Did I ever tell you about the time I got an F in a PE class? Handball. I went to talk to the teacher, Mr. Southstone. He pointed out I had been absent 12 times in the semester. Turned out I was absent the day he said if you miss 12 or more classes you automatically fail. Drop out default. Now that was a poetry class! … “Words are dangerous,” Aunt Rosa said, and “Poetry can do a lot of damage,” DiCosimo added: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OipkhcxS10 Seriosus.

      Like

      1. Dan Hennessy says:

        D in high school chemistry , too . The teacher took me aside : ” I’m gonna do you a favor , Hennessy . I’m gonna give you a D . ” I thanked him profusely . Chemistry and poetry . D passing ? Put me out of my misery ! Save yourself ! Dive into you poetry and leave me here !

        Like

        1. Joe Linker says:

          “There are many ways in which the thing I am trying in vain to say may be tried in vain to be said” (123).

          “…the first artist to admit that to be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from it desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living. No, no, allow me to expire” (125).

          Beckett

          BTW: A great first line for a novel: “I’m gonna to do you a favor, Hennessy.”

          Like

  3. Dan Hennessy says:

    Twitchen twaddle , by the way .

    Like

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