# December Challenge - "Wives and Mistresses"



## Chesters Daughter (Nov 29, 2012)

The theme for the December challenge, suggested by *Olly Buckle*, is *"Wives and Mistresses".

Remember that you may approach the subject in whatever way you wish, though of course site rules apply. If you are unsure of the challenge rules please read the 'stickies' at the top of the board; it is disheartening to disqualify people for things like a trivial edit, but the rules will be applied.

This challenge will close on the 14th December 2012.

Please make sure that your work is properly formatted before pressing the submit button. Work edited after posting may be excluded from the challenge. Do not post comments in this thread. Any discussions should be posted in the Bards' Bistro.*


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## toddm (Dec 2, 2012)

*Lucid in Sleep*

_[Composed by the late William T. Moore (d. 1974) and found among the many boxes of treasured items kept by his wife Claire (d. 2011). It was handwritten on the back of a utility bill dated November 15th, 1956.] _

I am awake now, Claire, after hearing you say:
_Tomorrow will bring but another day._
You uttered these words from where you lay
with eyes open wide to see.

Before I could respond, you fell back asleep
(if indeed you had even emerged from sleep)
leaving me wakeful, my vigil to keep
with eyes open wide to see.

I am thinking of what I had wanted to say:
that _each morning brings us a better day,_
but I see from your face you are now far away 
without eyes open wide to see.

You are sleepwalking through the halls of your mind,
through twilight and shadows, hoping to find
something you lost for which you have pined,
keeping eyes open wide to see.

The shadow-shapes shift across these walls
as the bright round moon quietly crawls
across the sky, with a light that falls
on my eyes open wide to see.

You, in your slumber, are now quiet and still;
I remove my vigil to the windowsill.
Tonight, whether I want to or not, I will
have eyes open wide to see.

The grey light of dawn will soon stir you awake
and furnish us with gifts of time we can take.
But stay lucid in sleep this night for your sake
as I keep eyes open wide to see.


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 3, 2012)

*Coddling the Warden (Mature theme)*

Deeming me unfit, 
with a flush you offered
my tiny gold shackle
to the sewer rats
years ago,
but the digit still peels,
shedding flesh like tears.
What an ingenious way
to brand your prisoner.

The barred windows
have the inspector's greedy paw
begging for grease again.
I wonder if you'll remit
or resort to brick,
denying me the sunlight
sullied by striped shadow,
that assures me 
the world still exists.

Your key violates the padlock
and I jump to attention,
waiting for inspection,
ready to pipe up 
"Prisoner number one
reporting for orders, sir!",
as number two
resumes her shrieking
from the basement.

Just a corner crack whore
incarcerated without a rite;
she's no hope of a gold shackle
but still bound to wear your brand.
Singing the chorus of Disco Inferno,
you stoke the fire
and then simply stare
until the poker assumes the shades
of an African sunset.

"Bath then dinner!" you bark
before descending the stairs.
I lean upon the wall 
toeing an idle jack, 
making a note to dust it
before it results in attack,
when the screams 
of a million demons
come barreling from below
and a hint of singed skin
seasons the breeze.

Shocked into action,
I bustle to the bathroom
to entreat the tap to exact
the perfect temperature,
then hustle to the kitchen
to guard the roast.
Bloody rare is a must
or it's another piercing
by a needle dressed in rust.

Silence abounds
as prisoner two's pitiful pleas 
are thwarted by adhesive;
how you so love that Crazy Glue.
I arrange your plates with a smug smile,
almost slaphappy
at the new inmate's induction.
Perhaps she'll replace me
as your prized plaything.

I pull out your chair 
as you run twisted fingers
through still damp hair.
I place a napkin upon your lap
and then curtsy with care
so as not to bare scars.
With bowed head, I giddily whisper,
"So good of you to throw a party
most wonderful Warden,
it's a joy to have some company."
and I spy a glint of gloat
in the flint of your eyes.

I offer you a bite
with a silver fork
so far beneath your grasp
as a dirty little ditty 
bounces about my brain:

Please spare her the boneyard
beneath the basement floor,
unlike the whores 
who came before,
let this one be a keeper.


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## Our_Pneuma (Dec 3, 2012)

*Her Voice*

throbbed against the windowpanes
like a damp sheet left tossing 
on warm rustic wind.

And as I yearned to be 
the entirety of that moment, 
emergent with time, its seconds 
bursting around me 
with the trundle of her thighs, 
I heard _her_ voice

like the drop of tears on a microphone.


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## Ethan (Dec 5, 2012)

Yearning for another heart,
had rent three lives to shreds,
exhaustion played a major part
the distance ‘twixt in two beds.
Decision made through angst and pain
but one way out was felt
Torment ripped a fragile soul,
and wracked a heart with guilt.

From a beam of oak, the slip knot hung,
O’er a chair with broken back,
and underneath a figure stood,
with noose around the neck.
Eyes with tears of remorse filled,
but the heart was set like stone,
in exasperated state of mind
the conclusion was foregone.
One last deep breath, he closed his eyes
bid farewell to his wife.


Then he kicked the chair and watched her swing,
as he thought of his new life.


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## Glass Pencil (Dec 5, 2012)

Once, we shouted down the mountains
the Occidental slopes that jut like ragged molars from an unhappy grin
crumbled into an ocean of brown faces like ours
it was in our foreign ways that we found ourselves,
wrapped, like newborns in a manger
gifted by the wise men with an American education, several thousand dollars and a truck with four-wheel drive

We were brilliant then, starstruck by reflections wrote in essay form
odes to the eternally fleeting, of perfection best seen through untempered eyes
blind of course, to the beauty that is not born of youth

In the mocking taste of conquistadors, we secretly reveled 
placed above the tattered masses of the wise
by our ignorance

In some border town without a name we crashed
like fabulous, pyrotechnic dragons in a windstorm
all fury, myth and puerile faith
as you gathered up your luggage into the waiting taxi cab I caught one last glimpse of our manufactured beauty
on your serenely manicured middle finger

The room still smelt like us while we dissolved into unwritten history
our carnal evidence outlasting our romance
I smoked half a pack of something that came in a red carton
I don't speak Spanish


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## Gumby (Dec 7, 2012)

*A Pinch of Spice*


  He was sure he’d get a ‘two-fer’
  when he first looked in her eyes
  this prim, most proper lady 
  hid a down and dirty side.

  It was there, in the curve of her
  luscious lower lip, the way
  her fingers linger, dip—  
  trace small hearts and filthy words
  across his naked hip.

  He craved the way this lady, spiced 
  the frigid nights, when he and the 
  missus, had extra-wicked fights.
  And better yet was the way 
  she'd simplified his life—  

  She had given him a ‘two-fer’
  both a mistress _and_ a wife.


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## Don V Standeford (Dec 8, 2012)

[h=2]*Shift change – am pm 				*[/h] 				   						 						 				 					 						On graveyard shift I see
Her spiraled black hair, plain
But thick it settles softly over
Her ivory brow, black
And drifts dark and bold, 
Her hair even dances as she
Counts her till, but
The protective aura arises,
Lifts itself up to settle
About her face. I will never
Touch her breasts, softly
She counts to herself the
Past, leaning into the sum
Of her day’s receipts, 
Her swing shift summing up
She’ll drop with a thousand
Untold stories; she cries, “hurry!”
Then she disappears. I want that cold black street
To pour her back to me, but only in the cold lens
Of the store’s security camera does she remain. So,
I remember
The thick strands
Of her black hair
Falling to shoulders
Again and again;
But into the jungle
She’s disappeared,
Her future 
Swallows her in
To its streets, as
Quietly I panic. 
I imagine entering
Traffic with her.
Her mustang thunders
On flooded roads
Through tunneled
Mountains,
Hoarding asphalt’s
Crevices; we bolt
And tear thru
Patches that cover
The cracks. We de-
Scend like submar-
ines into dark green
Shades; fog mists
To find cold drops
Air around us settles
Onto her shoulders.

Always coming into graveyard, she is thoughtfully tolerant
Of my silent embrace – one she pushes away with all ten
Fingers; she smiles as she walks
To the check stand for the last
Time; in front of her she carries
Her future – keys to her apartment, a watch,
And a black zippered purse; she spills
Out on the counter buffalo nickels, 
Which mingle with the pungent
Odor of leather; I reach hungrily for
The pennies; she stares upward with her soft brown eyes
Her smile lying wet in my tears; I know 
Her thoughts; we will never kiss.

		Don V Standeford​


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## Jeko (Dec 9, 2012)

*Emily*

(I tuck my arm around her side)

Look up.
No, not at the trees, Emily!

(we laugh)

Can you see your family?
All those little dots in the little black night
Are all my wives and mistresses.

(she stares at the lights)

I can't say I've known them for long
But daughter, you're strong.
You won't let go of my when I start to tear.
Look up, now. Keeping looking somewhere
And I'll tell you how I used to know
All those wives and mistresses
And I'll tell you how I made them-

(she looks at me, under their glow)

But I won't let you go. You're my little girl. 
Sitting here in the frigid cold
Wrapped in only our blanket folds
Warming your feet by the fire behind you.
No, I won't-

(she rises, and pads across the grass to escape the trees and get a closer look of the moon in the distance)

Oh Emily, I used to know them all.
God, I was a fool.
We used to play games
And make love in the rain
Then talk about who we'd met the other day
And how was your day? And fine, thanks.
But we wouldn't pay the parking fines.
I'd pay for lunch, and she'd pay for lunch.
She'd cook chinese noodles for lunch.
And we'd eat them on the porch while the old chinese lady next door
Complimented us on our outfits.
We'd fix the door after we'd broken it together
And we'd call it a nice day whatever the weather.
But I'd say the wrong thing on one of those nice days.
She'd go.

(she asks me who the big one is)

What's that Emily?

(I walk over to join her)

Why, that big light bulb in the sky?
Oh, that's no wife or mistress. 
That'll never go away.
You know that's true.

(I hold her hand. We both gaze at the moon)

That's you.


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 14, 2012)

This challenge is now closed.


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