The Tale of the Two Teas
by Mary Margaret Park
Kiwi Snapple raced around the room
She stomped her feet and preached of doom
Her sweat so cold of condensation
Her peach friend screaming condemnation
Peach Snapple flashed her pitted eyes
It’s my turn now was her reply
and with sarcastic voice she did say
I’ll not be your friend another day
Kiwi announced, that’s just fine
You’re a fruit, a pithy swine
You don’t play fair, you never have
You are spoiled, you’ve gone bad
Peach Snapple in reply did snap
You’re less than tea, you British bat
You think you’re proper and sophisticated
It’s my turn now, you should have waited
Bruised and battered, fermenting slowly
Kiwi screamed that’s fine I’m going
I’ll play no more games with you
Your tea is tainted, what will you do?
Peach Snapple paused, as she considered
When she replied her smile was bitter
That’s not what your boyfriend says
He thinks my drink sweet, and no less
Kiwi Snapple did feel faint
Her anger steeping, without complaint
With sly smile she said come here
You’re not afraid now are you dear?
Peach dripped in response with vitriol
She reared her fist back and punched Ms. Snapple
the two flavored teas poured upon the floor
Their containers empty, they were no more
​
white linen
a crown of thorns
and buttercups remorse
upon the favored brow
of woman child Lenore
in everglades of waste
another man doth tread
to beseech the sweetest lips
for a most scandalous delight
and now he stands before the throne
beneath a veil of red
he sees her ghost-like form
a sideways glance hailed from within
his heart, alas
is broken
his dear maiden breathes no more
a victory bequeathed in death
he cries forevermore
why hath thou forsaken me?
forever after
​
by Mary Margaret Park
By Mary Margaret Park
THE GRIFTERS' (G)LASS TOWER
D
Our moods are many things
A kite a sail a Coin a cane
soaring high into to the air
or tumbling back into despair
Our emotions frame the hours
Casual keepers of glass towers
with no regard to flights of fancy
casting stones or sitting calmly
at Will they shape the day
​
With brightest joy or blackest thunder
breaking thoughts as they plunder
These fickle stewards
of repose
BEDSIDE MANOR
​
amber, in crepe’
a stir of sweetness
gilded tassels about
a parasol
they spin into transparent flames
above a slender arm of lily white
a shapely wrist
with aristocratic flair
a bedside manner
that speaks of lethal wounds
her expression, stilted
wrapped in ducats delight
terms of endearment
buried beneath shadows
transparent grey in light
her eyes; a mourning dove’s
silken orbs ensconced
in white china
pride, shattered beyond
truth, the whispered token
of a dying day
in profile she resides
her patrician nose
cut and defined
stark
against the darkness
.