Overhearing Candy Hart
TRUE LOVE, the cloying little candies bray.
They beg BE MINE, KISS ME, CALL ME NOW.
If I could write those slogans, I would say
RUE LOVE and throw in KILL ME NOW.
I’d switch each KISS to DIS. That U R COOL
just fuels a bloated ego. I wouldn’t hide
the brutal truth: I’d print U R A FOOL.
But call me candid Candy: I confide
that I might be the bigger fool, the Hart
who can’t say no. When a guy gives me the eye…
he’ll promise me the world but then depart
at dawn. Good-looking dudes like you might lie.
I’m Candy, sugar and spice–but salty, too.
I think nice is boring. HOW ’BOUT U?
by Barbara Lydecker Crane
Editor’s Note: Just in time for Valentine’s Day, this silly sonnet amuses us as it imagines a girl who dares to be spicy and salty instead of merely sweet.
At a Cemetery Door
Her father said that she could go explore
the other graves while he sat down to rest
at Grandpa’s. Shedding Sunday shoes she wore,
she searched for recent dates, short spans–her test
designed to prove that modern-day children
rarely die. Subtracting brought success.
Then at a little tombstone house, her skin
prickled at her peek through the door.
She shrieked to glimpse the specter just within:
two ashen feet faced her on that floor.
She leapt and fled through gravel and cold grass
and blurted what she’d seen to Dad. In a roar
of laughter he reminded her that glass
reflects the looker. That girl of nine tried
to laugh and let it go. But it would last,
her cemetery sight–white feet inside
within a chain of days or decades more.
That vision stood and could not be denied.
by Barbara Lydecker Crane
Editor’s Note: This amusing terza rima doesn’t fall prey to its form. The story and characters are as important as the rhyme, and give us a glimpse of life and the memories that stay with us longer than we ever expect.
Cherry Blossom Reverie
On Hearing Keiko Abe Play the Marimba
As mallets frolic, leap and fall
and blur into a cloud of flowers,
the rosewood fills the spacious hall
with dazzling white sakura showers
borne from the tree we picnicked under,
all our minutes, all our hours
passing like this tuneful wonder
quickening my memory
and, wild as taiko-drumming-thunder,
we danced beneath that floral tree
that shook the garlands from its hair.
That night I dreamed a glorious sea
of petals washed ashore, the air,
the land, our very souls in thrall
to blossoms blowing everywhere.
I see you whirling in the squall,
as mallets frolic, leap and fall.
by Martin J. Elster
Editor’s Note: This terza rima is particularly apt—the flourishes and acrobatics Ms. Keiko Abe uses as she plays the marimba are perfectly suited to the form’s interlocking rhyme scheme.