Aiya! Forgot to post yesterday’s draft. Kalamai. Here’s my draft for Pōʻalima/Friday 09.27.19.
Prelude to Some Drama
It’s summertime
and they’re in the park, Vilas.
She loves picnics, he doesn’t.
Her idea of a picnic is filling
a huge wicker basket
with cheese, French bread, and wine.
Fruit too.
Very well balanced but . . .
It feels like rain,
except not the wet kind.
He is lactose intolerant, doesn’t like
crusty bread because it cuts up
the roof of his mouth,
and wine makes it hard
for him to breathe. Never eats fruit.
Gives him the runs.
The large dry drops begin to plop.
He says nothing, afraid
she’ll take her love away,
pack it all up, pull the blanket out
from under him, set him tumbling.
He’s beginning to shrink in the dry.
She’s a strong-willed woman
he could marry, despite
her discomforting picnic penchant.
But a man can only take so much.
Even in Wisconsin.
“Did you bring an umbrella?” he asks.
She stops slicing the bread that will bleed,
looks up at him, her odd sharp
steel gray eyes flashing.
“Why would you need an umbrella
on a perfect day like this?”
“You never know,” he says, the dry
really coming down now.
“You’re weird,” she says. “Eat
some apple.” She hands him a slice.
He’s soaked now, to the bone,
forces himself to take a tiny bite,
knows how this is all going to end.
The arid deluge comes down.
There’s no sacrifice too great.
The chance of immortal love.
* * * * *
The word is
balanced
Use it in, or to inspire, any kind of writing, then post what you came up with as a comment below. I would love to read what you write.
* * * * *
Revised 11.09.24
The arid deluge comes down
Summertime in Vilas Park
She loves picnics, he does not
Her idea of a picnic lunch is cheese
French bread, wine, and fruit
It feels like dry rain coming
He’s lactose intolerant
Dislikes crusty bread because
It cuts up the roof of his mouth
Wine makes it hard
For him to breathe
While fruit
Gives him the runs
The large dry drops begin to plop
He says nothing against the fare
Fears she’ll take her love away
Pack it all up and pull the blanket out
From under him and set him tumbling
He’s beginning to shrink in the dry
She’s a woman he could marry
Despite her picnic penchant
And the dietary restrictions
“If only I had an umbrella,” he says
She stops slicing the bread
That will draw blood
Her steel gray eyes flashing
Asks, “Why would you need
An umbrella on a perfect day like this?”
The dry’s coming down terrifically now
“You’re weird,” she says, “eat some apple”
Handing him a dooming slice
He’s soaked now to the bone
But takes a tiny bite
Knowing how this
Will all end
Lanning Lee 