God said to me,
Yes, little old me,
Scrawny from pain,
In need of a hair stylist,
Old jeans and tee,
The renegade wear of my early hippie days.

“It’s time to go now,
so pack your favorite things and let’s be off.”

His voice was smooth as
Nate King Cole and spirited as
Sammy Davis Jr. with a wee bit of
George M. Cohan
Thrown into the mix.

“Can I take my Classic Movie Collection?”

“No need, the actors you admire
Are all there , ready to perform
Any choice monologue at your request.”

“You mean
Maureen O’Hara
besting The Duke?”

“Sure, that gets my vote.
I like THE QUIET MAN, too.”

“And Doris Day?”

“She’s not there yet, but Rock Hudson is waiting.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but you might want to gather up
Your poetry books.
Those heavenly rhymers love
A good book signing.”

‘You mean ee cummings, and T.S. Elliott,
Yeats and
Wislava Szymborska?”

“Along with athletes, Esther Williams and Sonia Heine.
You see, Ice rinks and swimming pools
Abound.”

‘So many reasons to leave life,
But I don’t want . . . . “

“We’d better hurry, the party’s about to begin.
The bunting and blue birds are tuning up,
Rehearsing with
The Mormon Tabernacle Choir
Members who have come this way.

A garden party set In gold-leaf clouds
With a million carousels, real stallions to ride,
A Gala about to start.

Food galore
Lemon curd, blueberry scones,
Chicken salad chucked with celery and sweet red peppers,
Watermelon without social stigma.
No need to take a grocery basket,
It’s already there in full supply
At your favorite, 1940’s corner grocery store.”

“God, Are You sure I’m fit for the excitement?”

“Hum,
Want serenity,
Then let it be,
Just a peaceful glen
to go roaming in the gloaming
With old friends—
The pot-throwing Monk
The young Genius herding sheep,
The favorite Uncle in charge of
Celestial Lost and Found,
Everyone special to you is there
Infants that didn’t make it into life,
Moms and dads who knew you were sorry,
Even when you couldn’t say the words.”

“Hurry up now, Old Lady, you won’t be
Old or in pain much longer.
What you all call “heaven” is nearly here
No aches, all joy, and best of all,
No jangling, junk-calling telephones.”

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 19, 2018

I should have noticed it
But never did.
When I kiss my husband’s
Skin, especially his neck,
He’s like a salty dog.

But then again
I don’t know what that is
And must look it up.

If it is an unforgettable
Experience
Of a slobbering, wet,
Earthy-smelling canine,
Libidinous and ultimately
Charming Rogue,
I’ll have to change
The title of this poem.

On second thought,
Maybe not.

Thirty-five years
And I love him still.

Charlene James Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 18,2018
Happy Father’s Day

It’s important to learn
By the time
You’re “3”
How much milk you need
To match what’s in your
Glass with what’s going in your tummy,

The gulp you take
And the cookie chomping
Have to
Come out the same in the end.

And then there is the perfect amount of stomp
In a puddle to get
Lots of raindrops to splash in your face.

And don’t forget the color
Of your pet unicorn ‘s horn
As it matches the tasks of the day.

Lots of things
Grown Ups don’t understand.
They are left to us to remember
And make right.
The “3” year old on the job.
Our lot in life.

In a world filled with upside-down moments,
We set it right, keep it right,
And make it right when it’s a mess.

How?
Of course,
To be sure, just because we’re “3”.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 4, 2018

At the edge of wit
Rests unblushing sarcasm.
Keep it there. Always

My unflappable, or so I thought,
Muse sat on the lumpy sofa
Tatting fine Belgian lace,
Even though she was 100% Polish.

She knotted and looped ideas
For the poet (that’s me)
All lassoed and ready to use.
Sometimes lyrical, mostly not.
They were outrageously
Entertaining thoughts.

Not about usual “navel searching” characters,
Instead these were true eccentrics,
Born and bred.

No smoothing the wrinkles of
Universal human experience,
Or calming the waters, bringing
Serenity,
They were real, drawn from
All of my neighbors,
Who are
A little bit off-plumb.

Enjoying these
Wacky habitués, the Muse engaged
Them in uproarious conversation.

This bizarre critical mass,
Drank the same water,
Sucked in the same air,
Watched the same sheep amble by.

As I poetized their strangeness,
Muse helped by plopping
Person after person into the jelly pot of
Syrupy wit, coating them with more oddness.

They loved the notoriety.

Women with android hair,
Men with plumber-wedgies,
hiking up their pants
For effect.
Artists catching invisible light on a barn’s wall,
Impossible to do.

Uncontainable,
Dripping cherry red gunk on the sofa, on the lace,
On my note pad,
They were grist for me,
But pests to Muse.

She had had enough.
Testy as always.
She packed herself up, her
Bobbins and shuttles,
And like a wisp, she made it to the door.

With one comment she thought
She sealed my fate.

‘You dreamed them up, now
You deal with them.
Oh, and by the way,
Lots of luck,
getting yourself
A new Muse!”

Unflinching, I had the perfect retort.
“Muse, When the boredom sets in,
You’ll be back.
Adieu, Amuse, Adieu.”

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 13, 2018

(Dedicated to Judi Dench)

Peering through a left-over mirror,
abandoned in the move,
sIlvered surface
long past the time a true image could appear,
She knew.

The Alice was, is gone now.

The Looking Glass Wars waged growing up,
not understood, yet felt,
would cause too much pain, if they reappeared,

Asked, “Are you an adult or an orphan ”
She’d rush out,
close the door,
leaving it unlocked
for the next prisoner of Fate.

She, an adult who shouted an orphan’s cry,
Expects nothing.

But this other “she”, if confronted by confusion,
might leave the story land behind.

The mice heard her whimper
but they’d never tell.
She had been good to them
Larger crumbs than most, donuts’ – holes, and pasta strips occasionally.

They’d keep her secret
Till the end of time,
Or when “when” became a memory.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 6, 2018

Dedicated to Carole Jean

They had a serious conversation,
Eloise and her Angel.
Both of tender age,
Marking the giggles and woes of their short lives,
With recipes for chocolate delights.

The happinesses and hurts would not stop
Regardless of how they tried.
This was
The way it was.

Yet, Their Desired Things
Followed no other path, only
With its advice to be gentle
Children of the Universe.

They took turns stumbling along.

Then they rested in the safety
Of the Merlin tree, exchanging gifts,
Beliefs and believing,
As hard as they could
That the answer
Would arrive before the rain.

What Knowledge looked like, they could not guess.
What flowed from Her, not a clue,
But for each sadness She took away,
Two joys appeared in their stead.

Magic began to happen in their midst.

Rose petals, each filled with a drop of fragrance swept
The air when Eloise touched her finger to her chin.
Then an iridescent glow filled the forest.

Together, Eloise and her Angel finally figured it out.
All things in the universe are connected,
And so they must be too.
Eloise and her Angel,
Sat in their smiles,
Under the Merlin tree.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amiss, Virginia
June 4, 2018

When you’ve been pummeled
By an air bag
You know you’ve been pummeled,
Laid low,
Decked,
Wiped out.

These “Million Dollar” Babies
Know how to strike.

Not to be outdone by seat belts,
The master bruise makers,
The Bags’ “one”, “two” combos
Do you in.

“Pow eeee”
Pink,white, maybe yellow, I can’t remember
They rush forth, blossom, deploy,
A shocking moment
That catches you unawares
No other surprise like it.

Well, perhaps surpassed only by
Smoke pouring from
The dash board.

In a moment of clarity
You see the instructions, and lots of them,
Printed helter-skelter on the inflated
Lifesavers.

Blessed little devils,
Sorry, no time to read.
Just jump, react,

Split second the moment.

For as they say,
“It could have been a lot worse.”

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia
June 2, 2018

She’s tiny, ever so petite,
And fragile
With a tumble of golden curls
Crowning her little head.

Lost in a sewing box
These hundred years
She’s unsure of her magic
Now.

Can she bundle joy,
Fill a home with laughter,
Bring thoughts of gaiety
To a woebegone world?

Shopworn, she,
Yet hopeful her magic has outlasted
All the dusty days.

How to test it?

Wish!

Yes, you, reading this now.
Ask a special favor,
In a polite tone
And see if it comes true.

The sweetest bonbon,
The brightest ribbon,
Better still, the grandest step
In the lightest dance.

Toes that barely
Brush the floor
Saying things
Words cannot say,
Opening worlds,
Raising antique memories,
Blossoming in a sunshiny day.

Precious doll,
Victorianna dear,
If we believe,
Your magic will live again.

And, yes, believe, we do,
We do in candies, ribbons,
And in dance.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 1, 2018