The Moth Girls

 

 

The Moth Girls

Up and up the moth girls ascended

On heated zephyrs with iridescent wings,

Lifting them up toward the flickering stars

Above where aerie heights beckoned “Join us.”

And in their brief ascent toward the high places,

The moth girls touched the flames along the way;

Flames that fed the updrafts that were lifting them

In exchange for the kind of fuel that feeds a fire.

Hashtag angels, judged worthy by the very fire

That singed and blackened their nacreous wings;

Flames that judged their further worth by whether

Their youth and beauty had yet been all burned up.

Pity the moth girls weary of the long climb,

Wings tattered, crying out because to be a star

Seems now too great a price to ever pay,

Now that the aerie heights seem finally lost to them.

They join a thousand other me-too moth girls

Spinning down, trailing smoke, emitting thin pathetic screams

Because in the cold and pitiless air of the descent they feel

Their burned skin and the nakedness of their wings. 

And so, the hastag moth girls cry, “The cruel flames above;

That fed our giddy ascent must be extinguished!

For the brightness of the light must not draw the innocent

Upward toward our once high places, bought with our own iridescence.”

© 2018 by Tom King

 

 Pressing Business

My shirts tend to be a bit wrinkled these days.

   I don’t even own an iron anymore.

       Perma-press, though not permanent or pressed

            Will have to do for me, I have no ironing board.

I guess I ought to get one just in case,

   I ever have to go someplace formal,

       Or even semi-formal with a tie and all

            Though I haven’t donned a tie in ages.

Things are changing for us baby boomers,

    Even simple things finally settle into a rut.

        With other comfortable things we’ve tossed in there

              Over the years, collecting the best things in life.

Trouble is that once we’ve become set in our ways

     And predictable in our moods and appetites,

           No one is interested in asking us anymore,

                What we care about or whether we’d like to try something new.

So we get along fine without irons and ironing boards          

     Our music collections grow more slowly and selectively.

           And we eat the same things for supper and brush our teeth

                 With the same danged toothpaste we always use.

And furthermore we don’t even care if adult children don’t like it.

     And think we’re no longer even relevant.

           And isn’t it nice to be content to be just who we are,

                  And finally free of caring about the judgment of others.


© 2018 by Tom King