So - Hello again everyone (I hope, as what would it be without you!)
This week you have a PHOTO PROMPT
Paul Gustave Fischer, (1860-1934) Copenhagen tram s.d.
Oooh. So, who are the people? You might tell us who the young women are, who the flowers are for, what they are saying. Or what about the fella with the newspaper? Or that wistful girl staring out into space. Or the conductor - looks a bit shifty? Not to mention Mr. with the cigar.
You decide. And no other restrictions on style or length, rhyme or not, any mood - all up to you this week.
Rules: None this week. Just tell us something about someone (or all-some!) on this tram.
General Rules: The week's subject will be posted on Sunday. Poets can then post until Thursday evening. Poems must not be already written, or from a longer previously written poem. They must be written off the cuff, to the subject/theme. Unless a particular form/length is specified there will be no restrictions on poetic form, or length.
Voting will take place from Friday morning until Sunday evening, when the week's winners will be announced along with the new subject.
Voting Scores - 3 points for 1st choice, 2 for 2nd and 1 for 3rd.
why good heavens Richard the butler starched and ironed it this morning doncha know
*puts on Michael Caine voice* Not a lot of people know that the reason why the footman ironed the newspaper was not to get rid of any creases, but to 'set' the ink so that it wouldn't come orf on m'Lord's hands.
To me, this one bears a need for attentive contemplation. Something I cannot muster on a Monday morning.
I quite like Michael Caine, Richard. I never considered the connection between you and him, especially since I have never heard you speak. However, now I can see some sort of affinity between yourself and how I view Michael. It's fun to toy with that idea and does a lot to make my Monday morning a bit more amusing. Thank you kindly.
The guy with the cigar is in shock, and contemplating jumping out the window, due to his embarrassment following offering the girl in the red hat $50 for a bit of slap and tickle. As a consequence the girl walloped the guy in the eye (now bruised) with her surprisingly heavy handbag, the scrumpled-up dollars still flutter around the carriage floor. The ticket inspector stands between the two avoiding further altercation, when he too spies the miraculous rigid newspaper. Unbeknown to the conductor the man in spectacles is a detective with a false arm. The newspaper has an iPad concealed within it, which Spectacles operates with his concealed hand beneath the folds of his coat. The false arm, nearest to Red Hat, is missing a finger, which broke off during her and Cigar’s set to. The detective is smiling because, as an added bonus, he recorded the fracas and has posted to YouTube. The private eye is on business for a client, watching the two ladies opposite, as the husband of one suspects his wife is having a lesbian affair with the gardener. The flowers were given by the lady in the pearls to the lady with blue piping on her hat and both clearly have their gardening gloves with them. The detective’s cover story is he is an author of a non-fiction book “Trilbys, Panamas and other Fine Hats” and is very interested in Cigar’s Norwegian roebuck hat, what he doesn’t realise is Red Hat is also a gardener in the ménage a trios relationship with Pearls and Blue Stripes. Pearls is holding tightly a copy of Spectacles’s signed Fine Hats book-a gift to satisfy her husband-little does she know it has a tracking device hidden inside. Red is just about to pull a revolver from her bag and shoot Spectacles, because he stole her manuscript for “The Lady Miliner’s Guide to Gentleman’s Headwear”.
I had arrived first and had the best seat. Found myself lulled by the rhythmic beat Made by the wheels of the tram. I drifted in and out of a sleep that was glam.
My cradled body rocked side to side. It nudged me back to awakening. I opened my eyes to a fuzzy sight. Unable to adjust although I tried.
Surrounded by oddly dressed women and men. When had the trolly stopped to let them in? I blinked and sat up straighter then. My eyes shifted around and back again.
A gent read his morning edition of The Times. Two young ladies chatted, flourishing in their prime. A lone, even younger lady, not yet marked by time. Stood with face hidden beneath a crimson cloche brim.
A most ominous passenger, With stogie sticking out of his face. To me, he appeared to be rather base. Stood by the door ready to exit the place.
Sir Stogie face exited at his stop. I breathed a sigh of relief and trembled from the tips of my toes to my head on top. I was glad to see him go. He troubled me.
What had possessed me to go out and about At so early an hour at the beginning of the day? I never will know why I woke up in another time. The tram was coming near to my stop, I saw the sign.
It had started to rain. The windows carried the stain From a dust-filled atmosphere. I could barely see the scene clear.
Should I stay on board and ride back again? Or should I leave the trolly in this period dated? It hurt my head to worry as I contemplated. I stood to go, for I had little to gain, should I remain.
I moved to the door and reached for the chain. To signal the car to slow once again. As I looked back, I felt my heart sink. The conductor smiled and gave me a wink.
I knew if I left, I would never see What had happened to me. Once outside would the world have changed? Would I find myself in 1923?
I recall riding the tram My hand in my mother’s hand A bent penny from the rails In my pocket The conductor sails Past with his ticket machine Red tickets, blue tickets, green Tickets and a bent Portrait of the queen In my pocket And my hand In my mother’s hand In a world a million years ago And I know I cannot recall that time Long before mine Or my mother’s time My hand in her hand And the cellophane-wrapped sweets And clean streets And the seas Empty of plastic And please Can I see your tickets And, yes, I am A child with my hand In my mother’s hand Riding the tram