Poems and Poetry

Ralph Monday

To Surreal, With Love | A Poem by Ralph Monday

To Surreal, With Love
Sheree North died aged 72,
one of the last in a long line of Fox blondes
stretching from Sonja Henie, Alice Faye,
Betty Grable, June Haver to Jayne Mansfield
and Marilyn Monroe.

North, hired by 20th Century-Fox, the intention:
making her the next Monroe, height and measurements
she almost matched exactly.

She told an interviewer in 1983, “same reaction when producers
hear my name, the blonde who was to
have taken over from Marilyn Monroe.”

February 1954, the 21-year-old dancer signed with Fox
[who had] problems with the unreliable Monroe.
The following year, North featured on the cover of
Life magazine, lead in How To Be Very, Very Popular,
a part which Monroe turned down.

It was a lively launch to her career. Paired with the
38-year-old Betty Grable (in her last screen role), North
seemed fresh,energetic, in number “Shake, Rattle and Roll,”
publicized as “the first rock’n’roll dance on the screen!”

Erasure Poem
Source: Bergan, Ronald. “Sheree North.” The Guardian. Friday 18 November

Mr. Pocahontas | A Poem by Ralph Monday

Mr. Pocahontas

That’s my new identity sent as some
anonymous spam message on the
Smart Phone which is not so smart.

Mr. Pocahontas

Has nice flow, some pizazz!
Really a cool handle to introduce
myself at the bar, you know like
a CIA code name or Secret Service.

Mr. Pocahontas

Funny what a cool name can do;
makes a new me, mysterious, alluring,
the kinda guy that’s attractive, dangerous,
all in the same Christmas wrapped package.

Mr. Pocahontas

Makes pimples disappear, bad breath
become tropical fruit, the belly flab
turn into a six pack. Yeah!

Mr. Pocahontas

If only my mother had laid down such
a player bling on me, my whole life
would have been one total music.

But then —

Mrs. Pocahontas

is making a 17th century call on the cell.
WTF you pale faces still don’t get it.
Gonna take my hat and pow! let you
know that the interracial gig already
happened with John so cut the crap

Mrs. Pocahontas

Daddy don’t like this stuff.
When I went off to England to club,
the only savages were the ones at
the masque.
And then I died.

Don’t kill me again.

Silent Frames | A Poem by Ralph Monday

An urge always exists to relive our days,
Wind back the clock to observe selves
Reliving regrets in silent movie frames,
No color to our lives. Instead, we tiredly
Move as underworld shades physically mute
To the past pain of thoughtless words that we
Cast on others like reams of sticky cobwebs,
Magician forming in those days the tomorrow
Template that clings like foul smoke.
Our present, beads of spit, oil, sour tastes
Tilled from that salted earth.