Your mother didn't like the church:
She would prefer a bigger one,
And all those photos at the birch
Were really blurred and badly done.
My mother quarrelled with your dad
About the price of caviar
And quality of fruit. He said
How rude and plain my parents are.
You didn't like the purple tie
And cuff links made of ruby stone
Because they didn't match your eye.
The bride-mate chatting on the phone
Didn't let me call Jacqueline
And tell her change the tablecloth
From baby pink to olive green
And ask her not to make the both.
Somebody broke the flower arch,
I couldn't find my satin glove…
The orchestra was playing march;
Just wedding fuss, and where is love?
Anna,
This poem speaks volumes to the utter chaos that can surround the planning of a wedding. So often, love is lost in the hustle and bustle of the planning, only to be found, after the ceremony is done!
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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excellent pen Anna...
John
Be always safe,
Karen
This poem speaks volumes to the utter chaos that can surround the planning of a wedding. So often, love is lost in the hustle and bustle of the planning, only to be found, after the ceremony is done!
Well done!
Jill
Regis