By: Tamara White
The Angel Trumpet of the Bar
Her bloom is full, her vibrant coloring flawless.
No sharp edges just soft lines flowing seamlessly together to create her seductiveness.
Waist is narrow like a delicate stem.
Cleavage, and bottom are full like the flower for which she is named.
Supple lips like a juicy peach
Her flirtatious eyes lull men into a zombie like trance.
Leading lady in every man’s lust filled thoughts.
Trumpet’s legs long and lean lay crossed.
Foot encased in a six-inch heel
Sways back and forth to the rhythm of the bar.
The beat moves from sobering nine to five realities to the drunken romanticism of what could have been
If no nine to five manacles existed
It’s a beat so ferocious it’s almost primordial.
Intoxicating allure and the flicker of the red on the bottom of her heel
Make Trumpet the envy of every woman.
Other women while rose beautiful
Look like wilted daisies compared to her.
Trumpet takes over the bar like a bountiful boutique seizes control of a tiresome room
Trumpet catches a blonde at the end of the bar getting drunk on her exquisiteness.
She enjoys the stares she has come to expect.
Gazes are her aphrodisiac.
No women. I heard they’re too clingy. But one never knows if the perfect one comes into season. Trumpet muses as she runs her pink tongue across her delicious red lips. A flicker of hope she whispers to herself.
Always give them a flicker.
The Daisy smiles back but dare not move.
Desire moistness the fabric between her legs
She wants the release that comes from having an the Angel but not enough to relinquish it all
Just to drink her juices.
She danced that dance with an Aguloa Orchid several years ago.
Cost her everything but her soul.
Angel Trumpet is neither offended nor fazed by retreat.
She can smell the hurt and fear trapped in the Daisy’s withered essence.
Trumpet’s not worried about being alone
Because a Trumpet never lingers long alone.
Alluring mixture of high-end perfume and her naturals oils will make him the moth to her flame.
Second drink on the tab.
More than the twenty in her purse.
No worries about the bill because she knows he’ll pay.
He always pays.
Even when he can’t afford to pay he pays.
Sips slowly as the rules given to her by a soft pink Trumpet who faded away many seasons ago
Roll softly through her head
Always single never married less mess.
Be generous with sex but stingy with affection.
Remind him how much he loves you.
Please his senses to the point that he forgets you have never said those three special words to him.
Please his eyes with beauty, his ears with soft moans, his smell with the sent of your heat, and his touch with softness
Never ask for anything. Make him want to give you everything.
Carefully she looked each one over as more and more shuffle through the door.
Looking for him.
The one that was cultivated for her.
All of them unique in their own way
Each one possessing special fragrance.
Some stink of missed deadlines, and cut backs.
Others posses the aroma of won contracts, huge bonuses and overdue promotions.
One tries to sit next to her, instantly drawn to her effervescent beauty.
Sizes him up.
Italian shoes. Italian suit. Perfect teeth.
Bvlgari watch he flashed at her twice.
And a wedding band tan that plays against his cameral colored skin.
“I’m waiting for someone.” Voice low and seductive yet commanding and direct.
“I know. I’m here now.” His is ego harsh like cactus needles.
“Does your wife know you’re for me?”
Trumpet snatches her beauty from him
Face full of onyx curls left for him to talk to.
“Lesbian.” Snarled in the way only a cactus can.
With his whiskey neat he turns his voracious gaze towards the fake flower thirsty for attention on the other side of him.
Bar keep delivers a tall colorful looking drink.
Nods his head towards fair skinned and well built.
He’s dandelion trying hard to be a trumpet.
Long seductive mocha colored hand waives his offering away.
Foul odor says rail.
Trumpet never drinks rail.
Rail is for the beginners,
And the ones who never move past the beginning.
Trumpet continues her wait.
Her eyes lock on him before he fully enters the door.
Gazes in the mirror to make sure every petal is in place.
Winks her approval at the perfect loveliness.
A little late but he’s here.
Swallows the last of her drink. Owes me two for making me wait.
Sits one down from her
Been rooted much longer than she.
Eyes exhausted but kind.
Like a fern that longs for proper mist.
Hands wrinkled but manicured.
Suit quality not flash.
Watch screams well established money.
Smiles softly at him.
Offers her back a weak and wilted hello.
Trumpet slides over and ask “Alone?”
Sighs back and declares. “Always”
Answer makes him think of the one who got away and the one who passed away. “Always.” He forces out again.
Her gaze traps him. Quickly shifts his eyes away.
Touch draws him back.
Timorous, loneliness, and money. My favorite things in a man.
Fern’s not stupid.
He knows plants like him don’t pull flowers like her unless they have currency like him.
But does not care.
Tired of always and
Desperate to wake up with beautiful in his bed.
Poor Fern so fraught by his need for more
has no idea what always and desperate have just paid for.
One drink. Second drink. Third drink.
She whispers in his ear.
Entranced by her.
And in a hypnotic state.
Heaven between the softness of Trumpet’s thighs.
“Heaven” Fern cries as
Womanly nectars draw him deep into that damp sticky place.
Greedily wants to drink what he knows is sweet
But to selfish to stop the
Leaves and steams from swaying in concert to sip
Petals twist and turn
Branches shake and quiver
Back and forth
Up and down
The wall echoes a beat that grows more primal with every bump and thump
Louder and Louder
Moans and groans
Devours her neck as he thrust deeper and harder into her sexy and sensual place
Manhood reclaimed the word mine slips pass ravenous lips
Thirsty no more Fern found his mist
Gasp of air seeps past smeared red lips
Not frightened just pleased
Her Fern found his mist
He moves with vigor and speed
Almost there, almost there
At that place that perfect place
Where the emotions and soul take total control
That place lets him know God exist
Because no man could create a perfect sensation such as this
Labored breathing picks up where the echoing stops.
Sleep well gentle Fern for the Trumpet will have her due.
The morning crashes their sleep while the air still thick with their scent
Trumpet moves slow so she doesn’t startle but hard enough to rouse.
“You can’t leave.” Fern outlines the small of her back
Crazy curls frame her face,
As Trumpet looks back “I can’t afford to stay.”
“Yes, you can. Trust me you can. You can afford to be the soft and beautiful flower that waits for me in my bed.”
Trumpet smiles softly. Knowing she’s winning at her game. “Always.”
“Say it again.”
“Yes, my beautiful, always.”
Her gaze filled with a hunger for money and things is met with one of contentment and love as she thinks to herself. Yes always
Beautiful, wonderful things
Her wrist, her neck, her fingers
All weighted with beautiful things
Designer this designer that
Engines that growl
Like a lioness satisfied by the hunt
His ravenous desire to touch, to lick, to taste
To turn her, twist her and bend her
Made him give her all those things
“I love you” lead the way when Fern gave those beautiful things
“Always” Trumpet whispered in response when Fern gave those things
She never spoke love only always
Fern’s passion heard love when she whispered always
First month, second month, third month, fourth month
Than the missed month
That made Trumpet regret always
She could not see
She could only feel
In the weight of her breast
The taste on her tongue
She thought again
Standing there newborn bare
Eyeing her nakedness
In the mirror that was over there
Then a smile not one of joy
But of lust
For beautiful things
New level to the game
More leverage in the game
Ripeness has its advantages Trumpet mused
If I had known how many
I would have done this
Three ferns, and two cacti ago
Trumpet flaunted her ripeness anywhere and everywhere
She enjoyed all the malevolent stares
Given by those who hate her
and those who hate not being her
Made her joy flutter like butterfly wings
Those stares made her glow more than her ripeness
Most glares derive from the older ones fern help bare
They knew her truth and
Trumpet couldn’t be bother to care
“For you.” Fern whispered.
Eight-karats adorn her finger once naked
Moans and groans from the others who are forced to sit there
They want her gone
They want him to cut her off
Banish her from their garden
Smile soft and sweet as crimson lips placed on his
And whispers what she would do to him if the others weren’t there
He ignores the moans and groans of the others that stare
He reminds them all that it is he who watered them
Grew them cultivated them
And set them free to create their own gardens
While his home lay bare
How Trumpet got there
Fern knows but doesn’t care
Thirst for only her
And all the ripeness she bares
“I want this. I need this.”
Hands placed on the next of his seed
“I want this. I need this.” Trumpet declares
As she thinks about not him
But all the beautiful things she and her interloper are going to share
Fern gave and she took
New dwelling twice his
Fit for twelve
But will only hold two
“You’re dying” The youngest who dare not to retreat declared to him
Too rooted in truth
Too much she needed to say
Because she herself used to be a trumpet on a much smaller scale
“You’re dry as a bone. Why don’t you see?”
That house those cars that weed she carries
Voice laced with venom and despair
“She draining you bare
Hair faded like dry grass
Fingers have half moons embellished on each nail
Eyes no white to be found just a dull milky brown
She killing you!”
“No! She makes me live
I feel so alive when she’s here”
“No, you feel lust when she’s near.”
Trumpet smiles as she listens.
Just beyond the dead oak door
Silly flowers never learn
“She’s a hoe tearing-“
Prickly sentence not allowed to be said.
Tears water her face
As sting spreads across her once unsoiled face
“Trim back your rage. I will listen no more. She is mine always and forever more.”
And like and actress on cue, Trumpet materializes
Special drink in hand
Three drops added no more
Fern smiles and drinks his fatality
“Makes me live when she’s near.”
Unaware of the truth
Too seduced by the lies
To feel how slowly he dies
Sweet and somber
That place where souls always meet.
Where truth is passed between them
Fern sits and waits
His stem split between here and beyond
His dryness beyond repair
And then she appears
He knows her upon sight
His mini trumpet
Is finally there
They sit in that place where minutes are never a care
She holds his hand as she shares
All truth he refused to accept
“I’m foolish.” Emaciated Fern proclaims.
Too late to change my course.”
“Too foolish for only there but never foolish here. Leave it all there. Let her have it all there. None of what she desires matters here.”
Stern words from his mini trumpet
Fern smiles at her wisdom
Overwhelmed by her essence pure and verve
And her eagerness to be the life he can no longer
No anger in him her beauty keeps that at bay
She looks like her but draws her kindness from him
“Have no doubts and no concerns we trumpets have our ways.
Individual are our predetermined destinies.
So unlike my vessel I will never trade my soul for fine-looking and beautiful things. Now hold me one last time and then let me go.”
Desperation fills his branches and soul.
Frantic to memorize every curve that makes her his.
“It’s time.” Tiny trumpet whispers.
His tears water her face.
“Please daddy you must let me go.”
Fern releases his grasp with a soul crushing sadness
Back in the pot where he no longer choses to be
Fern sits and waits for the gardener to pluck him free.
Five cycles of dawn pass just beyond his gaze
And the Trumpet he no longer wants appears in sight
Holding the essence he held so dear over there.
“She here. Looks just like me. I’m sorry you couldn’t be there. But look at how much she looks just like me.”
His eyes burn with poison for his trumpet.
Stomach churns as he remembers her taste
Vile words fill what’s left of his slipping mind
Until he sees the look in his beautiful essence eyes
“Let go.” Tiny eyes whispers to him. “I’m here to deal with her. Please, let go.”
Fern closes his eyes. Quiet exit in the nocturnal hour
No morning dawn for him
Trumpet glows in the wake of his demise
Plays her staring role
To a knowing and unsupportive cast
But it’s not them that shakes her
But the fixated glare from tiny eyes she huddles near
That agitates her bloom
That speak truth to her soul
What to do? With a little one who’s trying desperately to destroy my show?
Not mortality but fading chastens trumpet’s self-serving soul
Season after season watching her mini blossom and grow
While her vibrant color fades
Fewer and fewer delight in her beauty
She’s been baptized in invisibility
And then there are those subtle moments
Where she catches the truth in her mini’s eye
Her look lets her know her hourglass runs low
Tiny trumpet cultivated and nourished by the flowers left unpluck from Fern’s garden
Their soft whispers of veracity remind her soul why she is here
Never allowing her to neglect her obligation
To correct what is iniquitous
As she grows and develops into what her mother could never be
An Angel Trumpet with a not for sale soul
When she is ten years twice over
That age when she can command what her mother can no longer
Tiny Trumpet creates a brilliant mélange for the older trumpet to drink
No dragged out process like Fern’s special juice
Only meant to be drank once
Tiny Trumpet has neither sorrow nor apologies as she watches
Her mother drink, enjoy, and crumble to the floor and become no more
Angel Trumpets while poisonous to others are even more toxic to their own
While it’s a choice to sell their souls
It’s never an option to be deadly
They are the tango with the Mephistopheles
They are beautiful and saccharinity
Yet digestibly sour
Once in your system you cannot release
She is the last face you will ponder
As your wealth and moments escape
So only view her and then let her pass
The Angel Trumpet of the Bar