By: Tamara White

I

She sits

And waits.

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

Unforgettable nature

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.

II

He’s here.

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.

They talk.

She laughs.

He smiles.

They laugh.

One drink. Second drink. Third drink.

She whispers in his ear.

He smiles.

She stares.

Entranced by her.

And in a hypnotic state.

He pays.

They leave.

III

Heaven between the softness of Trumpet’s thighs.

“Heaven” Fern cries as

Womanly nectars draw him deep into that damp sticky place.

“Heaven”

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.”

“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

IV

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

Interloper

She could not see

Interloper

She could only feel

In the weight of her breast

The taste on her tongue

Interloper

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

V

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

VI

“You’re dying” The youngest who dare not to retreat declared to him

Too strong

Too knowing

Too rooted in truth

Too stubborn

Too much she needed to say

Because she herself used to be a trumpet on a much smaller scale

“I’m living.”

“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.”

Smiles vibrantly

Unaware of the truth

Too seduced by the lies

To feel how slowly he dies

VII

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.

“No.”

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?

VIII

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