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Posts Tagged ‘Oscar’

I came to see the doctor and was told, “He’s running late.”
The reading fare was magazines for women as they wait.
Was this a gynecologist or were men second-rate?
I felt I was a sparrow looking for a speck to eat.
I wish I’d brought my book to read; I knew that it’s a treat.
The Civil War had frills and pink in ev’ry which way beat.

A man went to the window after I’d been there some time.
(‘Twas feeling a bit sorry for myself as if a crime
I’d done and now was jailed, no lawyer and no dime.)
He first was given papers, then decided not to stay,
And turned them back and told the nurse he had to go away.
He mentioned who he was; she said she’d go and say.

And after just a little bit, the fellow jumped the line;
The place he took without a place was that place that was mine!
Without my extra hour wait, that might have been just fine.
Then fifteen minutes more and out the door the prep nurse came
And after all that time I’d spent, I finally heard my name.
It seemed to me that I’d been called for golden Oscar fame.

And as she led me back to yet another waiting room
We passed doc and the jumping toad – talk, talk in hallway’s gloom.
I waited half an hour more within an inner tomb.
When finally he entered, my year’s happiness was nil.
He said accept apology, all day had been uphill.
I looked him in the eye and said, “I don’t think that I will.”


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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The guard is close as he can be
To one who holds the ball,
Who swings his body for some space
The guard won’t give at all. 

The pivot moves the elbows close;
The guard then falls away.
The flop is faster than the eye;
He was not touched that day. 

But slow-eyed ref still called a foul;
The guard winked from the floor.
Awarded was his team the ball,
And he with Oscar lore.



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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

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Chameleons can paint themselves away
Into the colored canvas where they lie
Until they are a needle in the hay,
Until they are an outline to the eye.

An actress who’s the greatest in her class,
Who pours herself into the part she plays
And fills it like pure water fills a glass
So disappears, to ev’rybody’s praise.

The one becomes another not a twin.
The first has died to give the second life
By slipping into a disparate skin
With tailor’s ease or with a surgeon’s knife.

The face of Meryl Streep can still be seen
In parts she plays, but she’s not on the screen.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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