Turning Point

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Sample Poems by Luann Landon


Tiffany


Back home from Italy, she seemed too free
to fit the house-the girl who used to be
just pretty, now was beautiful. A ring
she had, and wanted every other thing
that props a future bride. She called him Count
Carlo, "of ancient lineage iron-clad."
He must be rich, but the exact amount
she didn't know-he'd surely tell her dad.
He planned to visit, first of many trips
coupling Florence with Tatum, Tennessee.
New custom jeans she wore for all to see-
his name rhinestoned across her healthy hips.
"She goes," her mom said, "where she wants to go.
And Tiffany has always liked a show."

Tiffany in Tatum-Carlo in shock.
(Her dad had doubts, expressed no doubts out loud.)
He flat ignored the house that made them proud.
And proud they were to come of yeoman stock.
Sharp shoes, silk suit, a distance when he smiled.
A linen handkerchief just pocket-size.
Hands manicured, some redness in his eyes-
a man who looked both duded up and wild.
While they made much of him, feted and fed,
he scanned this girl, this New World specimen.
Her joy was blinding. Leaving, he bowed and said
in perfect English, "Until we meet again."
"Until we meet again" to Tiffany
meant marriage, love oh love, and Italy.

She rushed to send the invitations out
and tallied wedding gifts and flew about.
Most of the county, folks from miles away
and all of Tatum knew Carlo by name.
Eager, they waited all that wedding day
and watched all night. Count Carlo never came.
Her dad exploded, "Whole dern thing is fraud.
I've had it with the Junior Year Abroad."

Tiffany stayed in her room to fret
but finally felt more anger than regret.
She fronted folks downtown, for good or ill,
but not in custom jeans. She knew she still
was queen of Tatum, even in disgrace.
She wore a brazen smile to hide her face.



A High-Toned Old Southern Woman


That child had something bad to tell-
I knew at once she was not well-
the way she lost her ruddy tone.
I found her sobbing and alone.

She loves her mother more than me-
Vinny-foolishly young and free.
I'm not much fun-just stiff and old.
But I'm the one Edwina told.

I listened, let her talk and cry:
"A photo magazine called Guy
in Jeffrey's car was what I found-
naked women lying down."

I comforted as best I could,
said the things I thought I should.
"Your mother loves you very much.
That magazine you shouldn't touch."

This Jeffrey "guy" had made his claim:
his photos on the brink of fame.
Vinny, a widow, bored at work,
perceived a genius in a jerk.

Perhaps because we're quiet and poor
and people don't know who we are,
that young man didn't realize
my father was as rich as wise.

Sent North to gauge the enemy world,
the Colonel loved a Yankee girl,
came home to poverty and wife.
"Children," he said, "we have for life."

So I with Vinny had a word,
I said what she'd already heard-
but stronger this time: Family first,
before the body's quenchless thirst.

"But Jeffrey is an artist, fine
by nature, boorish by design.
He needs me near, I feed the fonts
of his creative soul. He wants-"

"He wants young flesh," was all I said.
I saw her wince and bow her head.
"You kill the little joy I have.
My family rules me from the grave."

Lavinia will, if marry she must-
I pride myself on being just-
marry someone of her own class.
She seems sad now. That will pass.

Edwina, healthy child again,forgets the trouble we were in,
but knows life's plenty, not its lack,
now she's got her mother back.



Acanemics


Professor Paddington and spouse Adair
delete the raucous and the risible.
In brownish coats with furled umbrellas, they're
quite discreet, almost invisible.

Year in year out, unhurried, carefully,
they circumvent the sudden and the wild.
They have a child they raise by theory
but never seem to recognize their child.


Her Son


I love the way he cooks and serves,
steady, so not to jar my nerves,
the way we talk above our food
that makes me feel the world is good.

Early, my life turned mean to me-
old woman I was at twenty-three.
I'd left Virginia, all my kin,
gone west to a land of boorish men.

My husband was a Low Church preacher,
driven to be a Jesus-teacher,
although a fervent, handsome man,
dour, rock-ribbed, puritan.

Our train arrived in Texastown-
haphazard heap, more stick than stone;
the only street a swamp of mud;
packs of drunks, and solitude.

I had my luggage, I'd brought my things.
My books, my silver, lace and rings
held every memory I could tell-
I had been Richmond's finest belle.

From those two battered trunks I styled
a life and future for my child.
Corsets and childbirth ruined my health-
a faithful son is now my wealth.

The night before he passed away
I overheard my husband say:
"Carl never married-just as well-
one woman is enough of hell."

Have I done wrong? Dependency
has stunted him? But he needs me.
Carl's life is one long cry of pity?
I once was blithe, I once was pretty.

I brought him up so carefully.
I taught him taste and subtlety.
No man can judge with more finesse
just how a lady ought to dress.

Scholarships, the finest schools-
for he already knew the rules.
My manners gave him free entr'ee
when he left home to make his way.

A Navy officer-the War
over and won, he still went far,
in Rome and London was invited-
important people seemed delighted.

And when he met the opera star
he wrote me pages of what she wore-
her seven bracelets, pearls she loves,
even the buttons on her gloves.

We live together, as old folks should.
He teaches French-he always could
speak languages; and we don't mind
a little town, the pretty kind.

He is my child, my only one,
he is a gentleman, my son,
gallant as my Virginia beau-
the one who turned and let me go.