Certificate showing a couple honeymooned in Niagara Falls
They honeymoon in Canada
to see Niagara Falls.
She’s young, and he is very old,
but oh, Viagra calls!
A single night of nuptial bliss
these newlyweds will face.
The pills work well—but truth to tell,
his old heart can’t keep pace.
Niagara Falls: Viagra calls
for just a little while;
a widow for a newlywed,
a dead groom with a smile.
She cashes the insurance check
and goes back to St. Paul;
she thanks the Lord for Viagra
and for Niagara Falls!
© 2001 Larry Pace
Source: The author, 2001
Buzzed on red wine
Niagara fall over your shoulder.
In Honeymoon Town.
The first time we took our clothes off
It was to Monty Python,
Not Simply Red
Not Marvin Gaye.
“How to protect yourself
From an assailant
Carrying fresh fruit”…
For months I couldn’t bring myself
To tell you this,
When we made love that night
I heard Eric Idle ask,
“What if I’m assaulted by a
Man carrying a pointed stick?”
Nor has much changed since.
The Nonelist Anthology, 2001.
About the author.
How many heart-wed lovers here have stood,
Like us, beside the Niagara ‘s folding brink,
Watching the thirsty gorge the torrent drink!
How many, like ourselves, in solitude
Have stood above the fierce moon-smitten flood,
Through whose mist clouds a myriad star-points twink,
And felt the grandeur of the cataract sink
Into their souls until was thought subdued.
How many human hearts here throbbed with love
And dreamed their love would live beyond the grave,
Strong as Niagara ‘s rush, deep as its fall,
Only within a little space to prove
Their love as changing as the tumbling wave
Which breaks in mist that darkly shadows all.
Source: Kevin McCabe, ed.
The Poetry of Old Niagara. St. Catharines, Ont. : Blarney Stone Books, 1999.
Originally published: Dominion Illustrated, June 22, 1889
We walked barefoot downtown,
Took off our raincoats under the falls,
With our pant legs rolled up,
We swam in Niagara’s fountain.
We met each other there.
We danced in a three foot pond,
Playing with someone else’s children.
Side-stepping forgotten wishes,
We filled the lines of our poem.
You asked me to marry you there.
There, when I told you of my
Dysfunctional family and lovers,
A girl’s need for stability; her strife
Of seeking greatness and purpose.
You said we would live life humble.
You went back to New York;
Taught your son to say my name.
Wrote me into your lectures;
Read my poems to your class.
You asked me to marry you there.
I, lost a tear for my ignorance,
Stepped away from myself,
Trying to recreate my vulnerability-
An insulting offer to you.
So I put those words away.
You were the first mirror to see my back eyes.
The first man to curse a shooting star,
For the raging flame it was.
The first poem I wrote,
As a woman.
Source: The author, 2001. Written in 1997.
A colony of nudists sing through the waves
loose like sheer capes
at the border of here and south,
quivering unabashedly in orgasm.
It’s not the pirates or daredevils they want
or the hair of widows on balconies
stuck in their tracks with hearts spun like old records
under a mournful sun.
The honeymooners are who they desire
brimming with foam and white white sheets
trailing along the guardrail pungent with sex
even after a shower, still full of nerve.
Cascading down the cliff they signal,
follow the jump in their ears;
The mermaid voices sweeter, more difficult to cast
away than the lines of wedding bells.
Source: Priscila Uppal.
Pretending to die. Exile Editions, 2001.
Priscila Uppal’s website