“Unscheduled Visitor ” for : Cracking Open the Content Time Capsule for Aug 5

This blog was posted  on this date (Aug 55) in 2017. I am reposting it for the prompt,”Cracking Open the Content Time Capsule.”

 

Unscheduled Visitor

I hear a rapid rapping and I’m wondering, “Who is it?”
It’s too early in the morning for a casual drop-in visit.
I’m still in my pajamas and the dogs and cats aren’t fed.
How can company be calling while I’m still here in bed?

The knocking is insistent but I have no way to spy
upon whatever passer-by refuses to pass by.
My intercom is broken, so I call out from the door,
“Who is it?” but it’s obvious they aren’t there anymore.

I wander back to bed again, feeling somewhat tense.
Only when I’m sleeping does the knocking recommence.
“Who is it?” I scream out again, accenting every vowel.
The dogs sense my frustration and they begin to howl.

My bedroom sliders are open, so my voice soars over the wall.
Any passerby could hear if they could hear at all.
But still nobody answers. This Saturday morning’s still.
There are no other noises up here on my hill.

No car horns and no dog barks. No children’s noisy play.
No birdcalls. No construction to mar this quiet day.
Except for my invectives as the rappings start again—
louder, oh much louder than they have ever been.

As I charge out of my front door, I grab for an umbrella—
in case I need a weapon to fight off some unknown fella
intent on ruining my day, but when I turn the key
and open wide my front wall gate, there’s no one there but me!

I roar in my frustration. The whole town must hear my wails.
I throw that damn umbrella. Over the wall it sails.
I stalk back to my room and pull the covers over my head,
praying for more silence, but what I get instead

is the steady rat-tat-tatting that now upon reflection
seems to emanate from a different direction.
I draw aside my bedroom drapes and wonder, “What the heck?”
sweeping my sight across my yard, I finally crane my neck

and see it far up in a palm—an industrious woodpecker
whose ruthless drilling is the thing that’s been my sleep-in wrecker!
I cannot throw a shoe at him for I can’t throw that far.
If I tried to knock a golf ball up, I’d be far over par.

At last I view with humor this ridiculous affair,
and so I pull on Levis and smooth my ruffled hair.
I shuffle off to feed the dogs, the kittens and the cat
and just accept as music this rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

 

The prompt today is casual.


  • I Love this! Beautiful writing!!!

  • Thanks so much. After I finished the poem he/she continued his knocking into the afternoon.

  • One morning a woodpecker aroused me from my comfy recliner by hammering intermittently on the steel chimney cap of our wood stove. I thought someone was banging on the pipes!

  • It’s a long time since I’ve heard a woodpecker! This is a wonderful poem, and a great photo of your visitor!

Hesitation, for dVerse Poets

Hesitation

As I recite my Sunday Psalms,
two butterflies alight like balms
upon the leper’s outstretched palms.

Thus nature intervenes and calms
the remainder of my qualms.
I fill the beggar’s hands with alms.

 

For the dVerse prompt today, Merril inspired us to write about butterflies.

The Journey Within for dVerse Poets

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A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it. ~George Moore

This quote says succinctly what I have been saying to friends lately.  I no longer feel the push to travel but would rather stay home and think and write.  At first this made me feel old and then I started to realize that it is in the natural order of things to seek and then reflect.  It is not just a question of energy, but more a matter of the direction of one’s curiosity.  The more I traveled, the more I found that things do not vary that much.  Everywhere I’ve gone, the same personalities are sprinkled over the landscape.  Only the landscape and the percentages change.  Once you’ve found a place where there are the greatest number of people who appreciate you for who you really are, you have found home.  Then the task is to go inwards. That is where the real journey exists.

The longest journey
that I have ever gone on
is within myself.

For Haibun Monday the prompt is “Journeying.)

Wanderlust, for Rewind: Posts from Previous Years for Aug 2

Wanderlust

When I was a little girl, no more than just a snip,
I longed to be up in the air or on a sailing ship.
I lusted for adventure––for travel and for more.
I brooded over my dull life––such a crushing bore.
At five I was a dreamer. A backyard visionary.
I imagined me as gypsy, tourist or missionary.
My fantasies weren’t random. In all of them I traveled.
Year after year more restless and wandering dreams unraveled.

Tarzan was my hero and Superman my crush––
their journeys through the jungle or air currents a rush.
I longed for all their freedom––to fly and move at will.
All of their adventures dreamed from my windowsill.
All night I took such pilgrimages over hills and ridges,
crossing raging rivers over extension bridges.
At sixteen I sneaked out at night in my father’s car
and drove for hours through the night, going just so far

that I could be back home before he arose at five
to snuggle back into my bed in our familial hive.
Then slowly I transitioned into who I longed to be.
I swung down from the branches of my family tree.
Trips to far-off places: Australia and Japan,
Africa, Sri Lanka, Bali and Bataan
all came true. As time passed, I ended the charade
of my stationary life and joined the grand parade.

The world one grand excursion, for many years I quested,
thinking that the life that I was born to could be bested,
until at last I learned the truth that what I journeyed for
was simply to unlock the lock and open up that door
that led me deep into myself to find that private world
that lived inside me all those years, so securely curled
that I only found it by first venturing afar.
Thus do we wander far afield to discover who we are.

This was a post from Aug 2, 2019

“Daily News” for the Sunday Whirl Wordle

 

Daily News

Voices from the underworld weave in spirals through my dreams
like a current passing through my bones, prompting silent screams
that echo through the temples of my former faith,
their desolate chambers now the home of this hopeless wraith.
Sparks of past enlightenment now simply shed sparse light
in this pit of loneliness whose shadows fade to night.
What dreams may I yet follow to light my upward path
Dispelling enough darkness to cancel out my wrath?

for the Sunday Whirl Wordle #768, the prompt words are: screams desolate temples bone sparks pit voices follow underworld spiral weave current

Dia de Muertos in Mexico for Lens Artists Challenge

No celebration in Mexico is bigger than Dia de Muertos. Shrines, parades, painted faces, decorated graves, special art.

For Patti Moed’s Lens Artists Challenge Celebrations Around the World prompt.

“I (Don’t) Pardon Your French” for Word of the Day

I (Don’t) Pardon Your French

I’m a hayseed sort of girl. I don’t believe in fancy.
To me, anything foreign is likely to be chancy.
I don’t eat things like escargot. I shudder at foie gras.
I buy my shoes in canvas, but never peau de soie.
When folks speak French to order food, I find it most pretentious,
and when they draw me into it, I’ll likely grow contentious.
I don’t like words that prettify. I view them angrily.
Like au courant, je ne sais quoi, pardon or vis-á -vis.
Why don’t folks just eat and say what comes naturally?
I think it’s done to irritate simple gals like me!

The Word of the Day is Pardon. Illustration created making use of AI.

Cast in Potato Salad, Carved in Stone for “Great Minds Think”

daily life color083 (2)
Cast in Potato Salad, Carved in Stone

The last thing I ever thought I would do would be to pose for a nude sculpture, but when I married a sculptor, I guess it was inevitable.  Since I never had children, this probably marked the longest period in my life that I ever lay nude being observed by a second party.  I remembered having no reservations about doing so, in spite of the fact that I am really rather modest––that is about revealing myself physically. Words are another matter all together.

My husband first sculpted me in plasticine clay. (No, not the ubiquitous Sculpey, but a very dense artist’s clay used to make the originals for bronze sculpting.) He then made a plaster mold followed by a rubber reverse mold that would enable him to make further plaster molds once he destroyed the plasticine original so he could reuse the plasticine.  After mastering the intricacies of wood carving, bronze casting, welding, clay, sandblasting, paper making and stone carving, he was in a difficult spot.  A tool junkie, he had already purchased or made every tool necessary for working in these media. How could he justify buying any more tools or building another studio addition to add to the seven studios he had already set up?

The answer came when our artist friend Diana moved to town.  Her medium was cast glass and Bob soon became fascinated with the process.  Of course, this necessitated the purchase of dozens of large jars of different colored glass casting pellets as well as books, chemicals and other supplies necessary for the process. Unfortunately, we already owned a large kiln, so he couldn’t justify buying a new pristine kiln to be used only for the melting of glass.  True, some molecules of clay might permeate the glass castings, but he decided at least for his first project, to use our existing kiln.

I can’t remember what his first few castings were, but after a few experiments, he decided that his first large glass project would be–ta da–a glass casting of his recumbent nude wife!

The thing was, this necessitated ordering a good deal more glass, and in the meantime, he had this wonderful rubber mold just sitting there unused!  He tried to busy himself with carving stone and wood, but meanwhile that mold beckoned!  Enter fate in the guise of the next show at the Santa Cruz Mountains Art Center, where we were both members.  And the next show was––Edible Art!  In addition to food-centered art themes, there was to be a cookbook of artist’s favorite recipes and the piece de resistance was an edible category, to be consumed at the reception!!!  Thus it was that I came to be cast in potato salad––first molded in “the” well-washed and disinfected rubber mold  and then fine-sculpted by Bob’s hands.

I must admit I felt some trepidation about first being viewed nude, then being consumed by my fellow artists and friends.  This smacked of the Donner party or some sort of sixties orgy, but how we suffer for our art.  I requested Bob not reveal who his model was and all went well.  Later, the judge told us that he would have won first place for edible art if I had not forgotten and used some of the water I used to boil the eggs to add moisture to the potato salad. I had forgotten that I always put a half cup of salt in the water to seal the eggs in case they cracked during the boiling process and that addition made the potato salad totally inedible.  The judges could do nothing but award his sculpture fourth place prize in place of first, right ahead of a jellybean mosaic in the Byzantine style, but behind my third place for my “Garden of Earthly delights” salad.

Yes, the glass grains did arrive and yes he cast the sculpture, but what happened during the further fiasco of my chain of nude effigies must be left to another time and post lest this one grow too long to read.    Suffice it to say that once cast in potato salad, twice in glass, it seems only appropriate that my grave be marked by my magnificent if inedible body rendered into stone!!!  It will be the sensation of my little town, I can promise you.

My post is in response to this  intriguing prompt for Great Minds Think:

In a world where anyone can be famous, and even the most seemingly commonplace life can become the next bestseller or blockbuster, you enter the spotlight.So how do you want to be immortalized? Is a Tony-winning musical the best medium for your life? An eight episode Netflix or Apple TV documentary or biopic? A comedy sitcom? If any of the above, who would play you? Or are you instead going the OG route and writing your own autobiography or letting another person tell your story? Are you inspirational or a cautionary tale? An epic poem which gives Homer a run for his money, or a limerick? A song played on the radio and sung at karaoke bars?I t comes down to this: If you were to be immortalized for future generations, what form would it take, and what aspects of your life do you think you would want people to know about you? Take any form you want, but try to have fun with it.

 

Necromancer’s Oversight for “Can You Write a Story in 51 Words?”

 

Necromancer’s Oversight

A type of evil second-chancer,
he became a necromancer,
nibbling cookies with a yawn
as he resurrected the devil’s spawn,
never considering whether
it was fine or stormy weather.
So, yesterday Beelzebub 
showed up dripping at the pub,
for his usual vacation,
minus his evil elation,
fire put out by precipitation.

 

For her prompt for “Can You Tell A Story In. . . .” this week, Esther wants us to write a story in 51 words including these words: YAWN, WEATHER, TOOT, COOKIES, NECROMANCER. (In case you have forgotten,  as I did, a necromancer is a person who practices magic to communicate with the dead, raise corpses, or use black magic.)

Illustration created making use of AI.

 

Family Harvest for “Cracking Open the Time Capsule.”

For “Cracking Open the Content Tme Capsule, we were to revisit our posts from this day, July 31. This post is from 2016.

Family Harvest

Sanguine, he was charismatic,
while she was choleric and emphatic;
so when their child was born phlegmatic,
the mother found his moods too static
while the father ruled his wife fanatic:
too moody, crabby and dramatic.

Their melancholic second child,
both parents found to be too mild.
Too analytical and quiet,
they put her on a special diet
of jalapenos in her suppers
and other culinary uppers.

Still, she grew up to be a judge,
while their eldest remained hard to budge.
Too relaxed to find employment,
he lacked the necessary deployment––
preferring to stay safe at home,
as lifeless as a garden gnome.

With dad the life of every party
and mother volatile and arty,
their family life slowly eroded.
Then one day, simply exploded.
Each unique personality
split off to be what they could be.

Thus would sage Hippocrates
class this familial demise
as differences in temperament.
Each following his special bent,
once fallen from the family tree,
did best when allowed to roll free.

 

“Four temperaments ” is a proto-psychological theory that suggests that there are four fundamental personality types, sanguine (optimistic and social), choleric (short-tempered or irritable), melancholic (analytical and quiet), and phlegmatic (relaxed and peaceful).––Wikipedia