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School Discipline in Transylvania
The screen door bangs. I’m off to school
where the teachers think they rule,
but I think I see signs of worry
on my teacher as I hurry
into class and take my seat.
Already, he displays defeat
before the spit wads take their toll,
betraying who is in control.
A first and then a second wad
sails through the air and towards his bod.
He lifts his face to the attack,
then calmly turns to show his back.
He writes his name and then the date,
then waits for missiles to abate.
Sucks in his breath and turns around
to silence. There is not a sound
as shooters wilt and drop their ammo,
reacting to our teacher’s whammo.
It’s like a screen lifts from his face,
his old self gone without a trace,
a second visage in its place.
His eyes are bulging out in space,
his forehead furled beneath his bangs,
his teeth protruding out like fangs,
like a vampire’s wont to do,
his face a sickly pallid hue.
His fingers curl into long claws,
occasioning a longer pause.
Hushed silence reigns. Lectures begin.
This teacher has great discipline!!!!
For The Sunday Whirl Wordle, the words are : control, worry, school, see, face, date, screen, shooter, attack, sucks and second. Image by Tra Nguyen on Unsplash.
This Little Light of Mine
I was purified each Sunday, sitting on a child-sized wooden chair, belting out “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.” Sure of salvation, my only worry was whether I’d forget the Bible verse memorized by repeating it every morning and every night for the preceding week.
I was glorious holy, worrying about my dad, who put the harvest before church, trying to pray him back from a future Hell. Yes, there were happy ladies shepherding us up the back stairs from Sunday School to real church above; but there were also those who gave us brief flashes of the fires of Hell, who denied that perfect attendance bar for my Sunday School pin even when my excuse was a verified hospital stay to have my tonsils out. Muriel, the preacher’s daughter and my oldest sister’s best friend, stealing the bar to add to my Sunday School pin, anyway. Surely this member of a holy family herself validity enough to certify my perfect attendance in intention if not in fact.
Where did it go, that round white enamel pin with the surrounding gold cluster for the second year and new bar hanging down each year thereafter for perfect attendance? I wore it with such pride. Did it blow away in the tornado that lifted my parents’ roof that year long after I had left? Was it stolen in the burglary at my house where 70 rings were stolen? Did divine intervention finally lift it from my possession?
The only certainty is that this pack rat did not throw it away. I am an artist of little things, joining them together to create stories of my life, the world and thoughts above this world. They are little lights of mine shining words and memories—little song medleys that belt the lyrics as surely as that basement room of children, sure in their conviction that somewhere out there in the universe, someone or something was watching them shine.
I can’t resist sharing my favorite Dr. Seuss Poem about a fork in the road:
“The Zoad In The Road”
by Dr. Seuss
Did I ever tell you about the young Zoad?
Who came to a sign at the fork of the road?
He looked one way and the other way too –
the Zoad had to make up his mind what to do.
Well, the Zoad scratched his head, and his chin, and his pants.
And he said to himself, “I’ll be taking a chance.
If I go to Place One, that place may be hot
So how will I know if I like it or not.
On the other hand, though, I’ll feel such a fool
If I go to Place Two and find it’s too cool
In that case I may catch a chill and turn blue.
So Place One may be best and not Place Two.
Play safe,” cried the Zoad, “I’ll play safe, I’m no dunce.
I’ll simply start off to both places at once.”
And that’s how the Zoad who would not take a chance
Went no place at all with a split in his pants.
When we walk, our wattles wobble
causing us to “Gobble gobble,”
but seeing axes near our neck,
we hit the road and run like heck!
We await November with much gloom,
for your Thanksgiving seals our doom.
It is a truth that we all rue
that then our gobbling ‘s done by you.
For the Tuesday Writing Prompt,Nov 23, 2021: Write a poem from the point of view of a turkey.
Baked potato, sweet potato, makes me sigh.
Put butter in the schism and my oh my.
Sure to go right to your thigh,
but I don’t care. Do you know why?
Baked potatoes taste so good,
they soothe the pains of widowhood.
Place other pleasures on your lips.
Forget about your waist and hips.
Suttee is way overrated.
That fact cannot be debated.
So instead of jumping in,
go and raid the potato bin.
Toss taters on the red hot coals
and reassess your former goals.
Get a life. Take off the ring.
immolation’s not the thing.
For Cee’s FOTD
Now that they are runway-bound,
those extravagantly gowned
are oft-driven to expound
with words not overly profound
about beliefs they’ve newly found
(overheard and swiftly downed)
just because they love the sound,
hoping in the final round,
their golden tongues will get them crowned.
For the dVerse Poets Quadrille Challenge: Crown.
Image from BBC.
After Four Hours Sleep
Her key quietly turning in a lock three rooms away
rarely meets my consciousness at this time of day.
She must think me a layabout when she arrives at nine
and finds me soundly sleeping, blissfully supine.
The dishes that I washed last night, she places on a shelf
(The ones I didn’t find the time to put away myself.)
She sorts clothes from the hamper, each color in its mound,
and takes them to the laundry room, all without a sound.
What time she arises I’ve never thought to ask,
but before she climbs the hill to this thrice-weekly task,
she has her family duties and the morning meal to fix.
Surely she must start her busy day at least at six.
When finally at nine-thirty she hears me leave my hive,
she must give a prayer of thanks to find I’m still alive.
And though she doesn’t find me to be demanding or haughty,
nonetheless this sleeping-in must seem to her most naughty.
How can she know I lay awake until four hours ago?
She cannot know the truth of it unless I tell her so.
No book will ever tell the tale of how I tossed and turned,
immolating castoff words in midnight oil I burned.
Words can be a blessing when they find a way to sort themselves—
lining up on paper where they’ve learned how to comport themselves,
but making lists of words to use did not bring on sleep.
Instead, I lay with open eyes, my thoughts all in a heap.
And when I finally sorted them, deciding which to reap,
knowing which to throw away and which ones I should keep,
(a wordsmith’s substitution for merely counting sheep)
I closed up my computer and finally fell asleep.
Andrew took my photo of a pepper plant and altered and added to it to make art. I am reblogging his post where he shows the fabulous result. Thanks, Andrew…Go Here:
to see his entire post.