Natural Alarm Clock
I’m up before the Daily Prompt,
up before the sun.
Somehow I’ve started my new day
before the night is done.
The world is cloaked in darkness.
It’s too early for me,
yet wake up time’s whenever
Morrie needs to pee!
(Click on first photo to enlarge and see captions.)
Because my startup disc is nearly full, I don’t have access to any new photos, so I’m reposting some flowers from the past until my problem is fixed. These flowers were made from egg cartons, glue and paint and included in May baskets I took to friends that year. I remember I couldn’t resist eating the caramel in this one, so had to go buy another on the way to my friend’s house to deliver it. The first is a basket made of shredded paper and white glue formed over a custard cup and peeled off when dry. The second is cut out of tissue paper–a pattern shown to me by my mother.
Spot Amnesia
How can I sort the world out to when I was only ten?
I’ve taken my mind back there and come back here again.
Eleven I remember, and I also recall nine,
Grades one through four and six through twelve, I remember fine.
Why can’t I remember that year when I was ten?
I opened up an album to take me back again.
I see that I was chubby and had unfortunate hair.
Maybe that is reason enough to keep me out of there.
To live just in the present can block a lot of pain.
Sunny days are better without memories of rain.
Perhaps this digging in the past is something to be curbed,
and certain memories are not meant to be disturbed.
Whatever blocked my fifth year out will be allowed to die.
There’s wisdom in the adage to just let sleeping dogs lie.
The prompt word today is “ten.“
Devastation Station
Our beautiful world licks her wounds
and limps around us, twirling her skirts
to blow dry dust, then empties her wash water
in deluges that flush away even more.
Not content with the bounty she provides,
they gauge her skin and pick her scabs,
feeding her poison every day.
Rich men lauded for their tax-deductible charity, get richer
by purloining more of the earth’s bounties
that they call their own.
Super yachts and super models
give testimony to their greatness,
obscuring lurid details
of their journeys to success.
Their trophy wives marry desolation,
then furnish it themselves ever after—
future alimony little enough reward
for the sale of life and dignity.
The social pages full of the same old story—
old men professing their virility
by photos taken with presidents and starlets.
They reillustrate their own lives with
records of success on study walls,
like rich wallpaper obscuring scars
they’ve left around them in the world.
Hiding stories of devastation
the world keeps choosing
to reward them for.
The prompt word today was “devastation.”
Oversight
There’s more in life that you can view
than what folks say and what folks do.
Deeper meanings hang in the air.
You can always see them, they’re always there.
More to be learned from what’s not said—
more to the meal than what we’re fed.
I note expressions, nuance, glances.
I’m an early spotter of romances
that others seem oblivious to.
A quick expression can be a clue,
a tone of voice a giveaway
of what a person means to say.
Those who see farther can be a bore.
Always looking and seeing more
than what folks would have them see,
noting life’s disparity
between what is and seems to be—
said behind backs or vis–á-vis.
So though you haven’t told me that
you find me boring, crass or fat,
I know as clearly as though you had.
And when I seem withdrawn or sad,
it’s not that I have ESP
that tells me what you think of me.
It’s simply that I pay attention
to more than what you choose to mention.
Though these extra perceptions take their toll,
they’re nothing that I can control.
I can’t shake them, try as I might.
It seems that I have “oversight.”
The prompt word today was “oversight.”
S-U-C-C-E-S-S
“S-U-C-C-E-S-S—that’s the way you spell success!”
These words still rouse me, I confess,
though fifty years now (more or less)
have passed since I last heard the chant
that quickly turned into a rant
when we saw the basketball soar
through the net and become lore.
It was the year they won it all—
those high school kings of basketball,
with last-second ball thrown from mid-hall.
Both those who watched and those who played
cheered and ranted, chanted, brayed.
The day that ball swished through the net?
It was as good as sports could get.
The prompt today was “successful.”
Of the 271 solidarity marchers in La Manzanilla, Mexico, this day after the inauguration, this was my favorite pair of ears. And since they are botanical, I think they qualify (sort of) for flower of the day.
By the way, in addition to the majority (American and Canadian women) there were lots of men marching–some with their sons–as well as Mexican grandmothers, mothers and children.
https://ceenphotography.com/2017/01/20/flower-of-the-day-january-2 1-2017-tulip/
Private Lives
Private lives and private dreams
fill our world and burst its seams.
Many wants and many wishes
like an ocean full of fishes
For one to live, one more must go
to maintain the status quo.
Each fish feeding on another:
mother, sister, uncle, brother
all competing for their lives
One fails while another thrives.
Thus it goes with private lives.
The prompt today was “privacy.”
Southern Exposure
Although my north end’s fully cloaked,
when rain clouds come, my south gets soaked.
I guess the fault is really mine.
The raincoat that I bought, size nine,
that I insisted would fit fine,
combined with excess when I dine
means that though it swathes my seat,
the buttons in the front don’t meet
the holes they’re meant to go into
no matter what my fingers do.
That’s why my front side’s sorta soggy
when the weather ends up foggy.
If you approach me from the back,
I swear, you won’t see any lack.
You’ll only see my dripping clothes
If we meet up nose-to-nose
I just can’t get myself together
to protect myself in stormy weather.
The prompt word today is “exposure.”
