Reined-in Adventure
My first mount was a hobbyhorse, I’d ride him up and down
all around the basement, if not around the town.
In summer we would come outside and ride along the walk
that my sister used for hopscotch–all scribbled up with chalk.
With reins clipped to his harness, I maintained a healthy clip.
Careful over sidewalk grooves, avoiding every dip.
Never did he tarry as we hurried on our way,
for when we reached our destination, I would feed him straw and hay.
Then, being very hungry after my vigorous ride,
I’d put away my pony before I went inside
and I’d become the pony and my mother would feed me
carrot sticks and cabbage hay, sitting on Daddy’s knee.
I’d whinny with each forkful. I’d toss my head, then prance
upstairs to my nap to dream of England and of France
where policemen still rode horses along the city streets,
racing after robbers and other heroic feats.
And in my dreams, my horse and I would have a glorious ride
more dangerous than earlier rides we had had inside.
Charging after bandits, fording rivers and
forsaking backyard sidewalks for dirt and stone and sand.
We’d clamber up steep mountainsides to try to find a pass,
then kick up rocks while sliding down to sail through fields of grass.
We’d conquer all the beaches, then roll through fields of clover,
having wilder adventures until my nap was over.
Prompt words for today are hobbyhorse, harness, groovy, tarry and straw.
For Cee’s FOTD
Open Book
Here beneath the Tropic of Cancer,
the sky is a book opened to the wrong pages.
The Big and Little Dippers?
Pages ripped from the spine.
Orion a well-thumbed page,
held directly overhead like a book
read lying on my back.
And is it fact or fantasy
that once I saw the Southern Cross
stretched on its back
near the horizon
to the south?
Floating half-asleep with mists
of water hot from the volcano
rising around me,
was it a dream or real,
those four twinkling stars
seen just once before that night our boat
slipped over the equator?
Then, as now,
all time seems wedded—
afloat in a universe
of stars and water—
tiny no-see-ums
forming their own active constellations
as they whirl up over the water
and back down in clusters.
Wee moving
stars.
photo by Phil Hodkinson on Unsplash, used with permission
Mr. Havisham
His eggs and toast at breakfast are balanced out with kippers.
He dines on them in satin robes and tiny velvet slippers.
Later, it’s his riding habit, whip securely fisted,
although hinted-at stables have never quite existed.
Fantasy and artistry consume his waking world,
as though it’s here that childhood dreams are finally unfurled.
That unexpected ostrich plume, this candle-scented air?
What we see as ostentatious, he maintains is flair.
This flair abounds around him everywhere he goes.
He waves it like a banner from his hair and clothes.
Lacy collars, pompadours and velvet tailored suits
match French provincial furniture and tiny pointed boots.
He hardly knows the difference, now that he is older,
and does not notice as those dreams begin to fade and molder.
His costumes growing threadbare, his candles melting down,
he no longer draws attention wandering through the town.
He has become a fixture, slowly fading in,
shuffling into the future, forgetting where he’s been.
All the single people, constructing lonely lives
creating their personae in unique little hives,
all of us so busy we fail to heed each other,
seeing as a stranger who might have been a brother.
We concentrate on all those differences we see,
choosing to see difference instead of what could be.
For more eccentric behavior, go here: https://judydykstrabrown.com/tag/eccentricity/ Too bad these two never met.
Prompt words today are ostentatious, flair, unexpected, difference and clothes.
Bah Humbug and the Sadly Mismatched Couple
Right after Thanksgiving, up the tree went.
She loved all the trimmings. She savored the scent!
The outside of the house was embellished with lights,
snowmen and angels and other delights.
Once she was done, she was charmed and elated—
the garlands all hung and the tree decorated.
Christmas delighted her, yet all the fuss
just prompted her husband to grumble and cuss.
The lights hurt his eyes. He bemoaned the excesses.
He skulked and he pouted. He spurned her caresses.
Just the sight of the tree made him nasty and surly,
and yet every year, she put it up early.
How this tale ends is hard to relate.
I fear that a split was their ultimate fate.
She found her a mate who was cheerful and newish
and he found a wife who was blessedly Jewish!
Prompt words today are decorated, skulk, nasty, surly and delighted.
For Thursday Doors.
Ashes
A handful of memories, discounted by time.
Five for a nickel and ten for a dime.
Burned down to ashes, their bodies erased
along with the dreams they achieved or they chased.
How we incorporate thoughts of the past
into our lives may alter and cast
the present in molds that are better off shattered.
Better new memories than those aged and tattered.
Life is for living, so best throw away
corpses of the past that get in the way.
Living is glorious, but it’s not portable.
By merely living, we become deportable.
Thoughts hoarded in dreams should dissolve in the day.
Think too much of the past and it gets in the way.
As hard as it is, it seems that we must
render ashes to ashes, return dust to dust.
Prompt words for today are ash, portable, glorious, incorporate and erase.
In answer to Fandango’s Provocative Question about whether we believe in ghosts or not, here is my ghost story: https://judydykstrabrown.com/2018/10/26/ghostly-happenings-at-a-12th-century-scottish-abbey/
