Category Archives: Bad Boys

Jake

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Jake

First thing you think of when you wake
are his fingers scraping like a rake
over your shoulder–sure to make
your toes curl up and fingers quake.

You rise to bake his birthday cake
and choose to pack it up to take
it to him there out on the lake–
your fear of water faced for his sake.

The weight of oars. The sun’s cruel bake
revealing two sure truths as fake.
And oh the pain and oh the ache
of what he’s chosen to forsake.

The boat you row to shore and tether,
foretelling wind and stormy weather.
Love vanished like a plucked-out feather
when you saw your friend and love––together

The one-word WordPress prompt was “Fake.”
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fake/

No News is Bad News

As I eat my morning toast,
I like to read the Morning Post.
But often, once my toast is browned,
The Morning Post’s not to be found.
I brew the coffee and have a cup,
willing the newsboy to show up.

As I eat my morning eggs,
my husband sputters, nags and begs
until I fantasize a muzzle.
He wants his morning crossword puzzle!
Yet that newsboy still delays
as breakfast passes without a phrase.

We leave for work sad and bereft,
looking to the right and left.
My husband prods and pokes and pushes
in case the news lies in the bushes,
but only finds an errant bee
and a missing front door key.

All day that sense of loss still lingers
as I crave newsprint on my fingers.
Somehow the day just isn’t nice
when it passes without advice.
No comics page? No horoscope?
All day I sit alone and mope.

Others ‘round me may be seen
watching news upon a screen.
But it isn’t quite the same,
so please excuse me while I blame
my bad mood once more on the kid
who brings the news––but never did!

By evening when I arrive home,
that rolled up, backless, coverless tome
has finally shown up by our door;
but day-old news is just a bore,
and comics read to a setting sun
somehow do not seem so fun.

As our puppy greets me, paws and muzzle,
I extract the crossword puzzle,
then smooth the rest and scoop it up
to place it under our wiggly pup
who lifts his leg and pees upon it.
News is not made to sup on it!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.” ––Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

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Devil # 3

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Helpless.” Helplessness: that dull, sick feeling of not being the one at the reins. When did you last feel like that –- and what did you do about it?

Okay, I was going to give this prompt a “miss” and went to the new prompt generator I’ve been using for the past few days.  I hit the button and was served up the two-word prompt: “Ill Devil”.  At first I read this as #3 Devil, and I must admit, I got a chill, because what I immediately thought about when I read the prompt was the third time I was in a near-death situation where I felt totally helpless.  What are the chances, I thought, that these two prompts would line up?  This must be something I’m meant to write about.  But then reason stepped in and I realized this prompt always gave an adjective and a noun.  What they probably meant by the prompt was ill Devil. (Changing the capital to a small “i” clarified the prompt.) But then I realized that ill devil described the occurrence I am trying not to talk about as much as #3 devil did, so I guess, prodded on twice by fate or coincidence or synchronicity, I will try.

I have written to a similar prompt twice in 2015, so probably most of you who read my blog have chanced upon one of those posts, but when I wrote to a similar prompt in June of 2014, I wrote a different piece and since I had few of my present-day readers then, I’ll mention that THIS is what I wrote.  It may not be obvious that the topic given in today’s prompt was what I was really talking about then, however, because it was a poem where I actually stood to one side of what I was really remembering and wrote about the subject as an onlooker rather than a participant.  I only alluded to the real subject, which is what I’m going to attempt to write about today. That real subject is Ted Bundy and how otherwise respectable women sometimes fall prey to such predators.  Okay, deep breath. I’m going to tell to the world something I have actually told to very few people. Yes, this is a true story.

Devil # 3

Nineteen seventy-something. In the bar with friends.
When you are in your twenties, the partying never ends.
It was rodeo season  and the big one was in town.
As one by one they ordered drinks, I couldn’t turn them down.
We were a rather rowdy bunch of teachers in our prime
Devoted in the classroom, but wild on our own time.

The bar was crowded hip to hip, the music barely heard
over the loud cacophony of laugh and shouted word.
It was my turn to buy a round. I struggled towards the bar.
My polite “Excuse me’s!” really hadn’t gotten me too far
when a guy appeared in front of me and moved the crowd aside
as though he had appointed himself to be my guide.

As I returned with eight full drinks, again he stemmed the tide
by walking close in front of  me and spreading elbows wide.
He smiled and then departed, back to the teeming mass.
Impressive that he had not even tried to make a pass!
My friends all wondered who he was. I said I had no clue.
Tall and dark and ivy-league, he vanished from our view.

This story happened long ago. Some details I’ve forgotten,
and any memories he retains, you’ll learn were ill-begotten.
I think we danced a dance or two. I know we talked awhile.
I liked his fine intelligence, his low-key polite style.
At three o’clock the barman’s bell commenced it’s clanging chime
and I made off to find my friends, for it was closing time.

Two lines of men had split the bar, lined up back to back.
Their hands locked and their arms spread wide–they moved into the pack.
One line moved east, the other west, forcing one and all
Either out the front door or towards the back door hall.
I was forced out the back way–out into the alley.
My friends and I had made no plans of where we were to rally

and so I walked around the block, sure that was where they waited,
but there was no one there at all–the crowd had soon abated.
I went back to the alleyway to see if they were there.
but all was dark and still, and soon I began to fear
that both carloads of friends had thought I was with the other.
I had no recourse but to walk, though I prayed for another.

I combed my mind to try to think of anyone at all
living in this part of town where I could go to call
a friend to come and get me and furnish me a ride
for 3 a.m. was not a time to be alone outside.
There were no outside phone booths and I lived so far away
I simply had to rouse someone, but what was I to say?

But since I had no other choice I thought I’d check once more
if any single soul was waiting at the bar’s front door.
And as I left the alley to be off to see,
I saw a new familiar face looking back at me.
It was my dancing partner, his face split in a grin.
It seems that he was going to save me once again.

He had asked me earlier if needed a ride,
but I had told him wisely that I had friends inside
and so I thought he’d left, but I could see he was still there.
Yet, ride home with a stranger?  Did I really dare?
And yet I had no other choice, abandoned as I was.
And so I said I guess that yes, I would, simply because

I knew there was just one of him and I was young and strong.
And he seemed kind, polite and gentle.  What could go so wrong?
His car was just a block away. Our walk was short and brief.
And when he pointed out his car, I felt a great relief.
For it was a convertible–and easy to escape
If I detected the first signs of robbery or rape!

He opened up the door for me. I got in the front seat.
But as he started up the car, my heart skipped a beat.
For from the bushes, two more men emerged and jumped inside–
one man in the backseat, the other at my side!
He pulled out into the street, though I protested so.
I didn’t really want a ride, so please, just let me go!

(And here I have to beg off and say I’ll finish this story tomorrow.  Right now my heart is pumping and my head throbbing as though I’m re-enacting this whole tale physically as well as mentally.  I’m totally exhausted.  Why I decided to write this in rhyme I don’t know. Perhaps I thought it would be easier, or more fun or more lighthearted, but there is simply no way to write this from any other frame of mind but the terror I felt that night. So, sorry, but I will resume tomorrow. You all know that I’m here telling the story, so be assured that the worst didn’t happen…but the story is by no means over, so join me tomorrow for the rest.  I, for one, could really use a drink, but it is only 1:40 in the afternoon so I’ll find some other means of escape.)

To see the conclusion of this poem, go HERE.

If you’d like to try out Jennifer’s new prompt generator, go HERE.

Morrie’s New Adventure–Epilogue, Continued.

IMG_1689Looks innocent, doesn’t he?

Morrie’s New Adventure–Epilogue, Continued.

(To see earlier episodes of the adventures of Morrie, go HERE and HERE.) When last we saw our furry fiend, uh, friend, there were three mysteries left unresolved:  why were the curtains tied up in a knot, why was the sewing machine now out in the hall, and what was in his mouth?  I just need to add three more elements to the mystery. IMG_1730

Why are the handmade dolls formerly hanging from the curtain rod now lying in a heap on an upper shelf?

IMG_1732Why is the CD player/radio Yolanda listens to while ironing
in the (former) guest bedroom now in the bathroom?

IMG_1725 and just what is this in the waste paper basket?

IMG_1726 My old style phone that I use when the electricity goes out?  What is it doing there? All of these mysteries will be solved as you get a look at the scene that faced me when I opened Morrie’s door last night. (For those of you who haven’t seen earlier episodes, Morrie needed to be put in seclusion following surgery of a delicate nature that we won’t go into here.  Suffice it to say that the doctor suggested I keep him quiet and away from the other dogs, so I cleared out the guest room [more or less] and had an extra gate put up on the side of this room to afford him a small exercise area and  since he easily fits through the security bars, I left the door and screen cracked to let him in and out.)

Okay, back to our story. The time is early yesterday evening and yes, I was  blogging.  I heard a very loud BANG and surprise! It was coming from the direction of Morrie’s room.

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This is the scene that greeted me when I opened the door.

IMG_1708 The curtains were down.

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As was the very heavy copper rod that held them up.

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The dolls formerly hanging from the rod were in a  heap on the floor

IMG_1715 As was the telephone,

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Which, thanks to Morrie, I have now retired.
(You’ve already seen the final resting place for the phone.)

Eyeing the cord to the sewing machine and Yolanda’s radio/CD player, I knew they could only be next, so the boom box was relegated to the bathroom and as you know, the sewing machine was relegated to the hall.  And this is how the room’s contents shrunk by yet another third. IMG_1605

Are you sorry for this, Morrie?  Morrie?

Morrie seems to be heading for something, but I’m not sure what. Okay, Morrie, time out.  Want to come to bed with your mom for awhile and KEEP OUT OF TROUBLE?

IMG_1628 Okay, I know you didn’t mean to do it, so let’s have a little loving and then Mom needs to get back to work on her blog, okay? IMG_1619 You just stay down there and no more licking, okay?  You already licked all the lotion off my face and neck and hands..but I’m kind of squeamish, so no more licking?  okay?  We’ll play again after I get the blog posted! IMG_1627Uh, Morrie? I can’t see the computer with your head there, okay? Can you watch me from just a little further away?  Okay, just one more rub and then . . . IMG_1688Go lie a little further away, okay?  And stay there okay?  Are you okay with that, Morrie?  Feeling happy to be in bed with Mom?  Isn’t that enough, Morrie? IMG_1626Okay, boy, you’re getting a little too close for comfort again, and ooops!  There goes my computer, let me just grab it here, and. . .

IMG_1616Okay, fine.  Lick my feet for awhile. Just don’t come up here
and drool on my computer again, okay?

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And–here he is again!  Do you have any hint about why it is taking me two days to post this post?

Okay, Morrie, let’s go find you a toy! How about my rubber duck with a cowboy hat, Morrie?  What do you think about him?  Your toys all seem to be gone!

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Ah, you like him, huh, Morrie? That’s right.  Lick the duck!!!!

IMG_1690But, don’t eat him, okay, Morrie?

IMG_1685Did you hear what I said, Morrie? Do what my mother used to tell us to do with gum, and just hold him in your mouth!!

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Morrie!  Look what you’ve done!

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You’ve not only bitten off cowboy duck’s cowboy hat, you’ve chewed off his whole head! Where is it, Morrie? Oh my God!  Did you eat it?

IMG_1692Okay, Morrie, you’re looking kind of crazy, now. Calm down and give it here! Morrie! IMG_1693Morrie!  Don’t snap at your mother!!!  Give it here!!!

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Oh, poor rubber duckie.  Nothing left but his kerchief and vest!

IMG_1689So you feed bad about what, Morrie?  Because you killed the rubber duck
or because you didn’t get to finish him off?

Definitely, not innocent!!!

THE END????

I’m hoping these pictures are odd enough to qualify for Cee’s oddball challenge this week.  See her own and other oddballs HERE.

What Did You Do, Morrie???

What Did You Do, Morrie?

When Morrie got into his cage the minute I came into the room, I suspected something was wrong.

IMG_1562Is something wrong, Morrie?

IMG_1563Did you do something naughty?

IMG_1564Have you been a bad boy?

IMG_1566Oh, oh, oh.  What did you do, Morrie?

IMG_1565Did you make a mess?

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Did you chew up a roll of toilet paper?

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Did you open up the closet door and chew up thirty rolls of toilet paper?

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Bye, Morrie!

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Before he decided to leave the room for awhile, Morrie taught me some lessons. This is what I learned:

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Always secure the closet doors before you leave the room.

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Put everything up high!

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Especially toilet paper!

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And be sure to put your shoes away.  This is my favorite pair.
I wonder where the other one is?  Oh, that’s right.  Morrie ate it!

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Morrie?  Going out again?

Shooing with Tongue on the Tongue of a Shoe

To celebrate my 400th posting, I am going to follow the “Poets and Writers” prompt instead of the WordPress one. To see their weekly prose and poetry prompts, go here: http://www.pw.org/writing-prompts-exercises

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                 McPeevish McPue on a good day

The Prompt: Whimsical Creature—This week, write a whimsical, nonsensical poem about a creature you’ve dreamt up. Try to let go of the meanings associated with the words you use every day when describing this creature. Instead, use words as springboards for weird associations, as colors in a vast mural. Let your mind run wild and hang on for the ride.

 

Shooing with Tongue on the Tongue of a Shoe

There once was a grouch named McPeevish McPue
who spent his whole life on the tongue of a shoe
where he shooed away flintocks* and floogles* and stuff.
As a matter of fact, he would get downright rough.

 He would beat them with bagels and flog them with floggles
from the foot of their feet to the top of their toggles.
Then he bopped them again every minute or two
till those flintocks and floogles were beat black and blue.

But they just wouldn’t leave until McPue had sung
a rock-a-bye ballad with only one lung.
Then they leapt and they lithered until they were gung.
Now McPeevish McPue only shoos with his tongue!

*Floogles: fairy folk who get even with grouches by spraying foot odor into their shoes daily.

*Flintocks:
I’m not completely sure what flintocks are, other than the fact that they drive McPeevish McPue crazy. I’m counting on my readers to tell me more about them.

 

Thanks Be to Pure Hearts

The Prompt: Never Too Late—Is there a person you should’ve thanked, but never had the chance? Is there someone who helped you along the way without even realizing it? Here’s your chance to express your belated gratitude.

Thanks Be to Pure Hearts

 Thanks be to that creator of the universe—
the one I can no longer pray to in a church
because of those powers who take truth prisoner
and lead the masses to wherever they can be most safely trusted
to surrender reason to them.

Thanks be to that man who turned water into wine.
Not a teetotaler. Not even abstinent, or so some say.
That man who loved all and who would not strike anyone
except for merchants making a living from the church.
Two thousand years ago,
he saw that merchants and moneylenders
would lead the world wrong—
using the little minds of frightened men
to turn faith into a weapon.

Praise be to those at the beginning of it all
who tried to set a true course but made the mistake
of leaving the compass in the hands of human fools
who saw over all, how to use it for their own glory,
making power their god and oiling their way upward
not toward salvation
but toward ever higher places in this world.

Those who are not fools might speak our enemies’ names
yet be shouted down by those
Dunning and Kruger have named as their adjutants—
the countless mindless who speed the world toward ruin.

Yet for this day, I want to turn my back on those I’d rather curse
to thank pure hearts who still can see the way.
There is still, I know, a part of them in all of us,
evident in everyday things: a mother’s sheltering arms
or in as simple an act as taking the smallest piece of pie.

So when we give thanks today,
thank those who remain kind within the world,
carrying along the spirit
of those first beneficent acts
that started with the dust of stars
and from it created consciousness
and then implanted some good turn of will
so as to give hope in a world
that feels divided in the blackness of the universe,
lonely in this night
but steering by those pinpricks in its cover
through which light shows, even in the darkest dark.