Category Archives: Bad Decisions

Natural Events

Natural Events

Hear the wind’s soft whistle as it explores the eaves?
What a perfect harmony each new zephyr weaves.
Each mourning wail original, each sad and keening cry
takes my heart on with it as it passes by.

All man’s detailed projects for capturing the wind
only make short use of it. Again, it will ascend
far up above all of us to what created it.
For all our petty problems, the wind cares not a whit.

The sadness we project upon the wind is ours alone,
for the wind has nothing for which it must atone.
In our attempts to harness it, as we make our demands,
we forget we’re part of nature. How have we served as its hands?

 

Where does the wind live? Find out HERE.

The prompt words are wind, whistle, project, original.

Relocation Dreams

Click on any photo to enlarge all.

Relocation Dreams

I’ve so many things that there’s no place to stack them in.
No drawers to hold them, no cupboards to pack them in.
So many things stowed away from detection.
My fireplace houses its own art collection.

My wardrobe suffers from costumes aplenty.
I’ve boxes of sizes from nine up to twenty.
My jewelry box is stuffed to the gills,
my medicine drawer is spilling out pills.

When I try to cull them, they all want to stay.
The only solution’s to just move away
to find a small island with palm trees and sky
where there is simply nothing to buy!

I’ll live in a hut with floors of swept dirt.
One pair of flip flops, a simple grass skirt.
I won’t feel that shopping should be my main duty.
I’ll look out the window if I require beauty.

No buying new paintings whenever I please.
No little nicknacks and no DVD’s.
No drawers of makeup or tea towels or spoons.
No tarot cards, horoscopes, Ouija boards, runes.

I will not need things to determine my fate,
that day I walk out, simply locking my gate,
taking one suitcase, computer and cables,
and scanner and backup drives, printers and tables,

an internet router and energy backup—
just these few items to locate and pack up.
Then I’m off to a life that’s simpler by far
if these bare necessities fit in my car.

 

The prompt today was relocate.

Restraint

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Restraint

Lovely one, you wink and tease.
You posture there as if to please.
And though you simply play a game,
thinking the world yours to tame,

there are animals who stalk
pretty girls with pretty talk.
Take care to guard what’s precious to you,
for there are those bent to undo you.

Have your fun.  Enjoy their stares,
but travel safely, and in pairs.
For lovely young ones, fair of face,
the world can be a dangerous place.

Maybe someday, but not now?
Too young to take that sacred vow?
Saving it for someone rare?
We cannot tell by what you wear.

Your clothes so tight, your skin so bare,
you seem to beg the world’s rude stare.
You are a plum—sweet and inviting
and there are those intent on biting.

So take heed. Protect yourself.
You are not goods set on a shelf—
a tasty morsel, a pint of booze
for anyone to pick and use.

You are a vintage sweet and rare—
smart and funny, grown with care.
Value your worth and care for it.
Wait for that match you know will fit.

Things need not happen quite so fast.
Try to hold out for what will last.
So when that stranger whispers,”Baby.”
instead of “Yes,” why not try,”Maybe.”

 

The prompt today was “Maybe.”

Retired (For Daily Prompt: Clock)

Disclaimer: Naughty word implied in this poem. Do not read if easily offended.

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Retired

Mr. Clock, Mr. Clock,
though your advances I try to block,
my attempts you seem to mock
with your continuous tic tic toc,
echoed by my neighbor’s cock
crowing from his noisome flock.

No longer cheerleaders or jocks,
nor femmes fatale with flowing locks,
in Birkenstocks, flip flops or Crocs,
(worn in the winter complete with socks)
we huddle safe behind our locks,
afraid of terrorists with glocks
or neighbors’ children tossing rocks.

We hear your phone calls and your knocks,
we know you gather in your flocks,
your PTAs and your ad hocs,
while each of us sits in our box
as stubborn as a mule or ox,
busy in our painters’ smocks
or cooking spinach in our woks.

Our homes all sealed up like Ft. Knox,
we have no need of the world’s shocks,
its pestilence and chicken pox.
We have our pensions and our stocks,
our Lean Cuisines in our ice box.
We shun your CNN or Fox!!!

Our TV sets set to the past
neglect to show the latest blast
as all the world seems set to cast
Armageddon, coming fast.
So as you watch the latest drone
on your notebook or your phone,
as you predict and hate and moan,
please leave us the f— alone!

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/clock/

Perfectly Formed

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Perfectly Formed

We demand perfection in so many things––
performances most flawless, cars that sport no dings,
trophy wives to greet us at the door each night
with Ivory complexions and bodies toned just right.
My kid’s an honor student, your child a beauty queen.
If we have other children, they are more rarely seen.
In our quest for perfection, somehow the TV
Has become our standard for reality.
Silicone injections in our lower cheeks,
surgery reducing our stomachs, thighs and beaks.
If we’re not born perfect, thank God that we can buy it.
Every ordinarily attractive gal should try it!
I heard there was a sale on for tummy tucks and lifts––
promoting them as valentines and other midlife gifts.
And so I declared myself my own valentine
and began to plan a body that was really really fine.
I started with love handles and worked up to my neck.
‘Til I’d made a total rehab out of this old wreck.
If I had been born perfect, I’d probably be blue.
I would have had to figure out something else to do.
Perhaps I would have learned to make those statues on my shelf
instead of concentrating on adjustments to myself!

This poem is a spoof––no tummy tucks yet. When I was growing up, there was a feature in the “Reader’s Digest” entitled “The Perfect Squelch.” In it, they would share perfect examples of verbal “one-up-manship.” Now that’s the kind of perfection I can appreciate. I’d love to hear your examples  of perfect squelches you’ve made or heard in the comments section below. I also have a “perfect photos” piece I’m working on, but I’ve run out of time as I have a birthday party to go to, so come back later for the photos I meant to accompany this poem.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/perfection/

Morning Blues Saga

DSC08356Morning Blues 

Another day is dawning. The birds are full of tweet.
So I decide to take a little stroll out on the street.
I have no need for makeup. I prefer my features bare.
I choose my clothes most carefully, but do not brush my hair.
With my new haircut, tousled’s in. I’m told to leave it there.
“Just run your fingers though your mop as though you do not care!”
The trees are bursting verdant, dry grass the hue of wheat.
Smiles stretch across the face of every man I meet.
I find their moods infectious, so I smile back at them.
I’m sporting a new haircut, so I feel very femme.

Corner after corner I round to see what’s there.
I straighten out my collar and toss my brand new hair
as I stroll by the house the new guy’s living in.
I check my watch and see it’s only eight-oh-ten.
Perhaps he’s a late riser, so I walk right on by.
If he had been in evidence, I might have murmured, “Hi!”
and maybe he’d have talked to me and asked me for a date.
Perhaps I’m not too early. Perhaps I am too late!
One day I’m sure I’ll meet him, but I am wondering when.
It’s not that I’m accustomed to running after men,

but it’s especially pretty, this block where I’ve just been.
I turn around so I can stroll through it once again.
The second time I pass his door, I see it opening.
As he comes out my spirits soar. My heart begins to ping.
I know this is the man for me. He’s pleasant, handsome, tall.
I’d go and introduce myself if only I’d the gall.
When his eyes light on my face, he smiles like all the rest.
Of all the smiles I’ve seen today, this smile is the best.
I croon hello and smile back and yes, I flirt a bit—
his grin so wide I know that I must have scored a hit.

I pass on by but I am sure we’ll meet another day,
and judging by his smile, he’ll have much more to say.
As I retrace my steps again, I’m feeling very pert.
Perhaps I’ll lose a few more pounds.  It surely wouldn’t hurt.
I climb the hill to my house and open up the door.
The perking of the coffee pot drowns out my roommate’s snore.
I pour a cup and take it back to work upon my blog,
and all this time my roomie is sleeping like a log.
An hour passes, she awakes and stumbles by my door.
Until she has her first cup, she’s grouchy to the core.

Five minutes pass and she comes in and plops into a chair,
her grin so wide, I wonder if she’s going to diss my hair.
“I took a walk,” I tell her, and her eyes go really wide.
“Like that?” she said, “You mean that you have really been outside?”
“My hair’s supposed to look this way. The natural look is in!”
I said to her most huffily, my patience wearing thin.
“I finally saw the new guy, and he’s really cute.”
I told her, and I saw her look, because I’m so astute.
“What,” I asked her, “is your problem? Don’t you like my hair?”
I met her answering guffaw with an angry glare.

“Your hair is not your problem,” she said and grabbed my hand,
pushing me into her room, where she made me stand
before a full length mirror, where finally I could see
perhaps why all my neighbors had deigned to smile at me.
For my whole face was covered with last night’s facial goo—
dried upon my face to form a vivid shade of blue!
Not quite the statement I had hoped to make that fateful day,
and since that time I fear my confidence began to fray.
I’ve given up long walks for neighborhoods much nearer,
and I never leave my house without checking out the mirror!

For other sagas, check out this URL:https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/saga/

Earth’s Verdict

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Earth’s Verdict

This is the day we laud our Earth
who, from the first day of her birth
has gathered, to increase her girth

around her core, the fertile soil
that, by our labor and our toil,
helps us retain our mortal coil

by giving sustenance to all
residing on our spinning ball.
Yet, we have spread oil’s deadly pall

over this globe that gives us life
until, I fear, our home is rife
with that which cuts us like a knife,

our umbilical to sever.
Always, we deem ourselves so clever
with our improvements, but we never

seem to see the full effect––
how each gain is a defect.
It’s on this day that we reflect

on how we’ve served our mother ill.
And now we swallow that vile pill
and thereby finally pay our bill––

that fine we’re issued as we wait
for that improbable ending date
when all our poisoning will abate.

Knowing still, down in our heart
that all the evils that we start
are but that fatal stabbing dart

that will eventually bring an end
to each family member and friend
as nature’s laws we seek to bend.

Now as we wait in our human queue
to receive the verdict that we’re due,
there is  one fact that’s sure and true.

As we vanish, here and yon,
and as, eventually, we’re gone,
the Earth will still be going on.

Both NaPoWriMo and WordPress gave “Earth Day” as a prompt today.  I’m also using my illustration to fulfill Cee’s Flower of the Day prompt.  Three birds, one stone.

https://ceenphotography.com/2016/04/21/flower-of-the-day-april-22-2016-azalea/

http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-two-2/

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/earth/

 

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/

Never Never Land

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Things That Make My Teeth Itch!!!

Never Never Land

The term “bucket list” has become so overused that it has become boring, so it was a relief when the prompt given us today was to talk about what we never want to do again.  Here is a copy of a  poem written a few years ago about that topic.

Don’t Make Me

Please don’t ever make me go back to Cancun.
If I never return there, I’ve visited too soon.
Don’t make me go to church again or listen to more rap.
Don’t make me go to bed at eight or take a daily nap.
I don’t want to do those things I don’t want to do.
Don’t make me look at animals trapped up in a zoo.

Brains are meant for keeping up farther in your head.
To have to eat the things I think with fills my mind with dread.
Don’t make me eat anything only adults eat:
liver, caviar, pate, kidneys or pigs’ feet.
All of those are parts of animals I’ve come to fear,
for none of them are meant to put in human mouths, my dear.

I think that I’ll live longer without jumping from above.
For bungee cords or parachutes I have no sort of love.
Even roller coasters present uncalled-for risk.
For me a walk upon the beach is adequately brisk.
Anything that’s bumpy, jerky, swooping, fast or twirly
makes me want to arrive late and go home really early.

Please don’t make me listen to those who rant and rave.
If I meet them in the street, I’ll merely nod and wave.
Let bores much given to monologues find another ear;
because those who never listen, I have no wish to hear.
Tea-partiers, loud mouths, bigots and folks in the elite
are on my list of strangers I do not need to meet.

I hope no radiation or chemotherapy
is ever necessary to make me cancer-free.
No machines to make me breathe and no dialysis.
As little poking, pushing, testing and analysis
as possible is what I wish for on my “do not” list.
Just let me go gently into that final mist.

I’ve grown to hate the overuse of “bucket list” as label
for what folks want to do before their death if they are able.
So please be more original in thinking what to call
that list of things that you most want to do before you fall.
For the thing that I don’t want as “I am” turns into “been”
Is to ever hear the phrase of “bucket list” again!

The Prompt: Never Again–Have you ever gone to a new place or tried a new experience and thought to yourself, “I’m never doing that again!” Tell us about it.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/never-again/

The Moon is Full and Waiting

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The Moon is Full and Waiting

The moon is full and waiting,
but the night is full of chill,
though my true love expects me
over yonder hill.
His ardent calls invite me
to join him for the night,
and yet I dread the cold cold wind
and the night air’s bite.
If I were only twenty
I’d have no choice to make,
but I have guests arriving
and sweet bites yet to bake.

My true love lies waiting
over yonder hill,
but he’ll return another night.
I’m confident he will.
For he has no other
to overlook his flaws:
the roughness of his ardor,
the power of his jaws.
His embrace often bruises,
though this is not his intent.
In the excess of his ardor,
only tenderness is meant.

The warm cave of our meeting
still carves out yonder hill,
but tonight I will not join him.
It may be I never will.
Tomorrow night the full moon
will partially be spent,
and perhaps by next month’s equal,
I will once more not relent.
Perhaps I’ll find another
closer to my kind,
though an equal to his passion
I’m unlikely to find.

A mild wind blows the clouds away
to clear the shrouded moon.
My guests will be arriving.
I know it will be soon.
I stir in leavening powder.
I stir in heavy cream.
Across the hand I stir with
falls the moon’s broad beam.
I drop the spoon and go again
to open up the door.
I hear the gentle song of wind,
my lover’s beckoning roar.

I answer with a beat of blood.
A spasm in my thigh
invites me to be climbing
over distant hill and high.
The crumbs fall from my fingers
as I run into the night.
I do not feel the bruising stones
or the wind’s cold bite.
My lover calls me onward,
and once again I go.
For when the full moon calls me,
not once have I said no.

 

 

IMG_0562Both of these photos were taken on Christmas Eve, 2015, from my sister’s back terrace in Peoria, Arizona.

The Prompt: Earworm––Write whatever you normally write about, and weave in a book quote, film quote, or song lyric that’s been sticking with you this week. (The song lyric I was inspired by was “Baby it’s cold outside,” but when I finished, it had no actual place in the poem other than to be its inspiration.) https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/earworm-2/