Category Archives: Bad Decisions

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/

In the Soup

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In the Soup

Definition: in trouble, as in “I’m in the soup with the boss.”

Without fear, we’d be in traction with braces head to toe––
Each day a speed infraction from refusing to go slow.
We’d fall off tipping ladders and land upon our heads,
or go to sleep with adders sleeping in our beds.

We wouldn’t have good sense about where we should go.
I fear we would be dense––our thought processes slow.
We’d wind up in the jungle sleeping on the ground
hoping for each bungle a solution might be found.

Since fiction often follows fact, I’ve been in many a stew.
But luckily, I chose to act, so “done to” turned to “do.”
In the past I came too near to kidnapping and rape,
and luckily by conquering fear, I’d find means of escape.

After graduating college, I became a bum;
but now I can acknowledge that I was often dumb.
Fearlessness was often what got me into trouble.
My mind would choose to soften the rub of danger’s stubble.

Traveling a foreign region, I was so naive
that my mistakes were legion, so now I do believe
it’s crazy to be fearless. Now even I succumb.
In caution I am peerless––finding fearlessness is dumb!

The Prompt: Fearless Fantasies––How would your world be different if you were incapable of feeling fear?

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fearless-fantasies/

Lit and Bit

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Lit and Bit

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IMG_8947 (1) IMG_8942 IMG_8944 IMG_8950As I was taking the picture of the sconces outside, in the dark, I was breaking off the bougainvillea vines that grew in front of them, sticking myself on the thorns, as usual.  Then I felt a sharp sting on my forearm and called out to Judy (a visiting writer who is doing a retablo workshop with me at my house) that I was stung by something.  Then I felt a very sharp sting on my leg, under my Levis.  I grabbed the place and squeezed the material of my Levis, running into the house, trying to get my shoes off and my jeans pulled down.  “It’s stinging me, it’s stinging me!” I said.

“What do I do?” Judy shouted.

“Pull my pants down!” I ordered. She did and I held on to the bundle I imagined inside the jeans–hoping it wasn’t the notorious and very poisonous Donald Trump caterpillar that has been discovered locally.  When I opened my fingers, there was instead a black wasp inside.  How he got inside my jeans I’ll never know.  Perhaps he fell off my arm when I received the first sting, fell to the ground and flew up my Levis in an attempt to get away.  At any rate, the stings hurt like Hell.  I ran to the bathroom, wet my wounds and sprinkled on meat tenderizer which helped to counteract the worst stinging, although my arm and leg are still swollen and tender to the touch.  How I suffer for my blog!!!
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For more light photos, go here: https://themomhood.wordpress.com/2015/11/28/prompt-stomp-week-9-calling-all-photographers/

Lunch Date (Old-Fashioned Attention): JNW’s Prompt Generator

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Lunch Date

One thing I’d like that I will mention
is a bit of old-fashioned attention.
The kind with no device in hand
is the kind that I can stand

better than the sort with texting
minds caught in “before” and “next”ing
and not a thought for whom you’re with
until I’m sure that it’s a myth

that I’m the one you want to see,
even though you have invited me.
For though our table is for two,
you bring so many more with you–

every relative and friend.
Your texts to them just never end.
Our tete a tete‘s become absurd.
I never get to speak a word!

So there’s one thing I’d like to state.
Please cancel our next luncheon date.
The next time you desire a munch,
just take your iPhone out to lunch!


My prompt was “Old-fashioned Attention.” To get a prompt or see more JNW Prompt-Generated posts, go HERE.

Needless to say, there will be no sequel to this lunch date, but to see posts about sequels to movies, go here: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/missing-seqeuls/

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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.

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Relax, it’s only henna! I get a Mayan tattoo on my lower leg every time I go to the beach. It fulfills all my contradictory impulses.

Change of Mind

Tattooed pierced and branded, or to be marked for life
with patterns carved into the skin with a sterile knife?
I cannot help but tell you that I find it very strange–
this trend to decorate ourselves by means that we can’t change.

When I was in my twenties, I bought a gorgeous hat
of pink and blue with colored plumes that swayed this way and that.
But what if I had had it sewn forever to my head,
so when I desired a wedding veil, I had feathers instead?

What if those chandelier earrings I found so cool in my teens
were implanted so I couldn’t take them off by any means?
So when I trekked across the jungles, weaving through the trees,
those earrings caught upon the vines and brought me to my knees?

My hair would be a helmet, and my eyes would look so queer
if worn like I did at twenty with eyeliner ear to ear.
So I cannot help but think this child with corks stretching her lobes
might regret them in her forties as she dons her judge’s robes.

Or the youngsters with the tongue studs, one day when they are men
might regret it as the shots they drink leak out onto their chin.
I’m so glad those mini skirts I wore—a poor choice even then––
are not still sewn upon my hips now that I am more Zen.

Thank God those darker outlined colors that made our lips less thin
and those psychedelic tie-dyes are not printed in our skin.
For although our taste was laughable, at least we can repent–
for the choices that we made in youth were not permanent.

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And, that hat mentioned in the poem? It really existed and still does, although no, I have not worn it in over 40 years. Here it is, a side view!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Tattoo….You?.” Do you have a tattoo? If so, what’s the story behind your ink? If you don’t have a tattoo, what might you consider getting emblazoned on you skin?

Bite My Tongue!!!


The Prompt: Time to confess: tell us about a time when you used a word whose meaning you didn’t actually know (or were very wrong about, in retrospect).

I wrote to this topic a year or two ago and I fear that blunder cannot be beat.  To read it, go HERE.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Dictionary, Shmictionary.”<

What Did You Do, Morrie???

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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?

Beyond the Pale

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Beyond the Pale

My pigment’s nonexistent. I make pale look dark.
For me a frolic in the sun is no carefree lark.
First I goop on sunscreen–the higher strength the better–
follow all the time limits to the very letter.

Then I wear long leggings and cover up each arm.
I would not let my hugging things come to any harm.
I wear a hat with floppy brim to cover up my face.
Use a strap to keep it on during a rapid pace.

If I go swimming I rely on a high-necked long-armed top.
When it comes to sun control, I’m my own solar cop.
The one time when I slipped control and forgot my restrictions,
I sorely paid for each of my solar derelictions.

I was in Canberra, visiting a friend
with only three short days before Australian days would end,
We’d be off to Bali, to Singapore and more–
exotic places that would form a part of my life’s lore.

But first we had two hot dates planned for swimming in the park.
My date was blonde and tall and cute. Deirdre’s date was dark.
We spread our towels out in the sun and talked and laughed all day.
Rarely did a stranger have so much to say

that I wanted to listen to. We swam, we ate. The sun
rose and set that day as we were rapt in all this fun.
It wasn’t ’til that evening I discovered my mistake.
I should have spent less time in sun and more time in the lake!

My skin was burned a vibrant red–purplish in spots.
All the hues my body sported seemed to be the hots.
One blister spread from hip to hip–an enormous bubble.
Another one across my chest spelled out bigger trouble.

Two days in the hospital and others with my friend,
the trip to Bali much delayed while waiting for my mend.
Two weeks later we set out with a heavy load
of backpacks packed with all the things needed on the road.

Medicines and duds and hats and books and other notions.
Needless to say, much of my load was comprised of potions:
sunscreen, sunblock, sunhat, sunglasses and long-sleeved shirt–
all the things that shield the skin from all solar hurt.

They have so many products now to keep one sunburn-free.
Oh that I had had them then in nineteen seventy three!
It was more than forty years ago I lived this sorry tale.
Ever since I’ve lived my life unequivocally pale!

The Prompt: Beyond the Pale--When was the last time you did something completely new and out of your element? How was it? Will you do it again?
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/beyond-the-pale/