Frail
She cannot change a tire or heft a cotton bale,
help us move the sofa or lift the water pail––
not because she’s lazy or because she is too frail,
but simply because if she did, she might break a nail!!
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/frail/
I will admit that the howling dog in last night’s sunset was awesome, but the pizza wasn’t!!!
Remember back when “awesome” was a word applied to miles of glaciers breaking off in one fell swoop or solar flares or the birth of a child? A few years ago, I had something to say about my feelings over its present usage, where it is more commonly applied to a good slice of pizza or a friend’s new dress. See my complaints here:
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2014/06/13/empty-prais/
If you want to see what others have to say or to tell us your own thoughts aboug “Awe,” go here: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/awe/
(Photos above? Before I was a natural girl! Poem below? Fifty years later.)
Natural Girl
Underneath this hairpiece, I am a natural girl.
It’s just that blogs are waiting, and I haven’t time to curl.
I haven’t put on makeup for a month or so, but still
there’s no one here to see me as my daily prompts I fill.
I don’t need any lipstick, for my lips have grown too thin
to find a place to put it, plus I don’t know any men
around to help me kiss it off and so why put it on?
That’s why when my friends see me, they think I’m looking wan.
I no longer wear foundation, for it clogs up in the cracks.
And that’s not the only makeup that my face so lately lacks.
I cannot wear mascara, for my dry eye medication,
every time I use it, sends eye makeup on vacation.
I’m growing out my bangs and so no need to shape and pluck.
My eyebrows don’t show anyway, so I say what the fuck!
Without the rest, why take the time to make eyelashes curl?
Lately, by default, I am a totally natural girl!!!
Choose One
Sign Language
I know our birth tongues aren’t the same,
but still I think words aren’t to blame.
It is your means of understanding
that convinces me you’re underhanding.
For every time I give you kisses,
it seems you go to other misses
in search of the translation tips
they give by laying on of lips.
My dear, if we were dumb and blind
then translation service of this kind
might make some sense, but I must say
your excuses will not work today.
Please have your translator of prose
stick this finger message up your nose!!!
Earlier today, I published a poem and at the end, left a pile of unused words that were free for the taking. Christine Goodnough rifled through them and came up with this poem, then left a free-for-the-taking list of unused words of her own, leaving a link to my refuse pile as well. I have dipped into each bunch of words again and used them all in the below poem, with the exception of the few left at the end that I pass on to any reader willing to make use of them in a poem. You’ll find our combined leftovers at the end of my poem and a link to to Christine’s poem above
Craig’s List Confessional
I’d like a mirror so I can see
if I display felicity
when someone whispers in my ear
the name of one I once held dear.
I know not what my heart may feel,
what passions I might dare repeal
now that my head is ruling me
instead of love for somebody
so long departed––no longer here
for so many a long-lost year.
If I could paint a picture of
the countenance of long-lost love
in monotone or multi-tones,
in stereo or monophones,
I hesitate to admit that
I fear the portrait might fall flat.
How often it has been my ploy
to act withdrawn or bored or coy,
as though the long-lapsed love I bore
is what steers my grieving core.
But, in truth, duplicity
is what in all simplicity
guides my actions and my thought
and turns me into love’s robot.
With paint cans colored various hues,
why do I always choose the blues,
rebuffing each potential woo
and dropping out of courtship’s queue?
And so, if love is not a ruse––
a mere excuse for whom to choose,
I stand here gawking, open wide,
with no place left in which to hide.
Respectability’s passe,
and pride too dear a price to pay;
for staying safe in grief’s tight room
is burial before the tomb.
And so my dear, this poem you view?
Pretend that it’s addressed to you
and join me in complicity.
Perhaps shared words can set us free.
I’m not a girl. You are no boy.
This poem is not a word-stuffed toy.
Should you respond with words that match,
it’s possible that we will catch
another chance to reach and choose
and maybe this time we won’t lose
the golden ring that does not bind.
This time we may find love is kind!
Okay, I dug deeply into Christine’s leftovers and rifled through mine as well. This is what is left in the poetic grab bag. Can anyone make use of the rest of our cast-offs? Here is what is left to you:
ooze booze cruise who’s whose choose lose news pews poos cues sues twos woos youse
doozie floozie twozie boo goo hue loo moo new poo sue soo sioux too to you What a spectacle! not respectable
Simplicity
Simplicity is something that I rarely do.
Why have only one of something when you could have two?
It takes a lot of veggies to come up with a stew,
and we’d do a lot of limping if confined to just one shoe.
Multiples are awesome. Multiples are grand.
Look how many fingers we have upon each hand.
One finger could not do the job. Neither could two or three.
Simple cannot form a hand, did not form you or me.
Simplicity’s much touted but I think it is absurd.
Who ever heard of stories comprised of just one word?
With a single raindrop, the world could not get wetter.
Sparsity may be more chic, but I like clutter better.
I don’t get minimalism. I’m a hoarder to the core.
When I ran out of wall room, I put art upon my door.
There are no piles in hallways. Hoarding need not be a sin.
I’ve built three rooms onto my house just to store things in.
With so many lovely things in life, collecting is a joy.
With life’s manifold choices, why be niggardly or coy?
At the ice cream parlor, why does one have to choose?
You need not always limit yourself just to ones and twos.
Have a scoop of strawberry and pineapple and mint.
Green tea is delicious and tequila’s heaven sent.
Load your dish with raspberry and coconut and mango.
Why do the simple two step when you could do the fandango?
In short, I am a gatherer. I have too many things.
I like to make the choices that a complex lifestyle brings.
When it comes to writing, a stuffed-full mind is fine!
Reach into words and shake them out and string them on a line.
A solitary animal will never make a zoo.
One grain of dirt, one drop of water cannot create goo.
A single cannon fired will not execute a coup.
The world just is not simple, nor am I and nor are you!
*
I’m having a yard sale of left-over words. Below is the “free box.” Take what you will (please note that some of these items have been recently used, but all have been laundered and are ready for a new user):
coy ploy toy bore core
simplicity complicity duplicity felicity
ooze booze cruise who’s whose choose lose blues news pews poos cues ruse sues twos views woos youse
doozie floozie twozie
boo goo hue loo moo new poo queue rue sue soo sioux too to you view woo you
*
Right in line with the theme of the poem, below are way too many photos. If you want to see the details, you know what to do, right? If you don’t, I’ll tell you. Just click on the first photo and click on arrows to proceed through the photo gallery. To come back here afterwards, click on the X in the upper left corner.
I’m not quite sure whether people really consider reality shows to be real or not. Hard for me to believe they would, although taking the present presidential elections into account, I have lowered my expectations of people a good deal. In my house, however, there is no need for the diversion of viewing other people’s lives, be it Honey Boo Boo or the Kardashians. There is plenty of unexpected activity from day-to-day to keep me as entertained as I care to be.
Take yesterday, for example. I was all ready for my masseuse to arrive for my massage when I realized I had the time wrong and he wouldn’t be there for three more hours. Too long to wait for lunch as I was already hungry, so I put a bit of hot and sour soup on the stove that was left over from dinner with a friend the night before. It was meant to have wontons added and I thought instead of boiling them in the broth as I usually did, I’d prepare them as my friend had advised–browning them in a bit of oil, then adding a small bit of water and putting the lid on to steam them. The problem was that once they were browned, they were so nice and crispy that I didn’t want to limp them up again, so I put them on paper towels to drain the grease off and poured the soup into a bowl. I’d float a few in the soup and put the remainder of the wontons on a dish to the side.
I tasted one. Yum! As I moved the others to the plate, however, one rolled off the large slotted spoon and landed on the floor. No problem, I thought, as the floor had just been washed. Perhaps I’d just dust it off and eat it anyway, but as I leaned down to pick it up, I saw a slight movement. It took a minute to register that lying as close as possible to the wonton was a cockroach, now on it’s back with feet up in the air. It was then that I realized that when the wonton had fallen, it had fallen directly on the cockroach, knocking it for a loop. It was just now that it was starting to regain consciousness and its legs waved a bit in the air before I administered final rites by stepping on it. I then picked up bug and wonton for simultaneous entombment in the garbage can.
It was then that the utter absurdity of death by wonton hit me. Did it seem an appropriate death? It was not usual for a roach to venture out into the light of day. This one must have been led to its sad demise by an overwhelming love of wonton–its aroma as it bubbled in the hot grease just so irresistible that it overrode the roach’s usual schedule of secretive midnight meanderings. It died considering doing something it loved to do––namely, to mount and have its way with any food it might find in its path, making it useless for human consumption. What irony that in its final act of culinary terrorism, for once the food got the better of it.
Death by wonton. Not a bad way to go.
Morning 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/
Bare Necessities
I scream, I cry, I moan, I curse.
My pleas for help are curt and terse.
I look around for something worse,
then lift the sofa just to rehearse.
I quote the Bible–both psalm and verse,
request a doctor, request a nurse,
predict they’ll need to call a hearse.
Why must its contents be so diverse?
I grit my teeth. Then lift my purse!
Hope wears a white apron and a pensive smile!
Hope
I hope life turns out as you wish and is a bowl of cherries.
I hope you find a run of luck and that it never varies.
The whole world would be lucky, if I had my “druthers.”
Every line would catch a fish. All orphans would find mothers.
All endings would be happy. All lottery tickets win.
But as I stop to think of it, I have to think again.
If all of us were winners, winning would lose its distinction.
Every hunter bagging game would lead to their extinction.
It seems that often one guy’s luck brings bad luck to another.
If you’re the family favorite, then it cannot be your brother!
So if I must express my hopes I guess that I’ll just say
I hope that when it is your turn, good luck will come your way!
Now I have to tell the story about my camera, which showed up missing (oxymoron) the day after I’d met friends in the Ajijic plaza coffee place. I’d run a number of errands that day, and so after I had searched my house for over an hour, and my car, and my garden, I headed off for town. Was it at the coffee place? No. Either of the stores I’d visited? No. I headed down the street to Ajijic Tango, where I’d had comida with my friends. All locked up. Seeing a door ajar a few yards away from the entrance, I called into it. It must be the kitchen. I called and called and fially someone came. I gave them a note asking the owner to call me.Then I went home.
A day or so ago I wrote about a friend in Missouri who tends to straighten out my life for me on a regular basis? Well, I wrote to him bemoaning the fate of my camera. Within the hour, he had sent me a link to a local message board and lo and behold–there was a picture of my living room with friends I’d invited to a viewing of the new documentary of another friend all sitting in it! A picture that had been in my camera! Turns out the lady pictured above had been approached by a man who tried to sell her a camera. “He asked too much” she said in her message, which stated that when she’d inspected the camera, she had surreptitiously removed the sd card from the camera as well as three more in the pouch of the carrying case, then posted one of the pictures on the card in hopes of finding the owner.
Did she know the man who had the camera? She did. Long story short, she went to his house to ask about the camera. Sadly, he reported, it had stopped working. (He still didn’t realize she’d taken the sd cards out. Brilliant move on her part.) Did he still have the camera? No, he had given it to his son, who, it turned out, worked in the restaurant next to where I must have lost my camera! After a few more trips to enquire on her part, the next morning I recovered my camera from the son, giving him a good reward, although he didn’t ask. I then recovered my four sd cards from the angel pictured above and gave her a reward as well, in spite of her protests. And that is how my Music Man in Missouri once more came to my aid and turned disaster into luck. (If you regularly read my blog, you might have guessed that I cannot survive without my camera.) What does this story have to do with hope? Simply that I hope if you ever lose anything dear to you that you have two angels looking over you as I did!!!
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 