Translation: “Donald, we are watching you!” jdb photo, solidarity march, La Manzanilla, MX
The prompt today was “farce.”
Mismatch
When a certain fella has had a drink
or two or three, he’s bound to wink
at the little lady dressed in pink.
Her drink’s cubes give a subtle clink
as she decides what she might think.
Is he a stud or just a fink?
His clothes are sort of rinky-dink,
yet her long lashes, swathed in ink,
flutter in a come-on blink.
One fingernail is seen to sink
into her glass. He’s at the brink
of coming over to seal the link.
She checks her breath. It doesn’t stink.
She reaches down and dons her mink.
But then he stops and seems to shrink.
In this sure deal there seems a chink.
It’s clear that when she deigned to flirt,
she missed the writing on his shirt.
“Be kind to animals,” it said,
“Who’d be caught wearing something dead?”
The prompt word today is “pink.”
Sad News for the Bearded Lady
That your girlish form is rather cute
is not a fact we would dispute;
and though you’re held in good repute,
yet every male’s lack of pursuit
from callow youth to crusty coot
is a subject that is moot.
The men would be more resolute—
more determined to press their suit—
if only you were less hirsute!
The prompt today was “pursue.”
Reincarnation
Two things of value that are fleeting––
life and love both set hearts beating.
Both sadly lost by types of cheating:
one by libido overheating,
the other just by unwise eating.
Once over, though, both bear repeating.
The prompt today is “temporary.”
Small Fry
We were small fry in a grown up world,
our dresses starched, our hair tight-curled
on a candlestick by mothers
who scrubbed the faces of small brothers
with fingers they had spit upon
to purge the dirt they’d lit upon.
We had no choice in any of this.
Nor in the neighbor lady’s kiss.
Sour and moldy though she might smell,
we pretended we loved it well.
So went the life in days gone by
so long as you were just small fry.
Now children pose for selfies and diss
the thought of an old lady’s kiss.
They refuse to run through traces.
Don’t allow spit-scrubbed-at faces.
Skirts go unstarched, hair goes uncurled
now that children rule the world!
Fry is the WP prompt today.
Regional Differences
They joked about their names. His name was Johnnie, she was Frankie.
It’s true that she was beautiful, he handsome, tall and lanky.
He was a genteel southern boy, while she was born a yankee.
Every time she looked at him, her heart went a bit wanky,
but the slowness of his courtship rites was making her most cranky.
For though she appeared shy, at heart she was a trifle skanky.
As he contemplated holding hands, she dreamed of hanky panky!
The prompt word today is cranky.
I just noticed that they’ve reinstated the stats page that shows readership of blogs country-by-country. I always enjoyed it and so I was very happy to see it back again. Then I started to notice little blank spots that indicated countries where no one has ever read my blog, and of course my obsessive side took over. The result is this poem. This happened once years ago with Greenland and eventually they caved in and someone viewed my blog and even commented. Of course, it was a Filipino who had moved to Greenland, so I am aware of the fact that native Greenlanders still resist my charms, but it took care of that big gap on the map, so I’m happy. But! What about all those stans? Does no one read English there? Is their taste too impeccable to give me even a chance? Clearly, something needs to be done, so if you know any stans that you can toss into my blog begging cup, please help. Have I been at this too long? Is it time to stop and find a less public obsession? Well, we will see. At any rate, here’s my plea, in rhyme, as usual:
They Do Not Like Me In Mongolia
They do not like me in Mongolia. My blog they are not reading.
The advice I give that they might need, I fear they are not heeding.
The Russians do not snub me, nor do the Turkestanis,
But I see that I have zero stats for Turkmenistanis.
They enjoy me in Samoa and endure me in St. Kitts.
The folks in Montenegro just love me all to bits.
But why won’t they read me in Uzbekistan, I wonder?
I’ve never once insulted them. I’d not make such a blunder.
Tajikistan might like me if they’d give me a chance.
Just ask my faithful readers in Great Britain and in France.
It’s true my knowledge of where Kyrgyzstan lies is most hairy,
and I can only spell it if I use a dictionary;
but still, why won’t they read me? They could have a look and rate me.
And if they noted what my blog is lacking, educate me.
For a year there were no stats that showed us views country by country,
and so I didn’t suffer from the shame and the effrontery
that there were countries missing from my readership
who are surely suffering from lack of leadership
in how to train a Scottie with fifty percent success.
and how best to deal with the chaos and the mess.
How to avoid chocolate, at least one day in ten.
How to post too many pictures of everywhere I’ve been.
I’m expert in so many things that, really, they should know,
so if you know folks in these countries, please be sure to tell them so!
Note: Let’s see if the Eastern block countries will have a little compassion and cave to our pleas.
And since stats are surely a measurement of readership, this post works for the Daily Prompt as well!
Work WeekMonday
The day’s become unravelled. The night’s begun to fall,
yet I’ve not accomplished anything. I’ve done nothing at all
except cooking a curry and writing several drafts
of poems still uncompleted–they’re bobbing here like rafts
afloat upon my consciousness but have nowhere to go.
The words all came so quickly, but their gelling has come slow.
They want to group together in concrete communities,
but instead they’re fluttering like moths and landing where they please.
Tuesday
I’m a syllable collector, a hoarder of each word
without a purpose for them. It’s come to be absurd.
Verbs are piled up on shelves, adjectives under foot.
The gerunds hang like spiderwebs. I have no place to put
The adverbs and the articles. They leak out of my head.
When I nudge them into lumpy piles, they hide beneath the bed.
I’m going to have a housecleaning of consonants and vowels.
Collect them up in buckets and wipe them up with towels.
Wednesday
I’ll sort out all the lovely words. The ones I like, I’ll hoard,
then pile the others in tidy stacks and tie them up in cord.
I’ll keep the good ones by my desk to sort through when they’re needed.
Bad words go in the basement, unsorted and unheeded.
Then I’ll have a yard sale of unused words like “pickle”
and sell them in unsorted lots—a handful for a nickel.
Then perhaps I can make room for words more orderly
that come to me in sentences that make more sense to me.
Thursday
My muse is hyperactive, I need to tame her down.
Instead of resting close to me, she runs all over town
collecting words at random— funky words like “phat”—
so when I really need her, I don’t know where she’s at.
Then when I am sleeping, she unloads word after word
until there’s no room left for them. It has become absurd.
They’re piling up around me. They’ve reached my nose and ear.
I cannot swim my way through them. I’m smothering, I fear.
Friday
That’s why I’m calling poets, every novelist or bard
to have a drive-by of my house and stop here at my yard.
Bring a bucket and a rake. Take all the words you please,
for now they’re raining down like leaves falling from my trees.
Just gather them in armloads. I won’t find it queer.
Better bring a wheelbarrow if you cannot park near.
You do not need to pay for them. Today they’re yours for free.
If you don’t help I fear that words will be the end of me!
Saturday
YARD SALE
Take what you wish. Please do not disturb occupant.
P.S. If you’d like to take any words or phrases or lines from this poem to prompt your own poem, please do. But please, please send your poem as a comment here–or send a link.
The prompt today was unravel. The link to NaPoWriMo Day 11 is HERE.
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The prompt word today was purple.
Take Ordinary Caution
As pallbearer for my friend Larry,
I heard these deaths were ordinary
and if a fellow wished to parry
his own demise, he should be wary
of our town apothecary.
For each he saves, there’s one they bury.
That is why I’m sorta wary,
and why I find his sign so scary
and ironically cautionary
when I read it’s “Cash and Carry.”
The prompt word today was ordinary.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 