Stop and Go
Consider the ramifications
of an excess of libations.
You can kiss but you can’t hug
the frothy lip of a bar mug.
It takes a bit of nerve and spine
to veer off course, to forsake wine
and face the angst of barroom gents
in favor of family events.
Hats off to drinking men who know
The proper time to stop and go!
Prompt words today are ramifications, angst, veer, spine and hug,
The Divine Supine
A chunk of ham, a pint of beans,
a glass of wine, some magazines,
an afternoon stretched out supine,
a hearty meal on which to dine.
No serious tasks to stir and pique,
No work to do. No goal to seek.
“Pronto” not an adverb you’re
likely to hear to make you stir.
Lazy days and lazy nights
are what set the world to rights.
Prompt words today are chunk, pronto, pique, supine and serious.
Grandpa Discovers Virtual Reality
I’ve been over yonder and frankly I’m perplexed
about how all the young ‘uns seem to be so under-sexed.
Virtual reality makes real-time life a bore.
Why bother with reality when you can live on lore?
Real life takes some gumption but virtual life’s a snap.
Who needs real love with Kim Kardashian upon your lap?
It seems that in the future perhaps all folks will live thusly,
sitting watching screens to live their lives vicariously.
Prompt words are perplexed, vicariously, frankly, yonder and snap. Image by Lucrezia Carnelos on Unsplash.
Harridan
I’m standing at the crossroads between a saint and bitch.
Schooled in forebearance, I’ve stayed within my nitch.
But lately things are changing. I’m losing self-control.
The hounds of Hell have been released and now they’re on patrol.
They’re fluting all the pillars formerly unmarked—
scoring them with unfurled claws every time they’ve barked.
Soon I will be certified as a nagging crone—
the sort of aging harpie who prefers to live alone.
I’m sure its hard to fathom it, as perfect as I’ve been,
kowtowing to authority—especially to men.
But privilege must come to all as we come to age,
so I’m expressing sovereignty, at least here on the page.
Word prompts today are flute, crossroads, certified, bitch. Image by Camila Quintero Franco on Unsplash.
Temporarily Shoeless
My mind is in a quandry and I don’t know what to do
about the most unfortunate loss of my new shoe.
I’ve retraced my footsteps and looked with hawk-like eye
and yet not any trace of it was I able to spy.
I find no consolation in the fact I still have one,
for dancing in a single shoe cannot be any fun.
The majority of those I know say to just forget it,
but they have not a notion of the way I came to get it.
I peep down through the curtains when I hear the doorbell ring,
and from my turret window, see the one who will be king
and in his hand he holds the shoe that is a perfect pairing
to the shoe that on one foot I happen to be wearing.
As I limp down the stairway, I hear my sister strain
to stuff her foot into the shoe, in spite of all her pain.
Then my other stepsister tries to do the same.
She offers to cut off her toes, but his majesty’s not game.
“Is there another sister?” he asks as I appear.
My stepmother says no but I step forward and say, “Here,
I have the other slipper,” and so the story goes
on with a happy ending, as everybody knows.
Word prompts today are hawk, quandry, majority, consolation and loss. Image by Ilina Ekaterina
Tofurky Asafoetida Blues
My brother’s new wife has the whole family curious.
Her allegations seem New-Age and spurious.
With the result that grandma is furious.
She turns family gatherings into a podium
where she expounds on the dangers of sodium.
Meanwhile, the whole family is on Imodium .
Off to the bathroom, each one in a hurry
after imbibing in her saltless curry.
Will grandpa recover? We all share the worry.
Her asafoetida and cumin and dahl
have certainly cast an ominous pall.
We hardly enjoy family dinners at all!
She stuffs us with pita and gags us with bulgur
because she thinks regular rice is just vulgar.
But macrobiotic and Christmas don’t mix.
We miss all the old foods she’s certain to nix.
No turkey, no dressing, no cranberry sauce.
And no Christmas pudding, ’cause she is the boss!
For years, family dinners went by with no glitch,
but not so since bro married this tedious bitch.
So Santa, this year it would be very pleasant
if you gave us all just one communal present.
Please, Santa, deliver us from her tofurkey
and restore us to pudding and dressing and turkey!!!
Note: Asafoetida is a strong spice with a pungent smell, often used in Indian cuisine. It has been known to cause burping, farting and swelled lips.
Words of the day are ditch, insist , spurious, vulgar and sodium.
(Click on images to enlarge.)
Ode to a Grackle
A variation of the crow,
you strut wherever you may go
unless you’re flying post to tree
to get a better look at me.
You stick your chest out, spread your tail
horizontal, you haughty male,
then fold it neatly, like a fan,
to vertical, because you can!
Three toes in front and one behind,
a songbird of the perching kind,
at a moment’s notice, you’re on the wing,
soaring above everything.
No cat that ever stalked a grackle
succeeded in his stealthy tackle.
No quagmire brings about your fall,
for you just glide above them all.
Every grackle that comes along
sings an ever-changing song.
He chirps, he purrs, he clucks, he whirrs,
whistles, squeegees, chatters, chirrs.
No bird save you, my coal-black grackle,
has such variety of cackle.
And when you deign to land en masse,
your music sounds like broken glass.
Though Mexico was your first home,
both south and north you chose to roam.
Like me, you dared to spread your wings
to see what that adventure brings.
And when you perch upon my tree
to share your company with me,
such varied music swells from your chest,
of all loud neighbors, I love you best.
*Grackle feathers were used ceremonially by the Aztecs, who it is speculated, brought them northwards for this purpose. Zanate is the Aztec name for what in the north we call mynah birds or grackles.
Prompts today are save, variation, grackle, quagmire and chest.
Picky Eater
I can’t stand mushrooms, abhor liver.
To dine on brains just makes me shiver.
Drinking milk’s against my wishes.
Fish is simply for the fishes.
Raw tomatoes? I’d rather die.
And one more mouthful I won’t try?
I have no taste for humble pie!
Little Jobs
Why is it that just as I find a time for resting,
I think of another job life seems to be requesting?
Little jobs pursue me, destroying all my fun.
Life comprises all of them until my day is done.
Dogged and determined, I fulfill all of them,
tolerating constant toil, my life filled to the brim.
I am a proper martyr. I toil with little resting.
I have no time for joyful acts like partying and festing.
Tasks that are debilitating to much lesser folks
are to superior ones like me, merely nature’s pokes
to spur me on towards greatness—to glory and to fame.
In the annals of history, you’re sure to see my name.
So thank God for little jobs, for they add up at last
into that great accomplishment within which fame is cast.
Prompt words today are debilitating, dogged, resting, comprise and tolerate. Image by Irena Carpaccio on Unsplash.
Mismatched Hearts
She overdosed on tinder, declaring it a bomb.
She’s through with OKCupid and over Match.com.
In fourteen introductions, not one has turned out kissable.
If she had to rate them, she’d rate every date as missable.
Not one man she’s been linked to has been skookum, smooth or smart.
Not a single one of them has satisfied her heart.
Fatuous or condescending, under or over-dressed—
each one she has been matched to has left her unimpressed.
No plangent love bells have rung out. No lover has been gettable.
One theme that’s been repetitive is that they’re all forgettable.
Prompt words today are skookum (strong or brave) repetitive, fatuous, plangent and smooth.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 