Loose Lips
I hear my new assistant is a great man at a party
which may be the reason why he is so often tardy.
Describing my proboscis is his favorite party schtick.
Plus, speculating over what makes his bossman tick.
He thinks I’m ancient in my forties and lists all that I lack?
He can tick “spineless” off of his list when I give him the sack!
Prompt words for today are party, ancient, proboscis, describe and assistant.
Remembrance of Things Past
I think I’ve vanquished wanderlust. I do not pine for travel.
All my wandering hopes and dreams have started to unravel.
I have no need to ameliorate the life that I am living.
I find that simpler pleasures are ones that keep on giving
pleasure far after the fact. It seems that memory substitutes
to satisfy what once I gained via other attributes.
Events in memory flower again after their first flowering.
A simple perfect blossom on a plant once lush and towering.
I no longer need it all. What I have is sufficient.
I’ve learned so much this lifetime that with more I’d be omniscient.
Year by year and friend by friend, I’m losing more connections.
I only hope that I will not outlive my recollections!
The prompt words today are vanquish, wanderlust, longer, ameliorate and hope.
(Click on photos below to increase size.)
I was looking for one photo to illustrate the poem and got sort of carried away..I could have added sixty more, so if you are from a period of my life not represented, sorry..I just took them as I could find them and suddenly realized I was getting excessive. You are in my heart even if not on this page…
“Spur”ned
Your boots are outlandish. They’re fancy and chic.
I bet they attract all the women you seek,
but your uncanny luck in attracting the ladies
won’t get you to Heaven—may take you to Hades,
for your looks are deceiving. Your spectacular start
won’t prevail when it comes to matters of heart.
Better cancel the wedding, unless, instead,
you learn when you wear your new boots to bed,
what you start you can’t finish. You’ll never be hers
If you don’t remember to take off the spurs!!!
Today’s prompt words are deceiving, finish, uncanny, prevail and cancel.
Rules and Regulations
Orange houses? Not allowed. Nor are blue or yellow.
The rules of this subdivision call for hues more mellow.
Tan or brown or gray or beige, trim equally sedate
are the colors they allow and you’ll seal your fate
if you select tricolors or a hue too bright.
Original’s not sanctioned. Artistic’s just not right.
Your entire edifice must sport one desert hue
lest you be delinquent in your neighbor’s view.
The ratio of bright-to-dull? Exceptionally low.
Blending-in is favored. One’s not allowed to glow.
They simply prefer colors more tranquil and more restful.
And so they do not put up with house colors more zestful.
Everybody to their own–monochrome or bawdy.
As for me, the hues I choose tend to be more gaudy.
They do not want the likes of me in Phoenix or Calexico.
If I want such colors, they with ship me off to Mexico.
Writing prompts today are tricolor, edifice, delinquent, entire and ratio, First photo by Eric Brehm on Unsplash. Used with permission.
.
Donald’s Time Out
Everyone knows that you reap what you sow.
This platitude’s spoken wherever we go.
And when it is cotton you bury so deep,
It’s also true that you’ll sew what you reap.
You must get despondent when things don’t go right,
for the seeds that you’ve sown are what you must bite.
If you plant bitter melons, you’ll meet with defeat
if sweeter fruit is what you want to eat.
Whatever is planted at your behest
is what you will yield at your own request.
Whatever you’ve buried will rise to the top.
Benevolent actions will yield a kind crop.
But harm done to others, you’ll likely rue,
as the other one acted upon will be you!
You are part of the world where you’re planting your seed,
and you’ll bear the brunt of your terrible greed.
It’s a different dark harvest the world is now reaping.
It’s been getting a foothold while you have been sleeping.
As you wielded your golf clubs, its roots have spread wide.
It lifted its branches as millions have died.
It crept out of cages as children bemoaned
the fact they were hungry and cold and alone.
It was watered by rivers poisoned and polluted,
as reason was smothered and good sense diluted.
So reap your cruel harvest. What fate is now serving
is certainly what you have long been deserving.
So you’ll sit at the table until you’ve diminished
the junk on your plate, and once you have finished,
please clean up the beaches and oceans and air,
for the evils you’ve planted have spread everywhere.
You’ll sit at that table until you confess
your part in creating this terrible mess!
Pull your chair to the table and eat ’til you choke.
The evils you’ve done are more than a joke.
The fruits of your labor have made a vile stew.
Please forgive us if we refuse dining with you!!!
Words of the day are harvest, despondent, benevolent, behest and difference. Image by Joyce Romero on Unsplash.
river
River Travelers
They know this river, know it well.
Daily, they bring their fruit to sell.
We, who find the river strange
reach out our bills as we lack change,
for what they’ve brought to us from shore.
They hand out more and more and more
to strangers whom they must find dense
to give them such great recompense
for what God has amply provided.
All their village has derided
those who float by in big boats,
holding out their ten sol notes
that would buy every bunch they carry.
They wonder why we do not tarry
for our change after we pay.
Silent, they watch us float away.
The baby held in mother’s arms
does not know what nearby harms
lurk beneath the water’s cloak—
the jaws that snap, the water’s soak.
But we know what small guarantee
exists in lives of poverty.
Rubbed raw, perhaps, by all we have,
our generosity is salve.
Cowboy Kiss-Off
As the years go by, my dear, it is more obvious that
you’re about as useful as this bobble on my hat.
Your eye has turned to roving and you’re out most every night.
Anger’s the main emotion that you’re able to incite.
You’ve forfeited my trust. You are taking me for granted.
You find me just as tasty as a wine that’s been decanted
for so long that it has molded and started to go sour.
Once put upon a pedestal, I’ve fallen from my tower.
Once you thought domesticity was like a field of clover,
whereas it’s obvious now that you would rather be a rover.
So best that you be off. The sooner gone would be just fine.
Your stuff is in this bag. As you recall, the ranch is mine!!
Other prompts for the day are bobble and trust.
The year is 2100, and my computer’s dusty hard drive has just resurfaced at an antique store. This is a note to the curious buyer explaining what he or she will find inside.
Hard Drive
If you long for mystery,
poems, facts and history,
long perambulations
and wild exaggerations,
recipes and letters and
episodes of Homeland,
Elementary, Sherlock, Friends,
a blogging site that never ends,
Emails, Youtube, Facebook notes,
starts of novels, copied quotes,
OkCupid pictures of
possibilities for love,
notes from nice guys, threats from creeps,
notes from guys who play for keeps,
friends who only write when drunk,
chain e-mails, jokes and other junk,
two hundred drafts of my third book,
(each one different, have a look),
kids stories and their illustrations,
the Christmas plans of my relations,
photographs of my whole life—
its happiness and pain and strife—
some successes but also follies:
fireworks, insects, gardens, dollies,
travel snaps and friendly faces,
rooms at home or foreign places,
birds and children, beaches, skies,
the camera lens is true and wise
and not as given to fraud and lies
as writings filtered through the eyes
of one who feels the joys or pains
of what she witnesses, then refrains
from trying to change her reader’s mind
to accord with the type or kind
of thoughts she carries deep inside:
pride’s cutting edge, love’s waning tide—
then read this hard drive if you dare,
but if you fear a life laid bare,
I have one word for you. Beware.
I was looking for another poem that I wrote but have never published or put on my blog. I couldn’t find it but instead found this poem that I wrote four years ago. Seems as though it would qualify for this prompt!! It’s actually a true story. When I was at the beach a few years ago, I had a house right on the beach and it got so I never knew who I would find on my porch when I woke up in the morning.
Found Poem
One and two and three and four.
Four little music makers pounding on my door.
One beats a rhythm, one toots a horn––
wild and sweet––sort of forlorn.
One hums a tune behind his teeth––
a sort of descant underneath
the melody on the steel guitar.
The gulls reel in from near and far
to add their screams to the refrain,
then fan their wings, silent again.
Four musicians at my gate.
I wait for their music to abate.
Then I go and let them in
to add my music to the din.
I sing my lyrics fast and slow
first soft then loud, my lyrics go
up and over the drums and horn–
out into the sandy morn.
Over the rocks and out to sea,
setting all our music free.
When the drummer leaves my porch,
he leaves just three to loft the torch.
Too soon the horn, too, fades away
but the hummer’s here to stay,
and the steel guitar swells out to fill
the morning air until until
the morning fades into full sun
and our melody comes done.
Soon guitar and singer fade,
their morning share of music made,
and I fold my songs away.
I’ll bring them out some other day.
With music left behind I wind
only words around my mind.
They weave their spell with me along.
I lose myself in their noisy throng.
Wander aimless, round and round,
in getting lost, this poem is found.
For Fandango’s Dog Days of August Challenge: Something you Found.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 