Simplicity
Trying to keep it simple is harder than you think.
Each time I straighten out my life, fate adds another kink.
For Moonwashed Musings,
To see other responses to the prompt, go HERE.
Mulberry
Vincent, what skewed your branches, streaked your sky,
and drew tormented waters from above?
What crops, obscured by grasslands
pressed to earth?
What part of you
at rest beneath that tree––
now only your marker
left for us to see?
For dVerse Poets
To see other responses to this prompt, go HERE.
Rum Dumb
Beer is tacky. Wine’s a joke.
My preference is Rum and Coke.
Squeeze a lime in. Take a sip
to cool your throat and wet your lip.
My favorite form of inebriation
is always Cuba Libre-ation.
The RDP prompt is Tacky. Can’t resist that one. Went back 11 years and found this ditty I wrote that just happened to contain the prompt word. I didn’t remember writing it, so perhaps you don’t remember reading it. Does anyone???
Incandescent Insect Insomnia
When nature made the glow worm glimmer,
would that she’d installed a dimmer;
for when I put out the light,
what I expect is total night.
When it puts itself in action,
I fear it sets up a distraction.
Little glow worm on the shelf,
please keep your glowing to yourself.
For My Vivd Blog, the prompt is Glimmer. Photo gleaned from the Internet.
Photo by Ryan O’Niel on Unsplash. Used with permission
Stickler
The banker, the doctor, the rabbi, the priest
used to jam back in high school and never ceased.
They’ve been meeting on Saturday nights all their lives
leaving their girlfriends and bishops and wives
to drink beer and rap and have deep discussion
about riffs and choruses, notes and percussion.
The priest is the drummer. He wields a wild stick.
The rabbi’s a string guy. The cello’s his schtick.
The banker plays sax and the doctor’s on keys,
but they’re all pretty good at shooting the breeze.
It’s as hot as a sauna and still they play on.
All through the night and into the dawn.
the priest squeegees his glasses off with his left thumb
while his right is engaged in beating the drum.
He’s a stickler for rhythm, enthralled with the beat.
He stirs a small zephyr while stomping his feet.
When they’ll stop playing is anyone’s guess.
It’s obvious they overlook my duress.
They’ve had a good jam. A most excellent session,
but the priest better scoot or he’ll miss my confession!
The prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is Stickler.
I Took A Picture Of Your Name.
After so many years, seeing it again on the screen,
I took a picture of your name.
Not written by your hand,
it had a strangeness––
featureless, revealing nothing.
It had no voice,
no breath.
Out there sharing itself with the world,
it has formed a wall around
that intimacy it birthed when you took my hand in yours,
using your name to pull me closer,
powerless against its strength on your tongue.
Everyone wanted to share a part of what made you you,
but I only wanted to be with you, back when,
scrawled in your careless hand,
you were written on my soul.
Wanting to be perfect for you,
remembering that tattoo you traced across my back.
Your name and mine.
“Always,” you wrote.
For the dVerse Poet’s Pub, Feb 14, 2025
To see other poems written to this prompt, go HERE.
Next
To live in yesterday’s a sorrow.
From the past I need not borrow.
I just need my next tomorrow.
For the Three Things Challenge the word I chose was: NEXT.
Poor Sport
I’ve never climbed a mountain.
I don’t dive in the sea.
Team sports are simply pastimes
that don’t agree with me.
I cannot bat or pitch or catch.
A baseball skill I lack;
and when I tried at tetherball,
it hit me in the back.
I flinched and ducked, then stood back up,
tried once more for the ball;
but when I missed, got hit again
and took another fall.
I ski a lot upon my back
and when I swim I sink.
The water I can handle well
is in my kitchen sink.
In grade school when we played those games
involving run and chase,
I was the last one chosen;
for I never won a race.
I did not shine at tennis,
nor at volleyball.
When it comes to doing sport,
I find I’ve flunked them all.
Bowling, golf and badminton,
croquet and racquetballing
are talents I just don’t possess.
They simply aren’t my calling.
I fear I lack the focus
to hit balls with stick or hand.
To me, it’s hocus-pocus.
I’d rather join the band.
In games that take sports prowess,
my teammates rave and rant
that I do not play kick-the-can,
but rather, kick-I-can’t.
Some people lacking talent,
coordination, speed—
simply choose spectator sports
to fill their sportly need.
But I don’t like watching football,
your soccer or your hockey;
and when it comes to horse racing,
I neither bet nor jockey.
I admit, at sports I am
the worst you’ve ever seen.
So stop expecting more of me.
I simply lack the gene!!
For Esther’s Writing Prompts: Team
Snow-Bound
When I saw the prompt words, I knew it would be topical
to talk about a climate that was anything but tropical.
Truly, in the past I have trudged through sludge and snow,
my socks sodden and water-soaked by the fire’s glow.
Despite those still-clear memories, I have some reservations––
a few inner thoughts about those former titillations
felt while swooping down a ski hill, zooming up the rise
of the hill that rose again at the old hill’s demise.
For sure, snow is a despot. It chills and then it freezes,
leaving souvenirs of grippe, sniffles, coughs and sneezes.
But oh what memories we might have, in fact I’m sure we will
of strapping on those sticks just meant for zooming down the hill,
and even though we started at various reckless paces,
somehow, some (and I was one) landed on our faces.
The prompt words for The Sunday Whirl Wordle 693 are: past climate water trudge sludge sodden despite despot rise demise few inner
For the MVB prompt of “Candy Bar” today, I am reblogging a poem written a few years ago:
The Ballad of Henry and Ruth
Before she met him at the candy store,
her days were empty and her life was a bore;
but when he offered her his Jujyfruits,
in just a moment they were in cahoots.
He was the drummer in a R&R band.
Down all 5th Avenue, he held her hand.
She felt his pulse beat pump a sweet love tune
and knew he’d be her Sugar Daddy soon.
Chorus:
Yes she met him at the candy store,
between the sucker rack and front screen door.
He nearly tripped over her Mary Janes
and crashed into a rack of Candy Canes.
The Double Bubble and the Tootsie Roll Pops
collided with the mints and lemon drops.
Their love was written in the moon and stars,
but realized beneath the Hershey Bars!
Oh Henry, she was crooning, and much more.
He loved this Bit O’ Honey down to the core.
Shifted his Firestick and they went for a ride
his Baby Ruth snuggled right up to his side.
She cried, “Oh, Henry!” as they hit the Mounds,
poppin’ wheelies as they did the rounds.
He was no Slo-Poke, tell you here and now,
so as he swerved to miss a big Black Cow,
The car rolled over on its Rollo Bars
crashing into six more hot rod cars.
“Atomic Fireball” said the words on his car.
Now how appropriate those two words are.
100 Grand it costs him on Payday
so he’ll be working every night and day—
his Red Hot mama working by his side,
for now his Sweet Tart is his blushing bride.
Repeat Chorus:
And, thanks to Björn, this poem is going to the moon in the lunar codex! Who would have guessed? A friend has even set it to music, so if I can find it, I’ll add a link below or publish in a new blog.
