Dateless Saturday Night
Her face an apparition
in the mirror of
her window,
she sits alone, apart from the
cool crowd,
plucking petals.
“He loves me. He loves me not.”
Her hand holds one more piece
too many,
the whole world
plucked nodes
on an empty
stem.
The prompt word for the dVerse Poets quadrille challenge is: petal.
The Stilled Song of Sparrows
Babbling sparrows exiled to the dark of sheltering barns
pipe and cheep their language, dispensing avian yarns
of escapes from snakes and alley cats as slingshots of small boys
hands guided by piped bird speech and focused on their noise,
take focus in the shadows, fitting stones purloined from lots
of building stones and gravel into their leather slots,
then bark their childish pleasure as each missile meets its mark,
and they send their willing pet dogs to retrieve them with a bark.
Rapping their childish pleasure, brushing water from still wings,
when the rain stops, they go on to other childish things.
Prompt words for the Sunday Whirl Wordle are: hands brush water sparrows snake babbling slot rap piped bark exiled speech
image by Mihail Tregubov on Unsplash.
Dental Discourse
She could not stand the sad sad sight
of his horrendous overbite.
She arranged to take him to a
dentist, thinking he could do a
makeover.
She asked the doc what he would charge
to make his overhang less large.
The price he set to make each tooth less
was, I fear, greedy and ruthless
overkill.
Thus began their drawn-out dicker
that I think would have gone quicker
if his teeth had been less icky,
and the job a much less tricky
overhaul.
After much talk, they struck a deal,
both thinking that they’d made a steal.
But then with little else to do,
she said if he attempted to
overcharge,
she would have his license lifted
no matter how bloody gifted
he might have been (when this all ends)
at cutting down her toothy friend’s
hangover.
The “Compound Word” verse form consists of 5 five-line stanzas with aabb rhyme schemes, each containing 8 syllables and each stanza concluding with a three-syllable compound word that has one element the same as all other compound words in the final lines of the stanzas. Phew!
The Word of the Day prompt was Dentist.
Cat and Mouse
My cat is in his hunter mode, and that is no surprise.
I see it in extended claws. I see it in his eyes.
His back is hunched into an arc. His hair all stands on end.
His lips are stretched back in a hiss, his teeth ready to rend.
When he lets go a loud remark, it sounds more like a chatter.
I look up from my magazine to see what is the matter.
The prism on the windowsill reflects a flashing gleam
and he springs into action to try to catch its beam.
Like an arrow, straight and sure, he shoots across the room,
but when he does, his target’s gone. Vanished in the gloom.
It seems his prey has vanished. It’s nowhere to be found.
He’s wasted all his energy: his speed, his stealth, his bound.
The cat door closes with a swish. He’s off to other pleasures.
Out in the sultry cloud-swathed world, he’ll resort to other measures.
He saunters by the hen house, hungry, but it’s no use
He still bears the scars of the rooster’s last abuse.
While the men are busy milking, he’ll crouch there in the dirt
hoping if he’s lucky to receive a friendly squirt.
He’ll troll the barn for mice and rats, then comb the prairie grass
for game that’s more digestible than prey that’s made of glass.
The prompt for RDP is prism.
The Case of the Exploding Wedding Jar
Last year in Chiapas
at a small bazaar
I chanced upon a treasure—
a terracotta jar.
It was so very lovely
that I had to pick it up.
The shopkeeper came and told me
it was a wedding cup.
It had two well-formed curving necks,
each one with a lip
so both the bride and groom
could have a wedding sip.
What a lovely vase
I thought that it would make.
I packed it up most carefully,
afraid that it would break.
Once home, I’d soon unpacked it
as fast as I was able.
I put two candles in the necks
and placed it on the table.
This jar has lit my table for
each meal with guests so far.
In between occasions,
I sat it on the bar.
A little terracotta horse
and chalice sat nearby.
They made a lovely trio,
pleasing to the eye.
I have many treasures
—too many to display.
So most of them I use a bit
and then I put away.
But these terracotta pieces
have sat out for one year.
I just cannot hide them,
for I hold them dear.
Tonight I laid the table
for guests from out of town.
I spread the mats and from the bar
three pieces I brought down.
I wanted an arrangement
to put upon the table.
I filled the jar with greenery—
as much as I was able.
Filled with ferns and succulents
and graceful parrot’s beak,
the little jar proved waterproof.
In short, it didn’t leak.
I put it on the table.
‘Twas elegant and chic.
Every now and then I
had to take a peek.
Hours passed. I got engrossed
as much as I was able
in boring sorting jobs
and so, I glanced not at my table.
But when at last I thought to look
I wished that I had not.
For something strange had happened
to my little wedding pot.
My view of it was shocking,
in fact, it broke my heart.
My little jar was lying there
in pieces—burst apart!
The flowers spilled out on the mat
released from their confinement.
The shards of terracotta
had lost their past refinement.
A mystery now filled my mind.
Just what had caused the break?
I’ve had other strange happenings,
but this one took the cake.
I picked up all the pieces,
but found no water left.
The clay was dry, the pieces firm,
their former smoothness cleft.
I put the table greenery
into another pot.
It sits upon my table,
but my favorite it is not.
Those I’ve told the mystery
have failed to find solution,
but I think this enigma
must have a resolution.
If you can figure out just why
my little jar has burst,
I’ll give a lovely prize unto
the person who is first.
There is a resolution.
I’ve figured out the “why.”
If you can tell what burst the jar,
you’ll be the lucky guy
or girl who wins the prize I’ve made
with my own lily hands.
But there will be no fanfare,
and there will be no bands.
I am, you see, in mourning.
I’m sad. It is a fact.
I miss my sweet Chiapas jar
as it appeared intact.
But even so, I give you aid
to help you solve the riddle.
I took a picture of the jar
and what was in the middle.
Answer quick and you may win.
If not, you will not die.
At my blog you can try
You can try your try.
If in the course of seven days,
everyone should fail,
I promise that I’ll tell you all
the ending to this tale.
I’ll tell the reason for the break.
I’ll open up your eyes.
And then I’ll have the funeral—
and open up my prize.
The SOCS prompt for today is “Seven.”
Happy Ending––In fact, I bought two wedding jars and here is the other, still intact. This one isn’t quite as attractive as the first, but nonetheless I have it if needed!!!
My sister Patti and I, posed by my older sister Betty. Those are “the” cherry trees behind us. The fact that we were wearing dresses suggests we were just home from Sunday school and church, our souls bleached as white as our shoes and socks!
I used to eat red
from backyard cherry trees,
weave yellow dandelions
into cowgirl ropes
to lariat my Cheyenne uncle.
I once watched dull writhing gold
snatched from a haystack by its tail,
held by a work boot
and stilled by the pitchfork of my dad
who cut me rattles while I didn’t watch.
I felt white muslin bleached into my soul
on Sunday mornings in a hard rear pew,
God in my pinafore pocket
with a picture of Jesus
won from memorizing psalms.
But it was black I heard at midnight from my upstairs window––
the low of cattle from the stock pens
on the other side of town––
the long and lonely whine of diesels on the road
to the furthest countries of my mind.
Where I would walk
burnt sienna pathways
to hear green birds sing a jungle song,
gray gulls call an ocean song,
peacocks cry the moon
until I woke to shade-sliced yellow,
mourning doves still crooning midnight songs of Persia
as I heard morning
whistled from a meadowlark
half a block away.
And then,
my white soul in my shorts pocket,
plunging down the stairs to my backyard,
I used to eat red,
pick dandelions yellow.
The dVerse Poets prompt is to use color as a motif in your poem. To see more poems written to this prompt, go HERE.
Here’s a rengay done by David and Me:
Wild Nights “Out”
When we are young we brag and flout
our exciting evenings out,
but later on the joys of gin
start to wear our patience thin.
Lately, though I still go dancing,
I find an hour or two of prancing
is quite enough to slake my thirst;
and I must confess the worst.
When it comes to nights of sin,
my most exciting nights are “in!”
For the Weekly Writer’s Workshop, the prompt is “Wild.”
Bar Stool Brush-Off
There’s not a ghost of a chance
that you’ll crack my code,
free-wheeling know-it-all
that you are.
But as your hand smooths
that errant strand of hair
back into its perfect place,
I’ll hand you this:
every time you check your reflection
in the mirror behind the bar,
it is clear no number of looks
will clue you in to yourself.
The prompt for dVerse Poets is “Reflection.”
jdb photo
Longing
This morning’s church bells’ constant bongings
woke me to familiar longings.
Coded as they were in dreams,
when I awoke, they split their seams
and spilled into my conscious thought.
Futile to yearn for what I’m not.
No longer young or lithe or trim,
no passions spilling from my brim.
No husband, mother, father, lover.
No guardians to watch and hover.
I’ve grown away from most of life,
connections severed as with a knife.
Still, I do not long for these.
I do not pray on bended knees
for what is past or what is lost,
for I know pining’s pain and cost.
My longing, now, is just to see
what life’s plot is left to me.
For Lens Artists Chanllenge, the prompt is “Longing.”
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
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