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Spider on the ceiling, legs evenly spread round,
I can’t help but wonder what keeps you ceiling-bound.
Have you little suction cups welded to each foot,
and if so, has nature adequately put
each one on this spider far above my bed
so it will not disconnect and land upon my head?
For MVB the prompt is “Ceiling.”
Helpmates
I’m the first to tell her what to do,
though each morning she pushes my button, too.
“Get out of bed,” I order her,
come back to reconnoiter her.
When she refuses to rise at once,
I sit in the corner like a dunce
and nag and nag until she’s up
to shower and dress and feed the pup.
I keep her clothing crisp and neat
with water mist and searing heat.
I’m a dangerous helper and she knows it.
Dire results if she ever blows it
and fails to heed my hiss and cough
and forgets to turn me off.
When my workday starts, I have no say.
Always ready as she greets the day,
I perk her up and fuel her drive.
She says she needs me to feel alive.
She takes me with her when she leaves.
When she kills the rest, nobody grieves.
I’m strong and flexible and black.
Cause eyes to open and lips to smack.
She holds me tightly every morning—
cussing, yelling, pleading, warning
others who get in her way
as she speeds into her waiting day.
She pushes my buttons and wheels my wheels
with clicks and groans and grinds and squeals.
I carry her inside of me
to take her where she needs to be
and wait outside until she’s done
in rain and snow and baking sun.
I wait at home in the cold and dark,
wondering when she’ll light the spark
that relieves me of my lonely plight—
chilly environs and unlit light.
I hear her footsteps across the floor,
light up as she opens my door.
She reaches in and relieves me
of can or bottle, then goes to pee
restoring me to isolation.
I don’t complain. It is my station.
She turns me on most every night
to wallow in my sickly light,
staring at dramas I provide.
Never does she go outside
to jog or run or bike or walk,
to meet the neighbors and have a talk,
to mow her grass or trim her tree—
she seems to live her life through me.
When at night she seeks her rest,
she always favors me the best.
I cushion her at end of day,
listen as she has her say
about her travails, aches and pains,
her setbacks and all her gains.
All her secrets I will keep
as she covers up and goes to sleep.
for dVerse Poets, the prompt is “I would love to know how you deal with setbacks in life. Share with us in the form of a poem, of course, are you the kind to bounce back, do you curse and rant when things go wrong or do you wallow in self pity. As always you are free to interpret the prompt in any which way.” Image by Jessica Mangano on Unsplash.
Elements of Story
Each myth, legend or fairytale
from “once upon” to “fare thee well”
shares some elements of story
be they sad, uplifting, gory.
Always a damsel in some distress—
Rumplestiltskin’s name to guess,
for straw once spun out into gold,
or another story to be told.
Too much sleep may be her curse,
ugly stepsisters, or worse.
Murder, treason, sloth and pox
were emptied from Pandora’s box.
These troubles spread from near to far,
(although, in fact, it was a jar.)
Zeus forgave Pandora’s shame
and the imp revealed his own strange name.
But the other women described above
were saved by cleverness or love.
Scheherazade escaped the hearse
with stories, legends, tales and verse.
Cinderella rose from hearth and ashes
and Sleeping Beauty opened lashes––
both maids saved by daring-do:
one by a kiss, one by a shoe.
So whatever might have been their fate:
loss of child or murderous mate,
wipe tears and fears away with laughter.
They all lived happily ever after.
Elements is the prompt for Esther’s Writing Prompts for Sept. 3
Realistic Wedding Vows
I will abide your ego if you will abide mine—
If you ignore my awkward habits, I can exist with thine.
I’ll overlook socks on the floor or an abandoned shoe
if you promise not to mention an extra line or two
you might detect in years to come, scribed onto the place
where I hope you’ll still plant kisses on my aging face.
I won’t make you eat okra if you won’t bring home fish
expecting me to transform them into a tasty dish.
I’ll try to love your mother if you’ll put up with mine.
Poker evenings with your friends that stretch ’til dawn are fine
so long as you won’t rush on through from front door to the fridge
when I have my friends over for a game of bridge.
Stop and talk awhile. Get to know their names.
The sexes aren’t so different. We just play different games.
Our love is a given, so it requires no vow.
The things that I promise thee, in public, here and now
are fidelity and an effort to be the easiest me
that, given what your vows are, it’s possible to be.
The RDP prompt is marriage.
Flight of Fortune
Aisle seat in the third row–
a next door neighbor I do not know.
I put my seat belt on and then
look up to her all-knowing grin.
“May I tell your fortune?” is her request,
(It is not made at my behest.)
A pastime really not my choosing,
still, with nothing more amusing
to pass the time, I give consent
and this is how our time is spent
in those first minutes of our flight,
until the ground is out of sight.
My fortune told, I sit and think,
ordering another drink,
pleased by some of her predictions
but finding others contradictions
to how I’ve planned my life to be.
I worry fingers upon my knee.
Does she concoct or does she see
these things that she relates to me?
Some things she mentions have happened, still,
I hope that others never will.
Yet I fear, if I reject
the things she says, I might deflect
the good things so they’ll never be.
This is the choice that faces me.
Can the good that she foretold––
of feats accomplished and love and gold––
be accepted without the rest?
I want the warmly-feathered nest,
but do not desire everything
she tells me that my life will bring.
The illness, sadness, loss of friends?
I don’t like how my fortune ends.
I warmly press her proffered hand,
take off my seat belt and quickly stand.
Perhaps if I just change my seat
and find a seat mate more discreet,
I’ll change my life as easily––
and react less queasily
to conversation that is not rife
with details of my future life!
Strange. This prompt somehow came up and I thought it was a current one, so answered it, but when I tried to pingback, it turns out it is just a few days shy of a year old and comments are closed. I’m going to go ahead and post it since it took me about an hour to find and alter this poem written many years ago.. For the MMM Challenge
Lady in Waiting
A rush of faith has roosted somewhere in her heart––
a spot where shame has luckily never had a start.
But now her heart beats wildly, blood rushing to that place
where passion peaked, but oh too soon, was forced to slow its pace.
An orb of moon projects a strip of light across the road
by which he has departed to search out the Motherlode,
trading riches of the heart in an action bold.
Her ruby lips forsaken in his quest for gold.
Somewhere on the fringe he wanders in his search,
as her faith roosts steadfastly, on its accustomed perch.
Prompt Words for the Sunday Whirl Wordle are: roosted fringe strip orb ruby rush beat shame faith peaks spot heart
Here’s To The Bride
The groom’s family was titled and a bit anachronistic.
So when they saw the bride, I fear they went a bit ballistic.
Instead of white she wore a dress of scarlet oddly draped.
The mother of the groom grew faint. Her husband merely gaped.
She wore something archaic instead of merely old—
her grandma’s feather boa—a bridal statement bold.
Around her neck, a python, and her arms were densely bangled.
Her veil pinned to a tractor hat of satin, oddly-angled.
The brim turned back as though she were an umpire at a game.
In short, the bride’s ensemble was anything but lame.
As she hip-hopped down the aisle to a tune by Kanye West,
the groom stood fondly watching her in morning coat and vest.
Her lipstick blue, her bustier was borrowed and conditional
on return to its owner in a manner most traditional.
To complete her fashion statement, her combat boots were blue,
and if you’ve paid attention, you could guess that they were new!
Her bouquet was fresh dandelions bound up with some chives.
She held it in one hand and with the other, gave high fives
to friends all up the aisle as she jerked her way on by.
The groom’s mom gave a shudder and his father gave a sigh.
So did this modern wedding forsake the antiquated
with customs much less stuffy, less predictable and dated.
The wedding fare was tacos, Cuban sandwiches and chips,
jelly beans and donuts, crudités and dips.
No caviar or salmon. Just ribs and Tater Tots.
The toasts to bride and groom were made with Jello shots.
The wedding cake was chocolate with custard between layers.
Good wishes voiced by ministers, gurus and namaste’ers.
In place of rice the bride and groom were showered with quinoa.
In short, it was a wedding to rival mardi gras!
The SOCS prompt is “toast.”
Scattered Dreams
She mourns the loss of everything as the crescent moon
fades away to nothing this putrescent June.
Orange blossoms drooping in their wedding urns,
an empty flag of wedding veil wafts outward and then turns
to fall from spinning fan blades where it has been tossed—
all its beauty shredded, its inspiration lost.
Her hopes and dreams now fatuous, their ending is now lore
written in tattered satin and petals on the floor.
The RDP prompt today is “Scattered.”
My new book “If I Were Water and You Were Air” is hot off the presses. You can buy it in soft cover or ebook HERE.
Like water that nourishes life or brings destruction, love can be both a blessing and a curse. This memoir in verse spans five decades and three countries with poems that reflect on love, loss and life’s complexities, drawing from personal experiences and emotions. “How many loves, senora?” my helper in Mexico asked me wistfully, during my first months after my move to Mexico. “Oh many,” I had answered. “I was nearly 40 when I married and I had traveled the world,”
If you’d like to hear 10 of the poems now, capture the the QR code in the upper right of this cover with the camera on your phone. Double click, and It will take you to Youtube. Click the youtube rectangle on your phone and then the “tap to unmute” rectangle that then appears on your phone. You’ll hear me reading 10 poems from the 105 pages of poems in the book. You can do this from the image here..or by doing the same to the cover of the actual book.
Word Choice
Poetry’s got metaphors, similes and rhyme,
and a bit of meter to make it sound sublime.
But prose has plot and conflict, and compared to verse
is of course much longer whereas poetry’s more terse.
But either genre that you choose, for sure you can’t go wrong.
A book of prose or poems is really good to have along
in waiting rooms or buses, on airplanes or on trains.
They fill in time for shut-ins in times of snow or rains.
In fact, to entertain you or to cancel out your woes
there is nothing better than poetry or prose!
For the Three Things Challenge, the prompt words are: Poetry, Prose and Verse
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 