Category Archives: Poetry

Poems in many categories: Loss, NaPoWriMo

Silly Words

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Silly Words

Bumbershoots and pollywogs, gorp and whirlybird—
Why are the words we choose to coin sometimes so absurd?

Why does one word sound sillier than others we might use?
Why are some sounds more serious while others just amuse?

Why do some get tummy ache blocking their digestion,
while others simply get the flu? It is a puzzling question.

One names the problem. That is all. No words that might confuse.
Whereas the other says the same in words that might defuse

the worry that plain words might cause–a silly sort of way it
is possible to ease the news by the way we say it.

So if the day dawns cold and drear, don coats and scarves and boots
and if dark clouds float overhead, grab your bumbershoots.

Umbrellas block the rain out and keep your shoulders dry,
but bumbershoots are bound to add a sparkle to your eye.

 

The prompt word today is bumble.

Kitten Afternoon

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Kitten Afternoon

They tumble off the bed and land on padded feet,
light as feathers blown by wind, their movements sure and fleet.


They leap upon the pillows, sliding down the back
of the leather sofa, this little feline pack.

Off on single sorties, still they must collect
together in a pile to communally reflect

on the adventures of the day: the palm fronds they’ve combatted
and all the tiny spaces they have covertly catted.

They bravely face the secrets under the guest room bed,
approaching cowering crickets with fascinated dread.


They eye the inert bed cat with a careful glance,
then settle down around her, mirroring her stance.

Tumblers and explorers, their days are wildly varied––
sculptures to be batted at, business to be buried.


Laps to be climbed up on, computers to be checked.
Feathers to be batted at. Bird nests to be wrecked.

With their indulgent human approving all of it,
that nests are being shredded matters not a whit.


These kittens are her little bits of kinetic art,
infusing her still house with a spontaneous heart.


Those who say that kittens are a bother and a mess
could not begin to fathom, to comprehend or guess


how those subtle sounds—each skittering and scratching
heard from the next room is another mystery hatching.

Each tiny paw that walks across her unsuspecting chest
as she lies in bed is a most welcome guest,


messing up the covers of her unruffled day
with an invitation to leave her work and play.

Hometown Boys

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Hometown Boys

I never knew the simple joys
of going out with hometown boys.
For me, romance was never focal
on a male who was a local.
The smart ones just aimed to debate me
but seemed to have no yen to date me;
while the ones who asked were way too slow.
Why this was, I do not know.

I may have been too brash and vocal
for any hometown country yokel,
so when I finally tied one down,
he was a boy from out of town.
Sweet Sixteen and never been kissed,
romance was something I had missed;
but we made up for lost time
with remedial work that was sublime.

So it is, I am confessing,
that mobility’s a blessing.
If what you need’s not where you are,
then I suggest you use a car.
If you cannot shop at home,
it may be necessary to roam.
Free trade’s not just for clothes and toys.
It also works for teenage boys.

 

 

The prompt today is local.

Travel Illusions

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An Andalusian Businessman Visits Mexico

When business problems brought disillusion,
I hoped to prompt their fast diffusion,
jumping to the fast conclusion
that a coronary occlusion
could be allayed best by the fusion
of tequila and a lime
and so I thought that it was time
to move from Spain to Mexico
to see how well my life would go
in climes more southern, still, than mine.
I’d heard it said on the grape vine
my college sweetheart still lived there.
I thought I’d see how she might fare.
But when this friend sought dissolution
of her marriage, my inclusion
as a witness brought confusion.
It seems the judge had the delusion
that she and I were in collusion—
that it was I who broke their fusion.
He gave me three days of seclusion,
thinking that my simple exclusion
might furnish them a love transfusion.
The Spanish/Mexicano fusion
I now know is mere illusion.
That we’re joined by language is a delusion.
What exacerbated the confusion
was that I spoke in Andalusian!

 

The prompt today was illusion. (Image downloaded from the Internet.)

Commitment Issues

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(You don’t dare enlarge these, do you?  If you do have the courage of your convictions and wonderful resistance to temptation, enlarge all photos my clicking on any one.)

Commitment Issues

I breakfast on oatmeal and vile green tea.
Oats aids in digestion, the tea makes me pee
and helps me to swallow the Omega 3
that lowers blood pressure and lubes up my knee.
I do pool aerobics when the water’s not cold.
I open my mind so it doesn’t get old.
I don’t shoot up drugs or overdo liquor.
I try to eat food that is good for my ticker.

Broccoli, whole grains, jamaica, white beans
to lower my blood pressure by other means
than those dreaded pills that make me feel old
by sapping my energy, dulling my bold.
I can give up the salt and give up the nookie,
but please don’t deprive me of my evening cookie
or maybe a dozen or two, more or less.
 In my frenzy, I sometimes lose count, I confess.

If I’m going to have meat, a potato’s a must.
Protein without carbs is simply unjust.
Dark chocolate’s allowed, but I fear just a bit,
and when it comes to chocolate, I never can quit.
Who wants to commit to a life with no sin?
No pasta, no cookies, no chocolate, no gin?
I try to be good but I’m still not the best,
for I cannot commit to a diet with no zest.

 

The prompt today was commit.

Richly Ragged

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Richly Ragged

Youth today want to abolish
all the elegance and polish
that has received such veneration
from their parents’ generation.
Jeans with rips and shirts with holes
seem to be their fashion goals.
What is ironic is the tags.
They spend a fortune for these rags!

 

The prompt today is polish. Image taken from the internet.

Ragtag Hattie

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jdbphoto

 

Ragtag Hattie

Though her clothes are old and ratty,
her cast-off hats tattered and gnatty,
and her aroma eau de catty,
still her style is somewhat natty.
She has a certain savoir faire,
a childlike, careless stylish air.
Silk scarves and clanking jewelry
devoid of runway foolery.

Diaphanous and parachutey,
silk nightgowns might do double duty
as ballgowns were she ever asked
to functions one arrives at masked
in Dior dresses  or black tie.
In lieu of that, she’ll just get by
strolling the streets in finery
gained from her dumpster minery.

Onlookers may think her batty—
clothes so rumpled, hair so matty.
all of her gloriously tatty—
her ballet slippers so pitter-patty
scuffling through the city streets,
greeting everyone she meets.

She is a fixture in our town
with a certain wide renown.
Pointed out to visiting friends,
her unique presence somehow lends
a flavor to the streets she walks.
She does not mind the stares and gawks.

Until one day she is not there—
her birdlike plumage, strange and rare
flown to a runway far above–
a blown-off hat, a single glove
left on the stairway where she fell—
to become this legend that I tell.

 

 

The prompt today is natty.

Dressed to Kill

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Dressed to Kill

Ladies have loved a uniform
since writing was in cuniform.
They’ve flirted with each man they’ve met
with shoulders garbed in epaulet.
No telling what the reason may be
why every serviceman they see
with stripes and bars upon his chest
is the man they like the best.

A Scottish guardsman who’s well-built
may show his legs off in a kilt,
whereas an Arab man who’s urban
struts his stuff beneath a turban.
Cops on their beats and Maitre d’s
have all the ladies that they please
when they don the prescribed clothes
in which they are assigned to pose.

Some women even make a grab
for guys they see in olive drab.
Ushers in jackets and in gloves
have been known to find new loves
in their darkened theater aisles
as they exercise their wiles
escorting with a liveried arm
those special ladies they seek to charm.

German gents who seek attention,
it’s hardly necessary to mention,
when they’re wanting to be chosen,
don a pair of lederhosen.
And sailors find they rarely lose out 
when they get their navy blues out.
It’s true a full-regalia’d guy
is sure to catch the feminine eye.

Be it a robe or regimental,
there’s simply something elemental
about a man who’s dressed to kill—
for women cannot get their fill
of a gentleman in monkey suit.
Unsuited men just can’t refute
that they suffer real regrets
that that man in epaulets
gets all the women that he gets!

The prompt today was “uniform.”  (image of Barney Fife from internet.)

On the Precipice

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAjdbphoto

On the Precipice

Toes peeking over, eyes cast away.
I do not want to look today.
Time enough when time is over.
It’s true I’ve ceased to be a rover,
for though I’ve seen the Nile’s beginning,
I can feel my chances thinning
for ever standing at its end.
I’m feeling too close to the bend
to chance the risks travel might take.
I’m living less for living’s sake.

My house and garden fill my world,
increasingly. My life is curled
fast on itself more frequently.
“Becoming” has turned into “be.”
It is not giving up on life
so much as drawing back from strife.
Surely, now’s the time for this,
as I approach that big abyss.

Those of faith are sure they know
the glorious ending to this show
we’ve seen via nature’s invitation;
and yet the minister’s oration
you must admit, is speculation.
That’s why as I stand toe-to-air,
I have no need to see what’s there.
Whatever’s written far below,
it’s where at last, we all will go.

The prompt word today was “precipice.”

Hesitation

5 Replies

 

Hesitation

As I recite my Sunday Psalms,
two butterflies alight like balms
upon the leper’s outstretched palms.

Thus nature intervenes and calms
the remainder of my qualms.
I fill the beggar’s hands with alms.

 

The prompt word today was “qualm.”