Category Archives: Poetry

Lucky???

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Lucky Duck riding the wild turkey off to a new adventure!

Lucky???

The first person I talked to today was myself, awakening from a dream and answering aloud whatever question the person in the dream had asked.  So, I’m going to reblog a poem of my own that I wrote three months ago.  When I look back at even something I wrote last week, I barely remember it; so perhaps this will feel fresh to you as well, even if you read it before:

“You’re So Lucky!”

 Too often those described as lucky
are actually only plucky.
It’s the decisions that they make
that make their lives a piece of cake.

If they have a cushy job,
far above the teeming mob,
it is because they chose to go
to college, so they made it so.

Or if they traveled after school,
when others said they were a fool,
and tell of their adventures young,
some people tend to come unstrung

and say they wish they’d had the chance
to participate in life’s wild dance
when they had the energy,
but, you know, traveling’s not free.

The truth is that most anybody
can go to college if they study
or travel anywhere they wish.
Life’s feast is a communal dish.

There is work that you can do
from Broken Hill to Timbuktu
if you are willing to do the tasks–
whatever the situation asks.

It’s true that there are places where
life is not equitable or fair–
places where a woman’s lot
keeps her chained to stove and cot,

or places where sheer poverty
limits all that you can be.
Yet  many who bemoan their fate
simply needed to leave their gate

and take the chance to see the world–
allow their lives to be unfurled.
But, lacking courage, they remained
in the place that fate ordained

was their lot in life and so
just maintained the status quo.
Many are happy where they are
and have no wish to roam afar,

but for those who moan and fuss,
saying all the luck’s with us
who have chosen to live in paradise
(and say it more than once or twice,)

I just want to say once more,
“Here is your suitcase, there’s the door.”
Luck is more often made than won,
and is, I fear, too quickly done.

So even if you’re old and gray,
do what you want to do today.
If you feel caught in the muck,
break free from it and make your luck!

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/the-luckiest-people/

Dakota Diction


Dakota Diction

In the little town where I grew up,
instead of “yes,” we all said, “Yup!”
When we removed a soda top,
what we drank was called a “pop.”

When we drove off the road a bit,
we went into the “barrow pit.”
The mud was “gumbo”–rich and thick––
and every creek was called a “crick.”

Breakfast was never labeled brunch,
and “dinner” was what we called lunch.
Therefore, at night, our picker-upper
was never dinner.  It was “supper.”

Highway patrolmen were all “cops,”
and their cars were  “cherry tops.”
On movie nights, we saw the “show”
for just ten cents–which we called “dough.”

We told stray dogs that they should “git,”
and when they scampered off a bit,
the place where they commenced to wander
was what we labeled “over yonder.”

I fear it’s not spectacular,
this prairie states vernacular;
and because our listeners never balked,
we thought it was how all folks talked!

Non-Regional Diction:Write using regional slang, your dialect, or in your accent.https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/non-regional-diction/

Washing Up

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/it-builds-character/

Washing Up

The churning water brings them up.
The grounds of coffee in the cup
rise like saints to water’s top
while water runs, they do not stop.

I read their shapes like tea leaves now.
I see the future but know not how.
They swirl and change, revealing lives––
swarm like hornets from their hives.

The one I wait for comes unstuck,
careening towards his future luck.
The one that’s me caught in an eddy,
stuck for now, but holding steady.

Other remnants of finished meals––
carrot shards, potato peels––
rise up and circle, forming dreams.
Reality, or so it seems.

I see a heart and charm and lies,
a future lover in disguise,
a plane, a knoll, a tree-lined path,
a woman bound in senseless wrath.

She sends out waves that push you here––
the very thing that she most fears.
I know not who or where you are.
Are you near or are you far?

As all goes rushing down the drain,
I feel a sense of loss and pain.
And so I fill the sink again.
Will I see you one time more,
or was my vision only lore?

This poem was inspired by a comment chain on  Jane Basil’s blog. In reply to my last comment, she wrote:”You have just inspired me. When I read your comment I thought about the odd concepts writers come up with. If we didn’t think up strange plots, what would we write about? The answer came in a flash: washing up. We could write about washing up, or hanging curtains, or eating toast. I’m off to try to write a poem about washing up. Would writing about mundane activities make me boring,or odd? And is there something wrong with my thought processes?” I wrote back telling her I’d write a poem about washing up as well. This is mine and HERE is hers!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/it-builds-character/

Homely Studio


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Homely Studio

My studio is my refuge––a place I’m never hounded.
Safe within my compound walls, its door is never pounded.
There is no telephone at all, no internet or texting.
No sense of what I should have done, no hurrying or “nexting.”

Its drawers are full of little things; its shelves are full of paint.
For when it comes to art supplies, I have little restraint.
Some might call it cluttered and I cannot deny it;
for if it’s miniature and cheap, I cannot help but buy it.

Here I paint, arrange and glue––what some would label “playing,”
and if objects perchance might fall, they stay where they are laying.
Yet I’m at home within it, for I know where each thing goes.
Never quite so happy as when making retablos.

Within my many drawers of flowers and charms and old watch parts,
of animals  and tiny fruits, there is a drawer of hearts.
So if “home is where the heart is,” my studio is my home––
the place that I come back to, wherever else I roam.

Often it’s disorganized–things piled and under feet.
Cruel folks say its cluttered, but the tactful say “replete.”
But, the truth is when I’m busy, the mess soon grows absurd.
and it’s true my studio’s homely in both meanings of the word!

Repleted: 1. filled or well-supplied with something.  synonyms: filled, full, well stocked, well supplied, crammed, packed, jammed, teeming, overflowing, bursting, jam-packed, chockablock, chock-full

Homely: 1. unattractive in appearance. unattractive, plain, unprepossessing, unlovely, ill-favored, 2. (of a place or surroundings) simple but cozy and comfortable, as in one’s own home “a modern hotel with a homely atmosphere”

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The topic “Homely Studio” was generated for me by Jennifer’s Topic Generator.  You can find it here: https://topicgenerator.wordpress.com/submit/

Two Times Three

        Two Times Three

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “An Odd Trio.” Today, you can write about whatever you what — but your post must include, in whatever role you see fit, a cat, a bowl of soup, and a beach towel.

Once again, been there, done that!!!  Go HERE to see my response.

How’s It Going?

DSC00264How’s It Going?

Whether I’m going near or far,
my choice of travel is always car.
I like to go at my own pace,
to break away from life’s mad race,

to take that road that leads to “where?”
and see what they are keeping there.
At roadside diners to share a yarn.
To investigate that leaning barn.

A tour or cruise or packaged deal
does not account for how I feel.
They’re too much like  our daily life––
alarm clocks, deadlines, schedules, strife.

Serendipity is what sates
while schedule just regulates.
In short, when going over yonder,
I prefer to merely wander.

n response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Trains, Planes, and Automobiles.”You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, or car? (Or something else entirely — bike? Hot air balloon?)

Why Blog?

Why Blog?
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If I didn’t have this blog to do, I’d probably wash the dishes
or do the other daily chores that go against my wishes.
I’d have to clean my desk off and put everything away–
tasks that more or less consume the best part of my day.
I might have to mend or clean or sweep or dust or cook.
But mainly, I’d have no excuse for putting off the book
that has been in my computer for a year or more––complete,
waiting for its formatting. Everyone I meet
asks if I have finished it, so I can just repeat
the excuse that’s easier than falling off a log.
“I’d like to but I have no time. I have to write my blog!”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Million-Dollar Question.” Why Blog?

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 The Avid Student meets Murphy’s Law

Have you ever known someone who just could not get it right, no matter how they tried?  Here is a reprint of a poem I wrote a few years ago about a young lady who was the epitome of Murphy’s Law!

The Avid Student

Mrs. O’Leary, teach me how
please oh please, to milk a cow.
I won’t leave here till you do.
I’m bored today, and feeling blue.
Yesterday I baked a cake
with that new baker, name of Jake.
It didn’t rise.  It tasted awful.
Couldn’t eat but one small jaw full.
Day before I went to see
Joe the tailor.  Him and me
made a dress of chambray lace
but when I held it near my face
I found it itched me terrible.
To wear it was unbearable.
So I went on to see the preacher.
Wanted him to be my teacher.
But when it came the time to pray,
he found he hadn’t much to say.
I fear that I destroyed his faith.
I left him white as any wraith,
but found the cobbler in a pew
and asked him how to make a shoe.
He’d witnessed what the preacher did
and so he ran away and hid.
So Mrs. O’Leary, it’s up to you
to show me something I can do.
I know it’s dark, but I need right now
to know just how you milk your cow.
I brought a lantern.  I’ll hold it high.
It’s not real light, but we’ll get by.
I’ll just sit on this straw bale.
You fetch the cow and fetch the pail.
I love the way the hot milk steam
swirls around the rising cream.
I love the rhythm and the pomp
of my light squeeze and Bessie’s stomp
whenever I let loose her tit.
I cannot get enough of it!
But now we’re done and I can see
that bucket’s much too much for thee
to lift,  I’ll put the lantern down and
come with thee to give a hand.
I’ll come right back and close the barn.
Tomorrow, I’ll have quite a yarn
for everyone I want to tell
I finally did something well!!!!

For those of you unacquainted with Mrs. O’Leary, I include this description of The Great Chicago Fire of 1871:

“The summer of 1871 was very dry, leaving the ground parched and the wooden city vulnerable. On Sunday evening, October 8, 1871, just after nine o’clock, a fire broke out in the barn behind the home of Patrick and Catherine O’Leary at 13 DeKoven Street. How the fire started is still unknown today, but an O’Leary cow often gets the credit.

The firefighters, exhausted from fighting a large fire the day before, were first sent to the wrong neighborhood. When they finally arrived at the O’Leary’s, they found the fire raging out of control. The blaze quickly spread east and north. Wooden houses, commercial and industrial buildings, and private mansions were all consumed in the blaze.

After two days, rain began to fall. On the morning of October 10, 1871, the fire died out, leaving complete devastation in the heart of the city. At least 300 people were dead, 100,000 people were homeless, and $200 million worth of property was destroyed. The entire central business district of Chicago was leveled. The fire was one of the most spectacular events of the nineteenth century, and it is recognized as a major milestone in the city’s history.”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Comedy of Errors (and bonus assignment!).”Murphy’s Law says, “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.” Write about a time everything did — fiction encouraged here, too!

Our Lady of Forgetfulness


Version 2                                                       Our Lady of Forgetfulness

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A True Saint.” In 300 years, if you were to be named the patron saint of X, what would you like X to be? Places, activities, objects — all are fair game.

Find my saintly self-confession HERE.

We Are Headed North

“We Are Headed North”

Tell the ones who need to know, we are headed north.
A restless wind begins to blow. It’s time to sally forth.
Pack the wagons, grab the kids. The dogs can run behind.
We’re off to seek our fortunes where’er the road will wind.

Kiss your solemn mother’s cheek, for you’ll see her no more.
Your youth sealed up far in the past behind her closing door.
You are my wife, your life’s with me and ever it should be.
We’re off to find whatever future’s there for us to see.

See how the dogs never look back but run forever on?
What comes for them is what they seek and never what is gone.
So be my bonnie bride again and dry your sodden cheek.
We’re off into the rest of life—that golden life we seek.

Tell your mirthless father we’ll see him nevermore,
for all the truth he has professed is nothing more than lore.
The riches that he promised you never came to be.
So cast your lot with chance, my dear, and come along with me.

We’ll take our budding family to regions fresher still.
See the promise that awaits there on yonder hill?
We have another family waiting for us there.
A better life is yours to have if you only dare.

See how our children shout and smile ––reach out for their new kin?
That is my mother running out to wave them all within.
For every mother lost to you, you will find another.
My sister I will share with you, and mine will be your brother.

Come wipe the tear from off your cheek and gaily enter in.
For here in my house there is talk of other things but sin.
My father plays the mandolin and I will play the fife.
And then I know quick as a song, I’ll have a happy wife.

All the crying taught to you by sister, brother, father
will be forgotten. In this house, there is no fuss or bother.
Our children will not learn what you once learned at your ma’s knee.
My love step down and you will see how happy we will be!

Oh, step down my dear and see at last how happy we will be!

This is meant to be a song. Does someone want to set it to music for me???

The Prompt: Take the third line of the last song you heard, make it your post title, and write for a maximum of 15 minutes. GO! (My song was “I and Love and You” by the Avett Brothers. I took exactly 19 minutes, not 15, to write this poem.)https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/cant-drive-55/