Category Archives: Uncategorized

Small Towns in the Fifties

 

Small Towns in the Fifties

Tight pants were forbidden. Baggy trousers were the rule.
And if you ever broke it, they sent you home from school.
Even the most nervy girls didn’t take the chance
to show up in assembly wearing sexy pants.

There were no vivid colors in our little town.
The houses that weren’t painted white for sure were tan or brown.
All the local color resided in its folks.
Their foibles and their oddities comprised the local jokes.

Gullible new arrivals were sure to take the lure
and all the timeworn stories, therefore have to endure.
The time that Arlan Boe did this and Ellen Jones did that.
The time that Shirley Carson put Bon Ami in Dolph’s hat.

The trick that old Jeff Halverson played on the new teacher.
Crank phone calls that the Watts boys made to the new Baptist preacher.

It seems rules of propriety extended just so far.
In a small town what you look like matters more than what you are.

 

Prompt words today are baggy trousers, lure, forbidden, nervy and brown. (The names and acts are all fictional, although the message perhaps is not.)

Self-Elegy by Muse

 

‘It’s gone the way the mist is burned off the hollows in broken ground when the sun comes out,’ the Colonel said. ‘And you’re the sun.’
                                                       –Ernest Hemingway, Across the River and into the Trees (1950)

 

Self-Elegy by Muse

I am here to shine sunlight into shaded places—
those crooks and crannies in your caves of memory
where you’ve been stuffing your secrets for years,
half remembering
whether they were facts
or nightmares softened
by a mother’s hand upon your brow
or by the soothing balm of forgetfulness.

I am both muse and confessor,
accepting you at your word
and issuing indulgences.
I turn a flood into a mist, the mist into a poem,
the poem into immortality
coined from dark things scattered by the light
I bring them to.

For the dVerse Poets Tuesday Poetics prompt

 

Helpmate

Helpmate

I treasure your good nature—your kindnesses and grins.
How you do not fustigate me for my many sins.
You tackle my complexities and understand my meaning,
sort through my poor excuses and somehow end up gleaning
positive from negative, just remembering what
in any lesser person would be the details cut.
You bring out the best in me so I’m a better man—
living by not what I did but by what I can. 
You help me aim for goals that without you I’d disdain,
constantly reminding me of what I can attain.

Prompt words are tackle, treasure, fustigate, category and glean

Gardening in the Rain

Gardening in the Rain

It started with a gentle tug
to trim a succulent from a jug
stuffed full with hardy hens and chicks
but tugs turned into pulls and picks
Until the pockets of my pants
and both my hands were full of plants.

By then, I was already soaked,
for as I pushed and pulled and poked,
the storm that had been gentle  drops,
turned into pelts and then to plops.
Since cool rain was a respite from
days of heat and glaring sun,

I loitered some along the way
to see what new additions lay
along the path that stretched between
the lower garden where I’d been
and the house far up above—
that toasty place—that cushy glove.

But then there was that empty pot
(whose jade plant we’d moved to the lot)
where there was dirt but plants were not
and all those cuttings I’d just got
stuffing my pockets, filling hands.
Can you see how the plot expands?

Thus it went that for an hour
I stood there in the soaking shower
restoring beauty to the pot 
where formerly beauty was not.
Then, dripping in my sopping clothes,
I used my sleeve to swipe my nose

and shed my clothes all at the door,
tracked wet prints across the floor,
hung up wet clothes and dried my skin,
then used the towel to wrap me in,
and meant to dress and have a meal,
but couldn’t help it, had to steal

to the window for one look more,
then opened up the sliding door,
and, one hand clasping tight the towel,
I headed out with garden trowel
to add if needs be one plant more
to the pot planted before.

I love gardening in the rain.
and see no reason to abstain.
With no sun to scorch my skin,
no reason to remain within.
And since I loved where i had been,
What I did once, I did again.

 

(Click on photos to enlarge and read captions to hear the rest of the story.)

 

Heart of the Matter: FOTD June 19, 2021

HIBISCUS

For Cee’s FOTD

Feeding Frenzy


Feeding Frenzy

When I hear footsteps on the roof I do not ever worry,
even though they’re rapid as though someone’s in a hurry,
there is no burglar kneeling there waiting to rob my vault.
If there are noises overhead, it is my kitty’s fault.

The loot she seeks is kibble. She cannot stand the fact
that I am so heedless and have so little tact
that I feed dogs before the cats, and yet she doesn’t dare
venture into the backyard, for canines quarter there.

 


The fact of my investment in the solid gate

that keeps dogs from the cats’ domain does not expiate
the sin that I have chosen to feed the doggies first.
Of all my pet decisions, she thinks this is the worst.

 


So from the rooftop far above where dog types cannot reach,

the girl cat feels the need to stand there daily to impeach
my decision, once again, and let me know her wishes
for soft cat food and dry cat food in their separate dishes.

And once the dogs are fed, we race—her up there, me below,
and however quickly I happen to go,
she always beats me in the race to get to the back door
where I rip one food pouch open and she meows for more.

 


While her brother digs into juicy tuna souffle,

grateful for just one dish of this easy prey,
she looks up accusingly from her feline crouch,
and now and then I heed her plea and yield the extra pouch.

 

 

 

Prompts today are on the roof, fault, loot, kneel and investment.

Today’s Hibiscus. FOTD June 17, 2021

More where this came from.Twelve new buds on the  very tall sparse plant. A treasure or more a day.

For Cee’s FOTD

Tiny Tuesday #9

Enjoyed this tiny concert so I’m sharing it.

K.F. Hartless's avatarSongshine Sounds

Graphic graphic for the "Tiny Tuesdays" post

If you’re anything like us, you’re missing your regular drip of live music to keep you going. Luckily, lots of mini-concerts are still happening online, and we can tune into to get an intimate musical fix.


In November of 2019, Jon Batiste performed his tiny desk concert for NPR with a special twist. Instead of his regular band, he performed this four song concert with all-female collaborators — Endea Owens on acoustic bass, Negah Santos on percussion, Sarah Thawer on drums, and Celisse Henderson on guitar and vocals — and the outcome was outstanding.


View original post 101 more words

Concrete Poem

 

Photo by Glenn Buttkus


Concrete Poem
(Exposed Aggregate)

You cut a channel through my flat heart,
straight and sure, as though it had not already been set.
Miracle worker. Perfect craftsman,
sculpting the impossible medium.

 

 

For the dVerse Poets Pub prompt. Go HERE to see poems by other poets answering the prompt.

Peddler’s Daughter

Peddler’s Daughter

My father was a spruiker. At the juncture of each road,
he pulled his wagon to the side and spilled out all his load.
His wagon, heavy-laden, contained such treasures that
he knew he would sell something. He had his spiel down flat.

He had an old pump organ whose callithumpian tunes
filled the air with music from the treetops to the dunes.
People came from miles away to see what caused the din,
then grouped around the wagon to see what was within.

This commenced the distribution of all my papa’s treasures:
clothes and pans and furbelows and other worldly pleasures:
squeezeboxes and vases and women’s pantaloons,
chamber pots and laces and inflatable pontoons.

Pre-loved dolls for little girls and balls for little boys.
Jump ropes, checkers, building blocks, assorted wind-up toys.
Tobacco  plugs for Grandpa and canning jars for Gran.
Corsets for vain ladies to decrease their middle span.

Bridles for one’s horses and ropes to lead their cows.
Chicken feed and saddles and feeding trays for sows.
There was hardly anything that wagon did not hold,
and my father’s selling spiel was loud and brash and bold.

“Huzzah huzzah, huzzzah!” he’d call out to the crowd,
his bounty spread for viewing and touching was allowed.
Everything available–all that you could see
except for one thing on the wagon seat, and that small girl was me!!!!

 

Prompt words today are spruiker, juncture, callithumpian, lade and distribution. Image by Tamara Garcevic on Unsplash, used with permission.

spruiker noun at spruik verb. DEFINITIONS1. 1. (Australian English) someone who tries to persuade people to buy something, use a service, etc often in a dishonest or exaggerated way.

Callithumpian refers to a band of discordant instruments or a noisy parade.