Spots and Dots
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Spring Brakes
Spring Brakes
Her freshman year at college, my sis brought home a guest
that dad said was a nincompoop–rude and badly dressed.
His pants were tight, his buttons opened half way down his chest,
but my sister made excuses for the crudeness he expressed
by saying he was sensitive and recently depressed.
He strode into the kitchen and jerked open the door
of the refrigerator and began to pour
milk right from the carton, down his chin onto the floor.
What’s more, when he was finished, he asked if there was more!
Well, I could sense Dad’s anger before I heard his roar.
“He can’t help his behavior, he’s parched!” my sister cried,
pleading with our father as he threw the jerk outside.
Where, by his own volition, the kid sauntered to his ride,
put the keys in the ignition and, gathering his pride,
put the pedal to the metal, but then the engine died!
To inject a bit of humor would probably be rude,
but I simply can’t resist expounding on the dude.
My parents called his parents who came a bit unglued
and gave the kid a lecture on respect and rectitude,
imposing a Spring Break spell of solitude.
And that is why my sister spent her term vacation
in a state of martyrdom and excess perturbation.
I chalked it up to part of her farther education
and gloried just a little bit in her situation,
trying to abstain from another smug oration.
And that’s part of the story of when sister was a fool
and chose a dud as boyfriend, but to dwell on it is cruel.
That year she learned more lessons that weren’t taught in school.
When it came to spring vacation, it became her rule
that mixing dads and boyfriends really wasn’t cool.
Photo by Mark Decile on Unsplash, used with permission. Prompts today are parched, nincompoop, inject, bide and guest.
My Answers to Fibbing Friday, May 14, 2021
What exactly is a “rhetorical question?” A question posed by Scarlett Ohara to her husband.- What is meant by a “hair’s breadth”? A hot-cross bun served to the Easter Bunny by a waitress with a speech impediment.
- How long is a “New York minute”? Exactly sixty seconds on Sixty Seconds Street.
- What does it mean to “fly by the seat of your pants”? It means your mother has starched your Levis before ironing them, thereby rendering them stiff as a board and un-enterable.
- What does “by the skin of your teeth” mean? It means someone didn’t adequately prepare the venison before cooking and serving it to you.
- What are “the dog days of summer”? They are a Bow Wow Pow Wow.
- What does it mean to “go ’round Robin Hood’s barn“? It’s an instruction to an architect by someone who objects to the square corners on his barn.
- What does it mean when a project “gets the green light”? That the yellow light and the red lights will be coming up in rapid progression.
- What does it mean to “eighty-six” something? You’ve just pinned on their number for the Boston Marathon.
- What or where exactly is “file thirteen”? Between file twelve and eleven. It’s just slipped down and under a bit so it is hard to see.
For Fibbing Friday Image by Joh Tyson on Unsplash, used with permission.
Fruitless Efforts
Fruitless Efforts
I know what they say because I’ve heard the buzz.
My profile, alas, is not what it was.
But the fact that some parts of me have required
more helpful support as they have retired
does not negate the simple true fact
that all my former charms are intact.
They shifted location against my behest.
My breasts have moved south, my hips east and west,
and my upper arms have chosen to rest
in regions below where they’ve deemed that it’s best
to hang in their hammocks without so much tension
as when they were forced to remain at attention.
Some women thirst for their trim bods of yore,
but frankly, I find their efforts a bore.
Whether they seek them by suction or scalpel,
by fairy wand, prayer or by decree Papal,
it doesn’t seem worth it for when they get fit,
what are they going to accomplish by it?
For though they are going to look mighty fine,
what lovers are left by the age 89?
Prompt words are tired, wand, thirst, negate and profile.
I’ve Been and I Am
I’ve Been and I Am
In earlier days, I’ve been cursed and rehearsed.
Been nursed for my fevers, relieved of my thirst.
Dialed and aisled, exiled and trialed.
Filed and riled and even profiled.
I grew tired, retired, and my interest was fired
to try moving off to a place I’d admired.
Fate guided my steps, waved her magical wand
and found me a house by a beautiful pond,
Surrounded by greenery both flower and frond,
I’ve probably formed my ultimate bond.
What we were we still are, for that is our core,
but if we have courage, we can be still more.
Life isn’t over when we’re retired.
We may be at rest but we needn’t be mired.
The flame of our life has not yet expired.
No circuit’s so old that it can’t be rewired!
Bonus View
Bonus View
The sun was at its zenith and although I ventured bare
out to my jacuzzi, I had no intent to share
a peep show with my neighbors, for tall bushes masked the view
from their high terrace to my bedroom, and my hot tub, too.
I’d forgotten that leaf cutter ants had lately been to dine
upon the hedge between us, depleting leaf and vine.
So when birds perch upon it, they’re exposed from tail to plume.
I can see them from the terrace and see them from my room
as they feed upon the flowers against a bright blue sky,
exposed there as they lately are to every human eye.
In addition, I’d been duly warned by neighbors recently
that since the ants had visited, they can’t help viewing me
as I go about life’s duties on my terrace, in my yard,
and if my drapes are open, they had found that it was hard
to deflect their eyes from bedroom views. I’d been duly alerted
that if our mutual embarrassment was to be averted
that I should be more careful until our hedge filled out
lest I inadvertently forget and walk about
in fewer clothes than usual or pursued private actions
not intended to be shared for neighborly reactions.
So when I left the hot tub seeking to slake my thirst
and headed for the kitchen, I, too, witnessed the worst.
Through bare branches, void of leaf, male neighbors stood askance
viewing me against their will as I took the chance
naked as a jaybird, to scurry to the house
devoid of any raiment—swimsuit, pants or blouse.
Now this might have been exciting when there was less to see
in my earlier years, preceding seventy-three,
but I fear the scene they viewed was more a shock than titillating.
Certainly not the scene that they had been anticipating
as they strolled out with their guests for a visual interlude.
I’m sure they’d no intent to view their neighbor in the nude!
Prompt words today are plume, zenith, thirst, duly and share.
Some Thoughts Upon Viewing a Blue-Footed Booby
Some Thoughts Upon Viewing a Blue-Footed Booby
A chameleon can change his color by cue,
but what’s a blue-footed booby to do?
You can’t take off a foot like you’d take off a shoe.
And when blue is the only color you view
as you walk down the beach for a mile or two,
you might fancy a color a little bit new.
Yet, step after step, his feet remain blue!
It’s the color of ink and the color of goo—
a color that any mom would eschew
if she had a choice and a chance to imbue
her fledgling’s feet with a more subtle hue.
Instead, they’re this color that both of them rue.
Amazing to witness and lovely to view,
but admit it! You wouldn’t want blue feet, would you?
For dVerse Poets “Blue Tuesday” poem
Still Life With Clippers: FOTD May 12, 2021
On Being a Mom, Momma, Mammadukes, Ma, Momochka
This is such a special and expansive mother’s day tribute from Momshieb’s blog that I have to share it with you. Thank you for it, Karen. It is very special that you include those of us teachers, aunts and stepmoms who may not have carried children in our wombs but have carried them in our hearts.
Happy Mother’s day. Happy, joyful mother’s day to every woman who has carried a brand new tiny life inside of her own body. To every woman who has felt that first movement, sobbed over those painful rib-busting kicks, celebrated the rolling motion that assured her that her baby was alive.
Happy Mother’s day to every woman who has pushed a being the size of a grapefruit out of an orifice the size of lemon. And to every woman who has endured the surgery, the stitches, the aching pain of a C-Section.
Wishing Mother’s Day love to every single woman on earth who has opened her heart and her arms to a baby through adoption, and who has made the deliberate and thoughtful choice to embrace and love that child forever.
Love and Happy Mother’s Day to every Aunt who has been there to talk, to listen, to advise and to…
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Directional Confusion
Photo by Daniel Giannone on Unsplash
Directional Confusion
The part of my brain that is least to my pleasing,
(most limited and therefore fodder for teasing,)
is my sense of direction, which isn’t the best.
I simply don’t know which way’s east, which way’s west.
Thus, between friends it is frequently spoken
that I am geographically broken.
When it comes to driving, I have the dexterity.
It’s just a matter of lacking temerity.
Such things as location and proper direction
just seem to be out of my reign of detection.
Expeditions to L.A. end up in Long Beach—
my talent for getting there just out of reach.
It’s not that I’m dumb, but it seems that the section
of brain that determines location election
just didn’t develop in the usual manner.
I lack other people’s inbuilt radar scanner.
I don’t mind the driving if you’ll man the maps.
From the start to the finish, just fill in the gaps.
I’ll turn when you say to. I’ll exit with ease.
Just do not demand that I navigate, please!
Photo by Joshua Coleman on Unsplash
(Unfortunately, although hyperbole, this one is not fiction.)
Prompts for today are expedition, dexterity, teasing, fodder andsection. Photos from Unsplash used with permission.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 