For Nancy Merrill’s Photo-A-Week Challenge: Faded.
I’m not quite sure this is what Nancy had in mind, but check out her link above for a gorgeous photo.
So glad I had my iPhone in my hand to capture this moonlit sky on my trip up to my house from my studio. Looking at the sky over the mountains to the north of the Raquet Club in San Juan Cosala.
Containment
Flitting here and flitting there,
sometimes just in my underwear,
unsmitten by the winter weather,
rarely am I aware whether
there is sun or snow or rain
outside the walls of my domain,
the fervor of the climate being
something far beyond my seeing.
The phrase that March is coming in
like a lion? Beyond my ken.
They’re merely lyrics in a song.
I’ve been a shut-in for so long
that weather doesn’t apply to me.
For one year, I’ve been climate-free,
nestled here, cat on my knee
in front of laptop or T.V.
Two thousand twenty and twenty-one
have addicted me to other fun
than outside social interactions.
I have narrowed my reactions
to the confines of four walls.
No homes of friends, cafes or malls.
It’s been a year since forced to choose
any other type of shoes
than flip-flops or my Birkenstocks.
Or since I donned a pair of socks.
Have styles changed, or is the blouse
purchased before banned to my house
still in vogue? How would I know?
Where does anybody go
that it is possible to share it?
There’s nowhere left for me to wear it!
My social life is now in traction,
suffering from under-action.
No pub-crawls, dining out or dancing.
No hobnobbing and no romancing.
No skiing and no beach vacation.
Simply solo relaxation!
We suffer lives of self-containment.
No other trips or entertainment.
The whole world sharing one elation—
the prospects of a vaccination!
Triplets
One lived for music, the other art.
One had a giving, loving heart.
One was pompous, one sanguine,
and as for the one between,
give her an inch, she’d take a yard.
Raising triplets can be hard.
But if you divided each by three,
they’d be the perfect entity!
Prompt words today are yard, sanguine, pompous. Imagine by Rahmani Kresna on Unsplash, used with permission.
A Little Tip
Although I’m a big tipper, no gratificación
will be awaiting waiters who linger on the phone
and let my soup or burger get cold up on the shelf.
I’ll send my food back to the chef and spend your tip myself!
I’ve declared a moratorium on mandatory tips.
My money will not cross your palm if cold food meets my lips.
If you’re somewhere slumbering and my drink is late,
will it affect the money left beneath my plate?
You can bet your lazy ass it will. So get your butt in gear
before my lips get parched and dry from waiting for a beer.
If my bread basket is meager and the bread is old and dry,
I’ll save your 25 percent for another guy.
I’ll give it as a baksheesh for some kid that I pass
who hasn’t done a thing for me—just like your sorry ass.
Lagging in your service won’t win a lagniappe.
Lollygagging will not put a feather in your cap.
So if you seek a tip from me, attention will be fateful.
I only give gratuities for service when I’m grateful!
Word prompts today are slumber, moratorium, meager and lagniappe. Photo downloaded from Unsplash with permission.
Thanks to my friend Gloria for this cartoon. I couldn’t resist posting it in spite of the fact that I don’t know the source.
This poem is so incredibly lovely that I had to reblog it. I hope you love it as much as I do.
Not many could make stone into illusion.
She could.
Her hands carved softness into unyielding rock. Made age appear into the moss as if the stone itself shed velvet, hewed damp to seep from underneath the surface as if through the core of sighing cushions, long forgotten, left to rot.
Only it was not.
Instead of a discarded chair, it was a throne. A headstone.
A memorial to the man who’d scooped her out of orphaned desperation, who brought her here, who led her to her heart’s forgotten home.
She held the memories of his calloused hands atop her shoulders. Steadying her mallet, guiding her chisel, letting her learn. Letting her fail. Letting her know she was worthy. As was he. Just because she was.
His masonry was practical. Fences. Houses. Walls.
Hers sang to the forest floor as she carved. His armchair, reincarnated.
For eternity. Her parent of…
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