The NaPoWriMo prompt was to make a postcard. My cats love it when I leave my insulated bag on the ledge in the garage to remind me to put it in the trunk when I go to Costco. This time my frozen food all thawed out on the way home. To give a hint regarding why, this was the scene that greeted us upon our arrival!!!
This poem by Linda Crosfield captures so beautifully the horror of the Toronto massacre. I wanted to share it with you. I’m printing the first two stanzas below. Please use the link to her blog to see the remainder of the poem. As usual, her unique view gives a wonderfully personal view of events:
Toronto’s in Mourning
She’s mourning the scatter of crushed bags of groceries,
for crackers and cheeses and chocolate and lettuce,
the citrus-fuelled scent of oranges bought
to be peeled into segments of sweetness for lunch.
She’s mourning the bitter salt tears in the mouths
of those left to pick up the sunglasses, take-outs,
the backpacks, the paperbacks, iPhones and headscarves,
the briefcases, strollers, the coffees, the bikes.
. . . .to read the rest of Linda’s poem on her blogsite, please go HERE.
Questions of Diminution
Are lady goblins goblets
or tiny fobs called fobblets?
A little blob a bloblet?
An hors d’ oeuvre corn a coblet?
A little daub a daublet?
A short-lived job a joblet?
A mob of tots a moblet?
A jewel box knob a knoblet?
A minor theft a robblet?
A single tear a sobblet?
(Very sorry for this one. Blame it on the goblin prompt given by Forgottenman and the resultant mental processes that led to my having to research whether there were in fact also female goblins. The answer is still somewhat unresolved.)
The Magician
Through what I choose and where I give in,
I create the world I live in.
If I’m a trickster, I trick myself
and lay my talents on a shelf.
Seize control and I gain the world,
all my inner self unfurled.
Magic’s not a thing without
or a thing to sell or flout.
It’s simply using the strength within
to play the game of life and win.
The NapoWriMo prompt for the day is: pick a card (any card) from this online guide to the tarot, and then write a poem inspired either by the card or by the images or ideas that are associated with it.
My friend Larry Kolczak has allowed me to copy this hilarious email sent to me. I’ve been trying to convince him he should have a blog himself. Do you agree?
Six months ago, we hung these beaded curtains on our second-floor patio fence to obscure the view into the neighboring lot. Recently, …
… we started finding broken strands. We figured it was because the curtains weren’t made for outdoor use, and that sun and wind had deteriorated the nylon strings. But, that wasn’t the problem…
It turns out that many of the eco-friendly beads are acorns.
Guess who noticed?
He nips the string to get the uppermost acorn…
… which he either eats on the spot, or buries in our potted plants, and leaves us with the…
…collateral damage.
Elegy for Eunice
Most who might have mourned her
have followed or preceded her to dust.
Those few who still do,
think of her less often every year.
It is only in the fleeting moments
when beauty she might have appreciated
crosses our vision
or a song she once favored is heard
that a sweet pang of missing her
stabs into our busyness
and we remember
how she guided our footsteps,
taught us a gentle way with animals,
prodded us to attain more
and let us go.
This is an elegy to one we have forgotten
too easily and too soon.
One that calls her back to mind,
restores her to her rightful place.
My mother’s given name was Eunice Lydia, but we only ever knew her as Pat. For some reason,, in this elegy, I wanted to use her real name. No doubt she will wreak some revenge for this, so if things start going too wrong in my life, I will substitute her assumed name for the present title. The NaPoWriMo prompt today is to write an elegy.
Illustration by Starstone at Lithuanian Wikipedia
I recently had a 3.5 hour lunch meeting with two friends at one of the nicest restaurants in Ajijic, Mexico. While we were there, the scenario I am about to describe started to unwind at the next table—the one directly in my line of vision. See what you make of it:
An elderly Anglo white-haired man sat alone at the table for 1/2 hour or more. Then a respectable-looking middle-aged Mexican woman joined him, sitting at a right angle to him. Both of their faces were clearly within my sight and I could see that for the next hour, she never smiled at him. She smiled at the waiters, but not at him. Nor did she often talk to him. He looked excited when she came in, smiled and talked a blue streak. She just stared in front of her, not looking mad, just not ever engaging or talking, and only occasionally looking at him. Once she nodded. Never said one word. The waiter came and brought a dinner plate of food which he sat in the middle of table. and placed two small empty plates in front of them. The woman piled what looked like shish-kebab and rice on her plate. He put food on his plate. Obviously, they were sharing a meal. She ate neatly, spearing the food piece by piece. He ate. He talked some. She never looked at him. I wondered if it was a blind date and she wasn’t interested in this old codger, or if she was perhaps his housekeeper and he had invited her out. She ate all on her plate, filled it twice more and ate it bit by bit. Drank her margarita. He had a tall beer. He ate the food on his plate and filled it again at least once.
When the waiters came, she smiled and talked to them. I thought their meal was through, so was surprised when the waiter brought two more full meals—a huge steak and fries for her, steak and baked spud for him. She ate one French fry after another from her fork, but no meat. Eventually, she cut off a small piece of the steak and ate it. He ate his meal and for most of the time they ate, there was no talking. Then he talked a bit, smiling and animated like he was telling a story. She occasionally nodded. Didn’t talk. No smile. So odd. This went on for a couple of hours!
She asked the waiter for a doggie bag and he brought one Styrofoam container. She put her huge steak in it and some French fries. The old man cut off part of his steak and gave it to her to put in her container. When he finished, the waiter took his plate away and I thought they’d leave, but the waiter brought the dessert menu which the woman looked very interested in. All at once she was animated and talked a little bit to the man. They shared a chocolate mousse which she seemed to enjoy immensely. She then talked to the man a bit. Two and a half to three hours had now passed. I was pretty sure she had probably come out with her employer and was being sure not to flirt and to make it clear this was not a date. He still seemed interested in her, but with no reciprocity.
The waiter brought the bill in a basket and presented it to the man. He had a look at the total and passed it over to the woman, who opened her purse and paid the whole bill with her credit card!!! Now the whole scenario was a mystery again. She left first. He left after and I made sure to follow him out. She was totally gone by the time we got to the door. He headed out toward the lake, a few blocks away, on his own. Now I’ll never know what the deal was. Can you guess?
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!
The NaPoWriMo prompt: a poem based in sound. You could use a regional or local phrase from your hometown that you don’t hear elsewhere. (From an earlier posting 3 years ago.)
