For Cee’s FOTD
For Cee’s FOTD
She could not stand the sad sad sight
of his horrendous overbite.
She arranged to take him to a
dentist, thinking he could do a
She asked the doc what he would charge
to make his overhang less large.
The price he set to make each tooth less
was, I fear, greedy and ruthless
Thus began their drawn-out dicker
that I think would have gone quicker
if his teeth had been less icky,
and the job a much less tricky
After much talk, they struck a deal,
both thinking that they’d made a steal.
But then with little else to do,
she said if he attempted to
she would have his license lifted
no matter how bloody gifted
he might have been (when this all ends)
at cutting down her toothy friend’s
For dVerse Poets prompt: Compound Word Verse Image by Diana Polekhina on Unsplash
This form consists of 5 five-line stanzas with aabb rhyme schemes, each containing 8 syllables and each stanza concluding with a three-syllable compound word that had one element the same as all other compound words in the final lines of the stanzas. Phew!
See Cee’s outrageous spotted petunia HERE.
The Bishop’s Latest Miracle
Although his past proclivity was to regurgitate,
allow me to encapsulate the bishop’s present state.
He’s rickety and yet he has no tendency to brood.
In fact, against all reason, he’s in a euphoric mood.
And lest you think nobility has anything to do with it,
when he eats, he has a brand new medicine to chew with it.
Since they’ve added magic mushrooms to his omelets of late,
he’s finishing his breakfast and licking clean the plate.
He’s ordered a new upper plate and hopes that what he’ll do with it
is to exercise his jaws by learning how to chew with it.
Then he’ll have special omelets morning, noon and night
and justify it, saying he’s practicing his bite.
The Bishop’s New Cap
Casting Out Lines with Tina
Night has come to my great sorrow,
Light won’t be here ‘til tomorrow.
Can’t go fishin‘ ‘til the morning,
but I’m wishin’ that the warning
that dad made could be forgotten
and these fish were caught, not boughten!
Night has come to my great sorrow.
Light won’t be here ‘til tomorrow.
Still we will rise before day dawns,
rub sleep from eyes and stifle yawns.
There’s time left to grant our wishes,
bait our hooks and catch those fishes!
This is the trickiest prompt that I’ve seen in a looooong time. Tina’s Zigzag Rhyme rules are the quirkiest and I think I’ve followed them to a “T.” (In no place does she say that it’s not legal to end every line in a rhyme–just that you must do so in lines 5, 6, 11 and 12, so I rhymed every couplet. Words that must be rhymed by Tina’s rules are underlined in my poem, just to make your checking up on me easier. No, that’s not Tina pictured with me. That’s my big sister Patti. I’m pretending to have caught all those fish she’s holding.
Tina’s Zigzag Rhyme is a form created by Christina R Jussaume and found at Poetry Styles (site no longer accessible.)
Click on photos to enlarge and read captions. I need some help in identifying two of these birds.
Each consecutive melody, sung with a full-throated enthusiasm and answered in kind achieves a second purpose that I’m sure is one unintended by nature. Encapsulated in deep sleep as I am, only they are effectual in actually arousing me, for they form a chorus of alarm clocks that cannot be turned off.
I smooth the matted mane of Matteo, my love who sleeps through it all, and stumble to the kitchen to put on the coffee. As I drink my first cup, the male woodpecker joins his mate in the tallest palm tree outside the kitchen window. A second later, Matteo joins me as well and all is right in the world. He croons a soft aria into my ear and I answer in perfect harmony.
effectual is producing the intended result; entirely adequate.
I found this photo in my files and since I seem to have never posted it before, I had to do so. Roses aren’t usually my favorites, but this one is.
For Cee’s FOTD
Click on link below to see more photos:
Memoirs of a Frequent Flier
It was in the spring of 2000 when I first realized that I could fly. It had been coming on by degrees—first in dreams, where I would hold my arms straight out, crucifixion style, and then pump them straight up and down until I rose from the ground to float through the air, feet hanging straight down below me, swimming through the air propelled by those pumping arms.
In the dreams, no one ever noticed me. Not the other kids playing “New Orleans” in my yard below me, not my dad out mowing the grass or my mom hanging clothes on the line. Birds flew by in their usual manner without changing their course, whizzing by so close to my ears that I became convinced that I was invisible to all nature–man and beast.
I was never stung by mosquitos when I was in flying mode, and for some reason, even during that long summer when I was ten years old and flying every day, it never rained when I was flying. A few times the first raindrop fell just as my feet came into contact with the ground and I had to shift my mind to remember how to move my legs to propel myself and avoid getting soaked to the skin by one of those July rainstorms so dreaded by farmers trying to get their summer wheat crop combined before the heavy rain, or even worse, hail.
Hail! What would happen if it were to hail while I was flying? Would I be able to soar above the hail—to watch it fall to the earth below me–a wall of white water stones creating themselves just inches below my toes and falling straight down away from me? Could I see them forming? Turning to ice where seconds before there had been nothing, each one of millions a little miracle in itself?
I don’t remember how old I was when I stopped flying. All I can remember is one day remembering that I used to fly, long before, and wondering if the whole experience of that long summer when I was ten was just memories stitched together from dreams. Like so many other things, I can remember clearly when they began but have no memory of when they stopped. Perhaps they haven’t. Perhaps only the memory of this talent unique to me has faded, daily, as soon as my feet touch earth.
But I wonder, in these days of drones so easily and cheaply purchased on the internet, if flight such as mine has become an impossibility. With more people looking up at the sky, what is my likelihood of avoiding being noticed and if I were noticed, what effect would it have on my life? All the news agencies would call. Then Oprah and perhaps even the president. Perhaps Donald Trump would call wanting to make me into a reality show. Perhaps I’d be encouraged to launch a blog penned from above. How high up does wifi go, I wonder, and would I have to attach a wifi antenna to a beanie on my head and post the blog orally as both hands would be necessary for my flight, to prevent my plummeting to earth?
No, better that this miracle of flight be left behind with other marks of my adolescence: pimples and wet dreams and all those insecurities of coming of age. Perhaps they were what prompted my need to raise myself above it all. Now that I am well past being fully matured and in fact have embarked on that course that will eventually result in my sinking back into that earth I once rose above, I can make do with pleasures of that earth—chocolate and fresh ripe figs and a 5 o’clock Martini enough to raise me above the norm. And that truth that once I was unique is enough to assure that I still am—here in my Barclay Lounger with my New Yorker Magazine, my feet up on the step stool and commands that I can give through air simply by a push of the finger via remote control. Checking into Oprah to see who she has found to fill my place this week. Keeping my secret. Knowing how thrilled she would have been. Rating my potential story against theirs. And in my own mind, I know that I would rise above them all.
For Fandango’s Story Starter 16 prompt. This week’s Story Starter teaser from Fandango is: “It was in the spring of 2010 when I first realized that I could…” We are to start our story with that line. Sorry, Fandango, but I had to change the year to 2000 as my narrator has to be a bit older.
Wish I could say I grew these beauties, but alas, I took their photo at a local outdoor restaurant.
For Cee’s FOTD