Turning the Tables on the Milkman


Turning the Tables on the Milkman

Throw clothes over your birthday suit, it’s fast becoming dawn.
We need to be respectable, so put your jammies on.
The milkman will be coming and it would be a plus
if when we met him at the door, we had some clothes on us.
Mere speed will not suffice, dear. We also need some raiment.
No need to let the milkman in on our entertainment.

For milk upon our Fruit Loops, there are obstacles to hurdle

if we want to eat before the milk begins to curdle.
My walker in the hallway, your cane dropped on the floor,
the stairway to maneuver, the deadbolt on the door.
Folks as old as us should have passed this lusty phase.
Bed for us should merely be a place to laze.

So smooth your messy hair, dear, and try to look less daring.
No need to let the milkman in on fun times we’ve been sharing.
We should be sharing pastimes like t.v. and crossword puzzles.
Who would suspect that we are still into passion’s nuzzles?
So in spite of all the cheap jokes, no milkman will succeed me.
When it comes to filling orders, my wife still seems to need me!

Prompts for today are dawn, suit, platitude and plus.

Succulent Salad: Flower of the Day, Oct 10, 2019

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Kalanchoe and Snail.

For Cee’s FOTD

Oligarchy


Oligarchy

The chill is on the mountain. Its  height seems insurmountable.
Tenebrous and unpassable, its obstacles uncountable.
And though failure is eminent, still we’ll do our best.
Deal with problems as they come. This is no time to rest.
Lend your hand for brothers struggling with the task.
Don’t settle for what’s easy and give them what they ask.
The dangers in just turning your back to the ordeal
is that the villains at the top will plot and cheat and steal
your conscience and your water, your air and liberty
until they’ve taken everything they can from you and me
and view the ruins of what they own, from sea to shining sea.

 

Prompt words today are tenebrous, chill, insurmountable, eminent and rest.

Still Life with Baby Shoe: FOTD , Oct 9, 2019

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For Cee’s FOTD

Portrait of the Artist

My husband was an artist and so it seemed fitting to write a profile/portrait of him that described him primarily in terms of color.

Portrait of the Artist

The artist in you
understood color so well.
And yet, even as you layered on
red and green,
so much of you was blue.

Your white hair,
loosened from the pony tail

and streaming down your back
in your wild man look,
prompted strangers to ask
if you were a shaman,
or declare you to be one.

But there was
that black in you
that altered it,
that shade created
by the blend
of white and black
you knew so well.

The red that flamed out from your work,
subtly put there even in places
where it had no logical purpose for being,

that red tried to make things right.

Yet all of us
who knew you well

knew the blue.
It was the background color
of all of your days.

It was the blanket
in which we wrapped
ourselves
at night,

trying to be close,
but so often
divided

by it.

For fifteen years, I tried
to paint you yellow.
There were splashes of it, surely,

throughout our lives together.
You on the stage, reading your heart,
me in the audience, recognizing
all the colors caught within you.

Finding the pictures you had taken of me
studying your work at the art show,

those pictures you had snapped surreptitiously
even before we  met,

I discovered, after your passing,
that you had recognized
me even then, when I thought
I was the only one
angling for a meeting—
sure of my need to know
those secret parts of you

that I will never know
now that you have given yourself
to whatever color your ever-after
has delivered you to.

A new life later,
I am suffused
by my own canvas
of memories of you—
every other pigment
splashed against
a vivid background
of yellow.

 

The dVerse Poetics prompt is to create a profile or self-profile in verse. Go HERE to read additional poems written to this prompt by others.

Gull Plus: Bird of the Day, Oct 8, 2019

I still can’t figure out what this is sticking out of the top of this gull’s head. It looked like a toothpick or a porcupine quill. Or perhaps the big spine from a cactus. I guess I should try to fabricate a story about how it got there.gull

For Granny’s Bird of the Day prompt

Circle, Arches and Curves

Click on any photo to enlarge all.

For Cee’s Circles, Curves and Arches prompt.

Before it’s Too Late

Photo by David Everett Strickler on unsplash, Used with permission.

Before it’s Too Late

We could use a sentient being in the White House about now.
Surely his staunchest backers must be wondering how
they can save face. How can they be suffering no qualms?
You can tell them by their panicked looks and their sweating palms.
How can they stand behind him? How can they fail to see
how he’s cast our ship of state into a stormy sea?
Already, they’re too slow to recognize the fact that they 
jeopardize our country. Their fealty just may
bring about our final fall. This game that he’s been playing at,
remember, when he’s gone, is still the world that we’ll be staying at.
Judges, remove your blinders. Senators, seize the rein.
Acknowledge that our captain has slowly gone insane.
It’s not too late for action, but if we do not act,
we’ll go the way of other fallen empires. That’s a fact! 

 

Prompts today are slow, cast, qualm, sentience and sea.

Tin Man Redux

The photo prompt above is from Mircealanc at Pixabay.com, a photo prompt published by Fandango

The Tin Man Talks to His Creator

I’m just a “thing” made out of metal,
stovepipe legs, my head a kettle.
When it rains, I rust apart
and so expose my lack of heart.
It is no mystery, no riddle
that I’m empty in the middle.
Some say a heart is of no use.
It is a trap. It is a noose.
It is an organ of abuse,
at best of times, merely a truce
in the battle of the sexes
between them and all their exes.
They say, “When born without a heart,
there’s nothing there to tear apart!”

Yet still I feel that all that pain
would not, could not, be in vain.
I’d bear the sadness for the start
of love that I’d feel with a heart.
And so, I pine and wish and stew
that I might be born anew
with a beating corazon
so I’d not feel so alone,
and though I would be made of tin,
that living heart that pulsed within
would let me feel at last what they
take for granted every day.
What care I that I fall to dust
if I could love before I rust?

Once more, I pray to my creator,
to that great procrastinator.
I ask again to have a heart—
what I’ve asked for from the start.
I say, “The pain, without a doubt,
can’t be worse than going without.”
Then that Great Tinsmith in the sky
looks me firmly in the eye
so the truth I cannot miss
as he gently tells me this:
“A heart’s not something I can bestow.
It is a thing you have to grow.”

For Fandango’s Flash Fiction prompt.

Hibiscus: FOTD Oct 7, 2019

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One to six of these newly bloomed ladies greet me every day as I leave my kitchen door on the way to the garage. Who needs a florist?

For Cee’s FOTD