Tag Archives: Daily Post

Beauty’s Clutch.

 

Beauty’s Clutch

Life’s a library where we choose
book after book to read and muse
on the truth of each, or how it serves
to amuse us or to calm our nerves.
It starts with storybooks in our youth.
Cinderella’s lovely, her kin uncouth.

The pretty sister we all adore.
The others? Rotten to the core.
We judge by beauty evermore.

As teenagers, our thoughts are filled
with thoughts of hair, complexion, build—
the ways we rank and choose our friends.
For some, this method never ends.
We judge the world by what we see.
At court, the prettiest are set free.

Our dates determined by their cars,
Our peanut butters by their jars,
Our candidates are movie stars.

World is illusion, say the seers,
the thinkers and philosophers.
We cannot know reality
by going just by what we see.
Yet time and time again, we choose
our futures based upon our views.

The “curb appeal” that meets our eye
determines which house we will buy.
The crust is how we choose the pie.

Ted Bundy had a handsome face
that drew young ladies to his embrace.
An arm sling or perhaps a crutch
tricked them into his murderous clutch.
His handsomeness served to distract
till he’d performed his heinous act.

His cover perfect, his act most skilled,
he killed and killed and killed and killed—
lives ruined and ended as he willed.

So crack the book and look inside.
Talk before you choose your bride.
Drive the car before you buy.
Sip the wine and taste the pie.
See what’s inside if you are able.
Don’t go by face or box or label.

Though beauty dulled is less sublime,
scrub the tarnish from the dime.
Looking deeper takes more time.

Don’t choose the cover of a book.
Instead, take care to have a look.
One page nor twenty will not do.
You have the whole book left to view.
Avoid appearances and preening.
Look for truth and look for meaning.

George Eliot coined the adage first.
If for truth you have a thirst,
judging by the cover’s worst.

This  poem was written 3 1/2 years ago, when I’d just started my blog and had very few readers, so I don’t think many  reading my blog today have read it before. The prompt word today is clutch
.

Gremlins (A Teenage Mythology)

Of course none of these teens, who happen to be my nieces and nephew, would ever sneak in after hours!

A Teenage Mythology

A sneeze is how a poltergeist gets outside of you.
At night a different stinky elf sleeps inside each shoe.

Every creaking rafter supports its resident ghost,
and it’s little gremlins who make you burn the toast.

Each night those tricky fairies put snarls in your hair,
while pixies in your sock drawer unsort every pair.

Midnight curtain billows are caused by banshee whistles.
Vampires use your toothbrush and put cooties in its bristles.

Truths all come in singles. It’s lies that come in pairs.
That’s a zombie, not a teenager, sneaking up the stairs.

 

 

Gremlins is the prompt word today. This is a rewrite of a poem written 4 years ago.  Can’t believe that I actually had a poem with “gremlins” in it.  Glad the WordPress search function
has a better memory than I do.

Mercy Oath

Mercy Oath

I have mercy on spiders and crickets and snakes.
I swerve on the highway for animals’ sakes,
but I swat at mosquitoes and execute flies
when they land on my food or dive bomb my eyes.
I do not like insects to invade my bod
like noseeums that dive in a suicide squad.

I poison leaf cutters and stomp on each roach
and execute scorpions that dare to encroach
on my personal space. There’s a place here for all,
but not on my floor or pillow or wall.
Though I don’t wish to be overly cruel,
each thing in its place is the usual rule.

Ladybugs, dragonflies, butterflies and
hoppers and roly-bugs are simply grand.
I’ll rescue bees when they fall in my pool.
Wasp nests I’ll leave as a usual rule
if they are no danger to human or cats.,
and my tejas are havens for dozens of bats.

Possums in my bushes and nests in each tree
are not a problem. They don’t bother me.
We’re all placed in this world to subsist with each other
which means we must learn to exist with each other.
So I here take a vow to hurt no living thing
that doesn’t eat plants or bite, pinch or sting.

 

The prompt today is mercy.

Mr. Crow


Mr. Crow

A flash of shadow in morning’s glow–
interrupts the daylight’s flow.
That sleek black coat I seem to know.
Why have you come here, Mr. Crow?


I heard that here the water’s fine.

The garden lush. The fruit divine.
I saw it falling from the vine
and swooped right in to make it mine.


You bow at us as though in jest,
then bend your wing and dip your chest.
You have not come at our behest.
We know you rob the songbird’s nest.


But I just stand here, staunch and tall.

I make no movement, sound no call.
I threaten no one.  None at all.
Your garden holds me in its thrall.


The mourning doves and chickadees
do not bathe here as they please.
Black bird, you splash there, as though to tease,
then dry your feathers in the breeze.

I watch to see what you may do.
Through kitchen window, you’re in full view.
One beaded eye of turquoise hue
watches no songbirds.  It watches you.


Mr. Crow, with feathers fine,
take care where you might choose to dine.
The grapes you eat were meant for wine.
Please stick to seeds.  The grapes are mine!


To those of you behind the drapes,

it is a myth I dine on grapes
In garden grass, I watch for shapes.
No skittering snake or mouse escapes.


Small birds won’t deign to linger near
or take a bath while you are here.
Their fluttering movements display their fear.
They find your visit very queer.


I haven’t been here very long.

I’ve robbed no grapes, I’ve stilled no song.
Though your suspicions are grossly wrong,
since I’m not welcome, I’ll move along.

The blackbird lifts from saucer’s edge,
skirts the  treetops, lands on the hedge.

A warbler lifts from stalks of sedge
and takes his place on the birdbath’s ledge.


Since I was traveling from the time I woke up at 4 a.m. this morning until I got home 12 hours later, this is a rewrite of a poem from 2 1/2 years ago. Today’s prompt is nest.

Stirring the Pot

 

Stirring the Pot

Chunks and grains swirl round and round. They form a muddy mass.
I keep my paddle churning them as I turn on the gas.
As all the chunks and  bits melt down, the volume now decreases.
I watch the whole mess carefully. My vigilance increases.
I see it all congealing—an oily inky sludge
that after lengthy stirring finally turns to fudge!
This horrid, bubbling, lumpy goo that appeared so pernicious,
in the end turns into something creamy, rich, delicious.

 

In a recent conversation with a friend who is a scientist, water expert and inspector of water systems and industrial water waste, I learned the interesting fact that there is some hope regarding environmental issues, even in the wake of the Trump administration’s ridiculous easing of standards. He assured me that they’ve had little influence on the industrial systems he inspects as the large companies, first of all, are set up to conform to stricter standards and the restructuring of the system would be so costly that they are not about to alter things to meet new laws that will probably be changed back again anyway and which even they see the dangers of.

Hopefully, one thing that we will learn as a result of this ongoing disaster and embarrassment is that we need to alter the powers of the president, especially regarding his appointment of lifetime judges and his ability to administratively change standards that should be determined by congress or popular vote.  The other changes that must be made are in the electoral college and lobbying rules. Perhaps the only good that will come out of this POTUS “calling trump” on us is that it will stir the pot and bring about much-needed  change. The rules of our democracy did not take into account the possibility of the election of such an ignorant, childish and corrupt leader as Trump has proven to be.

 

The prompt word today is sludge.

Poets and Pundits and Scribes


Poets and Pundits and Scribes

This particular moment of this particular day
is the only time in which we’re sure to have our say.
Life lived moment to moment is the single choice we have.
For past pains and for future wounds, now is the only salve.
I spread its gift over myself. Its healing unguent lingers.
The world that I make out of it coils out beneath my fingers.
I drift back to my past times, I project to tomorrow.
Times actual and potential are moments that I borrow
to wrap my attitude around to write daily depictions
of what my life consists of—its confessions and its fictions.
We skirt around the details of what we think is actual,
but nothing ever written has been totally factual.
I write what I remember and what I hope will be,
then press it onto paper for perpetuity.



 

Today’s prompt was particular.

Stormy Weather

 

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Stormy Weather

Increasingly, the atmosphere
is starting to feel rather queer.
Instead of cats and dogs, I fear,
it’s raining antelope and deer.
Day after day, year after year,
nature shifts to a higher gear.
It does not take a weather seer
to see the writing on the mirror.
The warnings hinted at appear.
A cataclysm is drawing near.

The prompt today is atmospheric.