Tag Archives: Daily Prompt

Hyperactive

“I wanted to figure out why I was so busy, but I couldn’t find the time to do it.”
― Todd Stocker

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Blur

Like rich meals savored by candle glow,
the best things are best taken slow.
We need those moments in between
to reflect on where we’ve been
before we go on to the next,
lest we grow harried and perplexed.

Since you are always in a hurry,
in photographs, you’re mostly blurry.
If you would just slow down one minute,
we’d get a photo with you in it
so we could remember you
when you’re no longer in our view.

More than just a word or two
is what we’d like to share with you,
but how, we do not have a clue
since you just seem to have a few
to cast at us before you’re gone
to golf or bridge or bike-a-thon.

You need a sedative or bong,
but no one here can stop you long
enough to calm you down with either.
Dear, you need to take a breather,
for we’re afraid you might expire––
spontaneously burst into fire.

We’re only given one life per,
but yours must go by in a whirr.
Why rush around like a Mad Hatter?
It’s how we do things that should matter.
Turn off the lawn mower, smell the clover
lest your life be too quickly over.

The prompt word today was “blur.”

Body Language

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Body Language

When words don’t translate, actions do,
and folks are always reading you.
Though you watch what you may say,
more information, day-by-day,
is given by the way you act;
so use a little care and tact.
There’s a language written on your face
that’s understood most any place.
In Des Moines or Timbuktu,
it’s the one you take along with you.

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The prompt today was translate.

“Girls” Night Out

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“Girls” Night Out

Mary Tyler Moore, Working Girl and I Love Lucy—
 film nights with the ladies are usually juicy.
Although we’re staying in, all that’s tucked in must be outed.
All those mumbled gripes now brought to light and shouted.
Pulling out the bobby pins to let the chignons flow.
Kicking off the heels to wiggle arch and toe.
Slipping off the panty hose, loosening top buttons.
Gorging on potato chips and dip like teenage gluttons.
Drinking margaritas, martinis and mojitos.
Pepperidge Farm and popcorn, ice cream and Doritos.
When old dames get together, pull out all the stops.
Banish all the dust cloths. Lock up all the mops.
Rip up all the lists and turn them to confetti.
Break out the lasagne. Break out the spaghetti.
Fill the crystal bowls with M&Ms and truffles.
Ban antimacassars, doilies, tucks and ruffles.
Bring out your old 8-tracks and your 45’s.
Forget that you are mothers, grandmothers and wives.
Better shake your booties while they still can shake.
Better come alive while still able to wake.
Time enough for normalcy when you’re ninety-six.
When you’re only seventy, you’ve still got some kicks.
Leave your spouses home staring at their football games—
vicariously living while you’re out being dames.
It’s your secret life, for no one needs to know
everything you do and everywhere you go.
Let the whole world think you’re in there playing bridge
while you are jitterbugging and emptying out the fridge.
It’s more fun when it’s secret, so promise not to tell
when old girls get together and raise a little Hell!!!!

The prompt today was juicy.

Diddly Squat

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Diddly Squat

Every language must be fraught
with words most definitely not
the loveliest to human ear.
They are the ones we hate to hear,
like crotch and bunion, scab and clot,
chunk or fetid, honk and rot;
but in my mind, the worst we’ve got—
the very ugliest—is “squat.”
The one who coined this word must be
the one gone down in history
for inventing the least lovely word
since phlegm or curdle, moist or turd.
Yet, how more perfect could one word be
to describe us when we bend each knee
and sit with heels pressed to our rear
close to the ground, perhaps, to peer
at insects crawling through the grass
while lucky others peruse our ass?
And so, despite its ugly sound,
no better word could ever be found
to name that pose wherein we bend
to expose our worst side to the wind.

The prompt word today was squat.

Sounds of Morning: Two Portals

The front and back of my beach rental open onto two different worlds.  One is a world of cars, loud motorcycles, passing vendors with loudspeakers mounted on their trucks and at night, kids collecting to drink beer and blast music, other music from bars, mufflerless motorcycles and laughter.  The other opens onto a pristine beach with sea birds, fishermen, dogs, sand, an informal “beach bar” where neighbors gather each night to sip tequila and watch the sunset.  Since my beach cottage is essentially two large rooms with wide openings between and sliding glass doors and window that open onto the beach, plus another high double window that opens onto the street and that needs to be left open for ventilation, every morning I awaken to both worlds.  And this year, the additional sounds of Morrie who is ready to be let out for morning functions, to be fed and then to be taken off (with tennis ball) for another morning’s adventure. Between his basic functions and the beach walk, however, looms a matter of more importance:  THE BLOG!!! Sorry Morrie. One minute more, while I post this!

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Sounds of Morning

The music I awaken to when I’m at the beach
is a symphony of sounds nearby and others out of reach.
The gentle whirring of the fans beside me and above,
and sounds outside my kitchen door that I have grown to love:
the spread out carpet of the surf, the stirring of the dog—
as I lie here on the couch, sorting out my blog.
The day can’t really start for me until I’ve shed my words.
We cannot walk upon the beach to watch the soaring birds
and throw or chase the tennis ball as we do every day
until I shake the words out and put them all away.
The subtle tapping of the keys, the gas truck passing by
outside the bedroom window with its annoying cry
of “Ze-ta, Ze-ta, Ze-ta gassssss.”
(I cannot wait for it to pass!)
Then other traffic sounds fill in
to fill the space where it has been.
One room leaks in beach sounds to tell tale after tale
of needle fish and rooster fish and tuna, snapper, sail—
my porch like a receiver that gathers all these sounds
of nature and of passers-by with which this beach abounds.
Yet the bedroom window opens onto busy street.
I hear the passing traffic, the sound of passing feet.
Neighbor greeting neighbor and the gas truck’s bray—
all the usual street sounds of a noisy Mexican day.
The dog protests more earnestly. He’s ready for our walk.
He has no patience for this blog—its ponderings and talk.
So I save what I have written, content with what’s at hand
to wander off in other worlds of wind and surf and sand.

The prompt word today was sound.

Creative Pronunciation

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Creative Pronunciation

“I’m serial,” he used to say,
a child with lips stretched tight
and fists clenched in earnestness;
and then,”How ruve!” when we laughed.

His vocabulary was sophisticated
for a child of eight,
and yet childish in its imprecision.
One letter switched, or three,
can bring about the opposite of the effect intended.
“Possumbly” can put one’s whole argument
into question. “I mean maybe!”
make one’s firmest assertions laughable.

How staunchly we defend
the walls around our words, as though
corralling  them controls the world.
And yet we have so little control
over potentates
who bend them to their will.

Though we may know the sound of words,
we do not always know the truth of them.
Some trust the word itself to proclaim truth
despite the facts. Thus do certain words
seem to carry a power of their own. Religion.
Country. Safety. Patriotism. No matter what the deed,
declare it in defense of one of these,
and there are those who will believe you to speak truth.

There are those
who have the power of making words march
straight ahead in noble order while their truth lies low in camouflage.
We are so accustomed to what parades as reality
that we believe these staunch maneuverings,
listened to like an old radio play
or its newest replacement, the reality show.

They entertain us with the sound if not the depth of what they say:
creative pronouncements, slogans, sputterings,
until the truth of words dies out
and they are shells of words,
scattered upon the beach
for our collection,
put upon a shelf just for display.

Their center gone, they join an empty world
devoid of air and life.
No water to drink.
No meat of words to chew on.
Thus is the power of words
to feed us or to strip us of our world.
A child’s innocent mispronouncements,
or the false pronouncements of a fool.

The prompt today was seriousness.

Unfairly Defined

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Image downloaded from Amazon

Unfairly Defined

Not really cold and not too hot—
“lukewarm” describes what it is not.
It isn’t fair it’s named for Luke.
In fact, it’s really just a fluke.
It’s really not Luke’s fault at all.
I’ll give the facts. You make the call.

Though he tried to love that girl right well,
 the truth is, that he never fell
as hard as she did. She was nice,
and yet they only dated twice.
She was in love, but he was not.
It wasn’t that they fussed or fought.

It’s just that he preferred another,
not this girl liked by his mother.
So, though the match had been decided
by their folks, it was one-sided.
He, alas, just could not fashion
anything approaching passion.

She pined as he moved on to marry
a girl who came from Tucumcari
while she remained a single maid,
much-admired, but never laid.
And Luke, who did not choose to tarry,
wound up in the dictionary.

He still defines that boring norm
not cold, not hot, but only warm.
The bit of bad luck that he had?
Though he was neither rogue nor cad,
he chose a woman who was “not” her,
and she was Noah Webster’s daughter!

The prompt was lukewarm