The prompt word today is CRISIS.
Panic!!!
When I was younger and a rover,
the things I should have panicked over
never seemed to stick to me.
I guess that’s part of being free.
But now with bigger guns and Isis,
we all feel continual crisis.
Though it’s true, I must confess,
I overlook the world’s grand mess
and concentrate on creaking knees
and where I left my ring of keys.
As I get older, I would guess,
I’ll feel more panic over less.
Heading for the Door
When someone starts to get abusive,
that’s when I become elusive.
(Camp day, folks, so that’s all she wrote!!!)
Reflecting Pool
Sacred refuge and snug haven.
A safe shelter from the swarm.
Not a temple or an altar.
Comfortable, snug and warm.
Temple to deep relaxation,
Underpinning of my dreams.
A down comforter to soothe my
Rattled nerves and ripping seams.
You may guess that I’m a loner, but
You would be just halfway right.
Refuges would have no meaning without
A journey to feel life’s bite.
Under covers is a safe world,
Total living through the mind,
Cushioning the greater pleasures
Nurtured when our pathways wind
Around problems to be conquered in the outer world we roam,
Safely leading us in a circle back to the refuge that we call home.
Disclaimer: Naughty word implied in this poem. Do not read if easily offended.
Retired
Mr. Clock, Mr. Clock,
though your advances I try to block,
my attempts you seem to mock
with your continuous tic tic toc,
echoed by my neighbor’s cock
crowing from his noisome flock.
No longer cheerleaders or jocks,
nor femmes fatale with flowing locks,
in Birkenstocks, flip flops or Crocs,
(worn in the winter complete with socks)
we huddle safe behind our locks,
afraid of terrorists with glocks
or neighbors’ children tossing rocks.
We hear your phone calls and your knocks,
we know you gather in your flocks,
your PTAs and your ad hocs,
while each of us sits in our box
as stubborn as a mule or ox,
busy in our painters’ smocks
or cooking spinach in our woks.
Our homes all sealed up like Ft. Knox,
we have no need of the world’s shocks,
its pestilence and chicken pox.
We have our pensions and our stocks,
our Lean Cuisines in our ice box.
We shun your CNN or Fox!!!
Our TV sets set to the past
neglect to show the latest blast
as all the world seems set to cast
Armageddon, coming fast.
So as you watch the latest drone
on your notebook or your phone,
as you predict and hate and moan,
please leave us the f— alone!
The prompt word today is “slowly.” Disclaimer: If you are offended by risque innuendos, please read no further. My Devil Muse caught me unaware this morning. Last warning. Last chance to stop.
Goes Down Slowly
When you press its end, it has a kick.
It goes down slowly but comes up quick.
Though based on beauty you’d never pick it,
Caught in the throes, some people lick it.
When it spews out liquid from its wick,
what it produces could make you sick.
Don’t wrinkle noses and utter, “Ick!”
I’ve just described my favorite Bic!
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Depth
Deep is neither
party conversation
nor the subject of Valentines.
It seeps into the
crevices
under
fingernails
and
the
caverns
of
ears.
Internal
and
curvaceous,
it is hard to get
right to the point of.
Deep does not put down roots––it is roots.
Betrayal, breaking glass
and tunnels leading to
dark wombs that bear us anew
to rock us harshly
and swaddle us in pain.
Deep, I am
sometimes deep,
at other times
swift cold water
with surface
swirlings
or mist
rising
through
sunlight
clarified
by
deep
shadows.
High Cholesterol
Bake the pies and roast the beast.
Call your friends from west and east.
They’ll enjoy the food, at least,
as from sparse greens my meal is pieced.
For I fear my life’s long feast
has, by necessity, now ceased!
Frail
She cannot change a tire or heft a cotton bale,
help us move the sofa or lift the water pail––
not because she’s lazy or because she is too frail,
but simply because if she did, she might break a nail!!
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/frail/
From Denver to Cheyenne to Sheridan to Murdo to Sheridan again, for these past three weeks I’ve been in overdrive! It has been wonderful, but it is about over. If you’ve never driven through Wyoming and South Dakota, this is just a tiny bit of what you have missed. Today, back to Sheridan, Tuesday to Denver, Wednesday back to Mexico.
This has been a fabulous trip, but, yesterday I literally tripped and fell flat trying to take a photo in the middle of Main Street in my home town during its 100th birthday celebration––luckily after the parade! So, twisted ankle, swollen knee, wrenched back. Time to go back to a different home. My camera broke, so few pictures of people were retrievable, but in a day or so, I’ll have some stories to tell. Good news is, after two trips from the router guys who had to come 150 miles to do repairs, looks like my friend Mark’s motel has had its wifi problems taken care of.
It has been 50 years that I’ve been coming to these 5 year all-school reunions. In that time, the high school population has shrunk by half, down to 49 students, even though it has gone from being a town school to a county-wide school. Lots of energy still left judging by last night’s alumni dance–the floor mainly populated by young families and cowboys and cowgirls. Still a good representation by my class of 1965, but that is a story for a day when I don’t have to pack and be in the car in minutes. Bye, Murdo. See you again in five years.
Please click on the first photo to enlarge them all and see the true magnitude of these prairie views.
Nightmare
You hide yourself in shadows deep
to watch me as I fall to sleep.
Half-lidded, with your sleepy stare,
you cup my cheek and stroke my hair.
I do not know as I fall deeper
that you stalk this drifting sleeper.
Then just as I do not resist,
you give my hair a painful twist.
I try to jerk awake but fail.
I tense my muscles, fight and flail,
but I cannot escape your grasp.
I call for help, I moan and gasp.
Sir Nightmare, from where do you come
with death knoll beat on ragged drum?
I hear its pulse now through the day.
At every hour, it sounds the way
back to the horror of the night––
a pathway to that final fight
when I will mount at last that steed
that nightly stands to do its deed
to carry to oblivion
this sleeper off to meet her kin.
That father lost, those lovers three
who wait for my delivery.
Is this nightmare just a dream––
a mere digression from the stream
of conscious thought––a nightly swim
through a fantasy most grim,
or a window showing me
an inevitability?
(The photo is intended only as an illustration and has nothing to do with the person pictured!!!)
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 