Hardly a paradisiac setting, he met her at the dumpster.
She was a free spirit and, alas, he was a Trumpster.
He thought that she looked nifty in spite of her dreadlocks.
She thought he was her nemesis. Just look! Argyle socks!!!!
He lifted up the lid so she could throw in all her junk.
She didn’t pay attention. She liked her lovers punk.
But he wooed her every garbage day. A regular Lochinvar,
he insisted she not lift the bags, declaring it too far
from her doorway to the dumpster and offered his assist.
In the end, she always let him, though she did try to resist!
I could draw out this long story. There were dates, flowers and candy.
They wed, and though he bored her, his gross income came in handy!
Who can pass a bookstore door
and fail to note the vellichor
or fail to feel within their heart
the message of a piece of art?
A poignant poem or pithy quote,
well-loved and thereby learned by rote,
is a means by which we might denote
that part of us that we devote
to what we can’t repudiate—
that part of us that is a gate
to a special way of seeing—
the heart’s eye of a human being.
Click on photos to enlarge and view as slideshow.
Stasis and Flux
Laughter is the flux of life, aiding in the flow
as we face gloomy prospects everywhere we go.
Better just to stay at home and enjoy what we’re given
It does no good to cry about the way our life’s been riven
into “then” and “now.” Whereas the world was once a race,
now we walk on tiptoe, remaining in our place,
observing what is close at hand—the blessings that surround us—
looking for the beauty in the space that lies around us.
Flowers, birds and family. Sunset skies, the trees.
Life may end where it began, here with the birds and bees.
The whole world is a miracle, and we are just a part of it.
Remember, there was no mankind way back at the start of it.
If we pass to oblivion and all our buildings crumble,
nature will go on again, our history just a mumble
that beings of the future will stumble on and wonder
why we chose to pillage and why we chose to plunder
when we could have just sat back to wonder at this world
where everything we ever needed lay securely curled.
Breathe her air, enjoy her fruits, enjoy simple things.
Open your eyes and ears and heart to all that nature brings.
Still on the Nickel?
Four hundred thousand for a pension, a million for his travel.
More for his security, McConnell, pound your gavel.
Give him not a penny. Not a nickel nor a dime.
He deserves no further payment for his life of crime.
May the senate use its Trump card to deal out his comeuppance.
When it comes to a pension, he should get nary a tuppence.
We’re tired of his finagling, the lies and all the trouble.
It’s time we drew the needle out to burst his four-year bubble.
If I may be pauciloquent, I’ll simply say, “IMPEACH!!!”
Finally do the right thing. Kick out the sonnofabeach!!!!!!
Prompt words today are comeuppance, trouble, pauciloquent (terse, using few words) and finagle.
“On the Nickel” in this context means “On the dole.” The Nickel is a street in San Francisco where a lot of homeless hang out. That Trump should have his hand out for further entitlements after his term is over just seems unconscionable to me. Let him earn his own nickels from now on. Impeachment will insure this. Here is one of my favorite Tom Waits songs that I drew my title from.
Boy cat awakes at six o’clock
to begin his morning walk
across my former sleeping self,
then jumps down from my bedside shelf
to continue his aggressive sass.
Wrestles the rug, then bats the brass
light cord, yowls and kneads the sheet
until I rise. Admit defeat.
She jumps up on the headboard table,
disconnects my laptop cable,
Jumps down and then attacks the rug—
A slide-attack, a pull, a tug—
until once more it’s hillocked, rumpled.
twisted, skewed, distressed and crumpled.
Now the dogs both go ballistic
and I, alas, become realistic.
Thrust myself up from my bed,
and after both the dogs are fed,
I give in to the cats’ loud din—
one cat out and one cat in.
Walk barefoot over the cold floor,
open up the outside door,
and, stepping out to feed the cats,
I open up the cupboard that’s
located by the kitchen door,
to grab the cat food can, but then
as one cat exits, one rushes in!
I spoon the goop into one dish
to tail-swaying and whisker swish.
Pour kibble in another one,
step back inside and watch the fun.
Sharing a dish, cats bob and sway
in graceful pas de deux display.
from wet to dry, whate’er their wish.
And finally, the herd all fed,
exhausted, I go back to bed!
Garden Gnomes and Other Decorating Blunders
My taste in decoration eschews cute and adorable.
Cutesy hearts and animals—designs I find deplorable.
When I choose to accentuate, fantasy is out.
It’s simply an esthetic that I choose to flout.
Whimsy in embellishment is not a problem for me.
It’s only sticky sweet that will irritate and bore me.
So keep your big-eyed children, your fairy, elf and gnome.
Their plaster effigies will never decorate my home.
My garden will not sport them. My butterflies are real.
Garden gnomes are merely things for passers-by to steal.
This is the perfect climate. Now is the perfect time
to do all that you can to make your world sublime.
No more empty promises. No rain checks or excuses.
No masking of reality to obscure your abuses.
Look back in your history to see the full extent
of all the possibilities that in the past you meant
to “see about” tomorrow. Then tomorrow never came,
for when it did, it seems that you made it just the same
as the day that came before it, so now you’ll never know
what your life may have turned into if you’d only let it grow.
Relaxation’s fine if it’s used as a reward––
but it should be an end result that we are heading toward.
It cannot replace doing. Doing is what life is for.
Without learning and accomplishing, existence is a bore.
Prompt words today are promises, sublime, history, extent, relax and mask. (The captions on the photos below may seem disjointed, but I decided to leave all the captions from earlier times I’ve used these photos. They do, in a disjointed way, create a little story all their own.)
Click on photos to enlarge and read captions.
Bored of the Rings
I admit I am incurious about matters Uchronian.
When it comes to fantasy, my thoughts tend toward draconian.
Fiction is my genre but I like it more realistic—
my interest not quite stretching to themes that are more mystic.
Fantasy’s not toothsome. It’s lacking in its juice.
Give me fantasy or suicide, and I will choose the noose!
These plots I am averse to seem to have a different muse.
Werewolves in the moonlight? Characters I must accuse.
A Game of Thrones and Narnia are not a fit for me.
J.R.R. Tolkien is not my cup of tea.
I prefer Jane Austen, the Brontes and Anne Tyler.
But Ursula Le Guin? Please forgive if I revile her.
I beg forgiveness from science fiction/fantasy fans, as I know there are many I admire in this group, but I simply am not engaged by fantasy as I am by reality—even fictionalized reality (which I acknowledge as an oxymoron.) I must admit that I don’t really revile Ursula Le GuIn. It was either that or “file her,” which didn’t quite work as well. There are some limitations in rhyming, so I admit “revile” is harsh. And, to be fair, my husband and I once listened to the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy on a trip back and forth across the U.S. and when we arrived home after that six-week trip, we sat in our driveway in our motor home for an extra half-hour to hear its end, but nonetheless, I was not motivated to wander farther along the paths of fantasy. And, to be fair, give a person a word like “Uchronia” as a prompt word and what do you expect? Revenge was in order. ;o)
Cat and Mouse
My cat is feeling obdurate and that is no surprise.
I see it in extended claws. I see it in his eyes.
His back is hunched into an arc. His hair all stands on end.
His lips are stretched back in a hiss, his teeth ready to rend.
When he lets go a loud remark, it sounds more like a chatter.
I look up from my magazine to see what is the matter.
The prism on the windowsill reflects a flashing gleam
and he springs into action to try to catch its beam.
Like an arrow, straight and sure, he shoots across the room,
but when he does, his target’s gone. Vanished in the gloom.
It seems his prey has vanished. It’s nowhere to be found.
He’s wasted all his energy: his speed, his stealth, his bound.
The cat door closes with a swish. He’s off to other pleasures.
Out in the sultry cloud-swathed world, he’ll resort to other measures.
He saunters by the hen house, hungry, but it’s no use
He still bears the scars of the rooster’s last abuse.
While the men are busy milking, he’ll crouch there in the dirt
hoping if he’s lucky to receive a friendly squirt.
He’ll troll the barn for mice and rats, then comb the prairie grass
for game that’s more digestible than prey that’s made of glass.