Tag Archives: Humor

Return of the Pelicans

I’ve been at the beach for three weeks now and seen nary a pelican.  Magnificent frigate birds we’ve seen in abundance, but no pelicans.  Then, when I finished writing my blog early this morning, a mysterious unsigned message appeared as a comment: 
“The peligans are back.”  Spelling aside, I ran out to see the scene shown below—banks of pelicans soaring in, others resting on the waves, others on the offshore rock and moored boats and floats.  You might guess that a poem evolved.  You’d be right. Photos follow.

Return of the Pelicans

The pelicans come soaring in, completely at their ease
to settle on the empty waves wherever they may please.
They do not ask permission after being gone so long.
They don’t amuse with antics. They do not offer song.
We do not know where pelicans have kept themselves for weeks
when we were looking for them, taking furtive peeks
outside our doors, off terraces, and from our cafe chairs.
We missed their stretched-out funny bills. We missed their derrieres.

We have missed their diving prowess and their flying in a chain.
We missed their grumpy countenances. Missed their bland disdain.
So now that they are back with us, perching on our boats,
messing up our launches, defiling our floats,
we’d like to issue them a welcome, but they do not like the fuss.
It puzzles them, because they feel ambivalent towards us!

Click on any photo to enlarge all.

Happy Ending

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Happy Ending

He was a follower, a grunt
who married a lass dominant.
She led, he followed in their dance.
He wore an apron, she the pants.
It was a perfect unity
if folks had only let them be;
but, alas, the other blokes
had to make the usual jokes.

They called him pussy-whipped and meek—
berated him as timid, weak—
and so, simply to please his mates,
to end their jeering cruel debates,
he went against his true love’s wishes
and refused to do the dishes.

The facts, there’s no need to imbue.
Both words and dinner plates, they flew.
He could not match her swift invective
of ways in which he was defective,
and so he simply stood and waited
until her fury was abated,
then asked this cyclone he had wed
if she would like to go to bed.

Their skirmish ended in romance.

He shed his apron, she her pants.
A worn-out lover well-behooves
a meeker husband in his moves,
and nothing like a little tiff
to make a timid fellow stiff.
Now that her angst had flared and passed,
he got to be on top, at last.

The prompt today is dominant.

Shock!!!

If you’d like to read how I shocked every souk owner on my block when I lived in Ethiopia in 1973/74, read this old post from three years ago:
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2014/10/10/coffee-with-no-ceremony/

The prompt today is shock.

Poetry Pie (A Recipe)

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Poetry Pie

Pick an armful of fresh words from the poet tree.
Trim off dry leaves. Dispose of the ordinary or over-ripe.
Choose words that flower when juxtaposed.
Choose tiny clinging bees that sting.
Choose pollen-dusted blossoms that make you sneeze.
Choose agile leaves that swing when you breathe on them.
Staunch stalks that do not budge.
Throw them in a vase so that they fall where they want to go,
then rearrange to suit your fancy.

Admire your arrangement
as you bring a stock to boil.
This stock consists of honey and vinegar,
water to float the theme,
lightly peppered with adjectives
and salted with strong verbs.

When the water boils, break nouns from your bouquet.
Tender stalks may be sliced to syllables, but leave the flowers whole.
Do not cook too long lest they be too weak to chew upon.

Scoop with a wire ladle and lay on parchment to drain.
Arrange on a bed of crushed hopes pre-baked with future expectations.
Pile to the plate rim, then sift through and remove most of what you’ve put there.
Fill up to the top and beyond with whipped dreams. Careful, not too sweet.

Put on the shelf to gel.
The crust will grow crustier.
The whipped cream will not fall,
but some of the words will rise to the top and blow away.
Others will sink to the bottom and become so mired in crust
that they will stick to the cheeks and teeth of all who sample your pie,
and this is what you want.

This pie will not be to the taste of all
and there may not be enough of it to satisfy the taste of others,
but it will be a pie that satisfies you,
and others may become addicted enough
to order it now and then
in spite of that shelf
of so many delectable pies.
Perhaps because it is tenacious.
Perhaps because it suits their idiosyncratic taste.
Perhaps because of its placement, front and center,
so it meets the eye.

Whatever the reason, whether to the taste of many or few,
it will be there for so long as the cook holds out
and the poet tree stands and keeps blooming.

Poet Pie.  Special this week.
Comes with a big napkin and no fork
so you’ll need to eat it with you hands
and suck it from your fingers.

It will run down your arms
and cause your elbows to stick to the table,
drip from your chin onto your shirtfront,
adorning you like splatters down the fronts
of old ladies in voile dresses.
It will adorn the beards of the hirsute,
hide the pimples of preteens,
make ruby red the lips
of little girls too young for lipstick,
cause the drying lips of old women
to swell as though Botoxed.

It will cause tongues to wag
and fingers to write poetry of their own
in the air or on paper or perhaps
merely in minds
infected by the addictive
nature of poet pie.
You can both smell and taste it.
Feel on your fingers.  Hear its
tender branches crunch between
your teeth–those parts of the poem
that hold the whole together.

That poem that perhaps holds your life together
for the minutes you consume it
and further moments when you try to wash it from your beard
or fingers or chin or shirtfront,
and fail.  So a part of the poem goes with you.
Some may notice it and try to scrub it from your chin.
Others may not be able to resist,
and in wiping off its sweetness from where it has streaked your arm,
may put their fingers to their mouths to taste it themselves
and may be suffused with a yearning for a piece of their own.

Or, say, perhaps, “Not to my taste,”
which leaves more poetry pie for you.

 

Look familiar? If you were around three years ago, perhaps you read it before. Let me know if you found it worth reading again and made it this far. The prompt today is agile.

The Legend

Maiden’s Dilemma

Each myth, legend or fairytale
from “once upon” to “fare thee well”
shares some elements of story
be they sad, uplifting, gory.

Always a damsel in distress—
Rumplestiltskin’s name to guess,
for straw once spun out into gold,
or another story to be told.

Too much sleep may be her curse,
ugly stepsisters, or worse.
Murder, treason, sloth and pox
were emptied from Pandora’s box.

These troubles spread from near to far,
(although, in fact, it was a jar.)
Zeus forgave Pandora’s shame.
The imp revealed his own strange name.

But the other women described above
were saved by cleverness or love.
Scheherazade escaped the hearse
with stories, legends, tales and verse.

Cinderella rose from hearth and ashes
and Sleeping Beauty opened lashes­­––
both maids saved by daring-do:
one by a kiss, one by a shoe.

So whatever might have been their fate:
loss of child or murderous mate,
wipe tears and fears away with laughter.
They all lived happily ever after.

 

Another rewrite from four years ago. The prompt today was legend.

Three Hundred Words in Search Of a Meaning

15 Minute Timed Writing
(300 Words in Search of a Meaning)

One-a-minute two-a-minute three-a-minute four—
big bad minute police waiting at my door.
If I take a minute more, I know they’ll somehow know.
so thinking about what I say is gonna bring me low!

They’re gonna crash my firewall and take me off to jail.
So with no other bloggers here to get me out on bail,
I’ll get on with my writing. Write about anything—
not about-a-nothing, and the words they gotta sing.

Time is of the essence ‘cause there ain’t no other clue.
Topical-type bloggers won’t know what to do.
Don’t know why with time limits I’m lacking all my grammar.
It’s like my words are nails but that I’m lacking any hammer.

With no topic they all lie here, looking for a wall.
There’s no sense to any of it. No. No sense at all.
I’m sure a question’s out there, but nobody’s gonna ask it,
and all these words just roll on by like eggs without a basket.

Purpose keeps eluding me. I know I’ll never find it.
Somehow though I’m running, I stay too far behind it.
I once said that I never know  what I will be writing.
From line to line, I follow words and hope they’ll be inciting

a thought, a theory or a theme somewhere along the way.
I always hope it will be soon, ‘cause I don’t have all day
to do the kind of writing that I like to do,
for when I look, I see the time—9:15:52!

I know that is impossible. I’m sure that there have been
fewer minutes since I started—only nine or ten!
Yet the clock says fifteen minutes and  seconds more as well.
So though I’ve met the challenge, It seems I’ve missed the bell!!

I drew a blank on today’s prompt so this is a rewrite of a poem from three years ago. The prompt today is theory.