Family Night
Grandma’s tired of pussyfooting, Mama’s tired of tact.
Daddy has lost his silken tongue. I fear that is a fact.
Grandpa has no further wish to sugar coat and pander.
We’ve had an epidemic of hereditary candor! Continue reading
This is a hilarious parody of the ‘Share Your World” prompts that I’m sure we all love. They are great ways to get to know each other and to reflect on happenings in our own lives. Things get sinister, however–a great reminder to us all that we need to be circumspect regarding what we share online. It starts out great and I’d love to hear people actually answer #s 1,2,3,5,6 and 8 and then to heed the warning the rest of the questions project.
I’ve seen many “Share Your World” challenges over the last couple years, so I figured maybe I could do one, in my own unique style of course. So, here goes.
What is your favorite flavor of ice cream? (Yeah, I’m easing into it.)
What is your most wonderful memory as a child before age 7?
If you could relive any moment of your life, what would it be?
What are the last 4 digits of your SSN?
We all remember our first kiss. Without describing the kiss, what led up to it?
What is your earliest memory?
What is your mother’s maiden name?
If you won the lottery, what would you do with the money you don’t keep for yourself?
What are the first 5 digits of your SSN?
What was the name of your first pet?
What was the name of the first street you lived on?
What was…
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Birthright
He felt it was his birthright and she felt it was hers
to only wear designer lines from underwear to furs.
Their schools were the finest. Their cars were Lamborginis.
They lunched on finest caviar and supped on steak and blinis.
Each Saturday brought manicures and plucked-out nasal hairs.
On Fridays, deep massages to tone their derrieres.
Since they never did a lick of work, they never had to hurry.
Everything was done for them. They had no cares nor worry.
When times demanded action, they sat up on their shelves
hoarding their petty worries and tending to themselves.
And when the celebrations declared the war was done,
our cloistered privileged duo came out to join the fun.
But alas they were not recognized. They didn’t know a soul.
Locked up safe in their houses, they’d had no plan nor goal
for defending all their property inherited from kin,
but now the world was set aright, they claimed it once again.
They restarted their factories, and things were as before
as those returning soldiers labored to earn them more.
Another old year fades away and as the new year waxes,
they’ll find another way of avoiding paying taxes.
They leave to others the taxpaying, the soldiering and toiling
because it is their birthright that they should not be soiling
their hands with any tasks unbefitting to their classes.
They’ll leave all the laboring to the teeming masses!
(Addendum)
And since of this fine nation he is such an honored resident,
perhaps he’ll step it up a notch. Perhaps he’ll run for president!
The Daily Addictions prompt is Birthright.
Flummoxed
I fear that I am flummoxed about where to post this poem
since Daily Post abandoned us, our postings have no home
where we can find each other sufficiently clear.
Just where do we post them? Is it here or here or here?
I applaud your efforts. I know you’ve planned and planned.
You have your daily promptings sufficiently manned.
The problem is we need one place where we can find each other
once we have surveyed the prompt and written yet another
poem or essay most profound that we would like to share.
Except, where should we put it? There, or there or there?
The solution to this problem has me tearing at my hair.
Please give me a solution. Where should I post this? Where?
Perhaps I’ve overstepped my bounds, and if I have I fear
that you’ll simply say that I should hang it in my ear!
The prompt today is flummoxed.
Modern Bride
The groom’s family was titled and a bit anachronistic.
So when they saw the bride, I fear they went a bit ballistic.
Instead of white she wore a dress of scarlet oddly draped.
The mother of the groom grew faint. Her husband merely gaped.
She wore something archaic instead of merely old—
her grandma’s feather boa—a bridal statement bold.
Around her neck, a python, and her arms were densely bangled.
Her veil pinned to a tractor hat of satin, oddly-angled.
The brim turned back as though she were an umpire at a game.
In short, the bride’s ensemble was anything but lame.
As she hip-hopped down the aisle to a tune by Kanye West,
the groom stood fondly watching her in morning coat and vest.
Her lipstick blue, her bustier was borrowed and conditional
on return to its owner in a manner most traditional.
To complete her fashion statement, her combat boots were blue,
and if you’ve paid attention, you could guess that they were new!
Her bouquet was fresh dandelions bound up with some chives.
She held it in one hand and with the other, gave high fives
to friends all up the aisle as she jerked her way on by.
The groom’s mom gave a shudder and his father gave a sigh.
So did this modern wedding forsake the antiquated
with customs much less stuffy, less predictable and dated.
The wedding fare was tacos, Cuban sandwiches and chips,
jelly beans and donuts, crudites and dips.
No caviar or salmon. Just ribs and Tater Tots.
The toasts to bride and groom were made with jello shots.
The wedding cake was chocolate with custard between layers.
Good wishes voiced by ministers, gurus and namaste’ers.
In place of rice the bride and groom were showered with quinoa.
In short, it was a wedding to rival mardi gras!
The prompt today is archaic.
Enlarge all photos by clicking on any one.
Highchair Fashionista
Her mania for haute couture
came a little premature
when she first crawled across the floor,
wanting to see Grandma’s Dior.
When she took her first steps and fell,
it was reaching for Auntie’s Chanel.
The words she learned at Mama’s knee
were Calvin Klein and Givenchy.
Her alphabet from A to V
(from Armani up to Versace)
she learned in closets of her kin
dreaming of how she’d look in
Louis Vitton, Laurent, Bill Blass.
She’d be the best-dressed in her class
of other girls in cut-off jeans
and dresses made by mere machines.
Thus are fashionistas made.
As other children sell lemonade
or waste their days in hide-and-seek,
they are fingering La Fabrique
and looking at the fold and drape
of a model’s evening cape.
To each their own, we’re given to say,
and yet I’m prone to saying “Nay,
childhood might be better spent
in pastimes of another bent.”
I’d hope that kids from zero to twelve
might be more encouraged to delve
into comics or games or nature
with no stylish nomenclature.
Let kids be freakish, free and nerdy.
Let their clothes get torn and dirty.
Time enough for fashion cults
later, when they’re grown adults.
The prompt today was premature.
Click on any photo to enlarge all.
Loud Music in the Rainy Season
Up above me, such a din!
I feel my patience growing thin.
Cross fingers that they do not fall
as workmen scamper over all,
balancing on domes and peaks,
replacing roof tiles, sealing leaks.
They’re taking the old surface off
all my domes and drainage trough,
putting membrane down and goo
that will not let the water through
in June when rains beat hard and steady,
although, alas, they’ve come already!
The dogs are sent into a tizzy.
Looking up, I just get dizzy.
In this world that I love so,
down here in lovely Mexico,
now the grinder joins the din.
In a noise Olympics, it would win!
My thoughts all center on escaping
this chipping, drilling, pounding, scraping.
How I’d like to leave this all
for relative quiet at the mall!
But, alas, I must remain
a martyr to construction pain.
Ear plugs having no effect,
before my sanity is wrecked,
I turn up music to a SHOUT
to let Bob Dylan drown them out.
Now Caitlin Cary croons and sings
that she is “Sorry” and other things.
Eliza Gilkyson’s rough croon
is over oh too soon, too soon.
The silence that her true love speaks
replaced now by the sander’s shrieks,
I turn the iPod on again,
full force, to drown out all the din.
I’ve no sympathy for the neighbors’ plight.
Their damn dog kept me up all night,
and if my eardrums are to be shot
I would rather that it’s not
by machines like those above,
but rather by a sound I love.
The prompt word today is “thin.”
