Market Day
This day, alas, has dawned so hot
I’ve no need to be where I’m not.
I want to spend it where I can
be exposed to ice and fan.
Though I’m in need of countless things:
foodstuffs, videos and rings,
a hairbrush, pens and other stuff,
I do not need them near enough
to venture out into this heat.
I’ll sit here in the catbird seat
at least until the sun goes down,
then venture out into the town.
Would the real me ever publish a photo this rude????
Hacked!
They know my situation. They’re conversant with the fact
that while I was not looking, my Facebook page was hacked.
They commandeered my photos, made off with every friend,
made dumb statements in my name. The horrors never end.
Their “selfie” shots of me are rude. Wherever did they take them?
They’re all of me, but I assure you that I did not make them.
Now my time is spent explaining statements I didn’t make
to friends who may not realize this new site is a fake.
But the worst truth of the matter—the thing hardest to see
is that they like the hacked “me” more than they like me!
The prompt word today was conversant.
The Compromising Situation
(Shifting Stools at the Corner Bar)
It’s true that every Friday night I frequent this same station
here at the last barstool–it’s my end-of-week vacation.
Yet, what is it about partaking in a small libation
that makes the person next to me begin a recitation
about each love affair and compromising situation?
Is it that I look like I must need an education
into their tawdry lifetime of mutual masturbation?
I do not come for gossip, confession or oration,
and so it has become a fact of no small perturbation
that someone sits down next to me and with no hesitation,
proceeds to tell crass tales of lust and its eradication:
stolen passion on the subway that must end at the next station,
tales of quick encounters, stories of a brief fellation
told in spite of what must be my obvious consternation.
I swear that I don’t come here for lascivious quotation—
one after another with no time for their gestation.
I live out my own love life with no need for titillation.
My libido’s fully functioning— no need for restoration.
I have no need of sharing it via barstool relation
that would bring no satisfaction and for sure bring no elation.
So, this is my ending statement. My final protestation.
I hereby call a stop to this and issue a citation
that whereby I’ve achieved a certain state of maturation,
I do not need these schoolboy tales, these means of palpitation.
Of all those dirty magazines, I’ve taken my fair ration,
but now that I’m an adult, I’ve completed my mutation.
So while you’re all caught up in your love life’s regurgitation,
I’ll take this opportunity to alter my location!
The prompt today was compromise.
Mnemonic Phonics
Babies use clues amniotic
to deal with stimuli chaotic,
but later, memory gets thick.
In short, it’s anything but quick.
Age slows us down and trims our wick,
fogs our recall, slows our pick.
So I resort to many a trick
to give my mind a little kick.
This loss of memory’s demonic
and leads to fits most histrionic,
so I depend on clues mnemonic
for memory that’s supersonic:
(Can you guess what the below mnemonic devices help me to remember?)
Neither leisured foreigner
seized or forfeited the weird heights.
Every good boy does fine.
Good boys do fine always.
My very excellent mother just spewed up nine plums.
How about you? What mnemonic devices do you use?
The prompt word is mnemonic.
Profuse Praise
She was not the sort of miss that flattery could turn.
Excessive admiration just made her stomach churn.
She had no use for sweet talk or raves that were prolific.
Compliments just bored her. Praise she found horrific.
She set out to tell him that his raves were quite absurd
and his fawning words profusive, but could not recall the word,
so she just said nothing as his copious adulation
stirred her to a level of nervous agitation.
She found his fulsome words to be shockingly unstinting
with his gushing adjectives, his adverbs unrelenting.
He said that she was perfect, her end result most lavish,
while she just found his flattery ridiculously slavish.
“Rich, sweet, slightly juicy, and never sour or tough,
with just a little crustiness.” He couldn’t get enough.
So finally she just gave in and with a little sigh,
picked up the knife and cut him—
another piece of pie!
The prompt today was profuse.
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.
I couldn’t help it. I kept finding more hats in my photo files, so I had to share more with you! In penance, I wrote a new homage to hats named “Hat Envy.” You’ll find it after the photos. Click to enlarge. If you are on Facebook, you’ll only see a few photos and no poems unless you click on the title of the blog or the URL.
Hat Envy
Please tell me where you got your hat,
for I must have one just like that!
Are you sure it is unique?
Perhaps if I could have a peek
at the label, I could find
its maker to make two-of-a-kind.
You’re leaving? Then, sir, would you mind
if I just happened to walk behind?
If there’s no label, perhaps I could
see if your hat fits me good.
If I just tried it on a minute
I could see how I look in it!
You shake your head and walk away.
How rude of you, I have to say!
You say you do not want to see
the hat on you on top of me?
Keep it then, you silly nerd!
Upon reflection, your hat’s absurd!
For more hats, look HERE.
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.
Enlarge all photos by clicking on any photo.
Staying Afloat
The days my life is not erratic
are the days it is too static.
I need an leavening in life—
a lessening of loss and strife—
that doesn’t store me in the attic.
Retirement is not intended
to designate a life as ended.
I’d like some fun and some pizazz
aside from knitting and Shiraz.
I’d like my salad days extended.
Turn off the news. Turn up the notes.
I prefer hearing what emotes.
There is coverage enough
of Donald Trump and other stuff.
I’m tired of inane Twitter quotes!
Bring in the band and serve the drinks.
One’s only as old as she thinks.
I’ll move my body, move my mind.
(True, my brain more than my behind.)
For what is static is what sinks.
The prompt today is static.
My Brilliant Career: How I Found My Proper Place in Film and TV
I got bitten by the film bug when I lived in L.A.
and did some sort of movie work most every single day.
On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, I always had a class.
The U.C.L.A. campus is where they came to pass.
I studied film production and took screenwriting, too,
but my class in documentaries was where I scored a coup.
We made a documentary. In fact, I helped with two,
but I knew by the end of them I hadn’t found my place.
I simply didn’t have the balls to run the movie race.
Then I studied acting at an actor’s studio.
I really did the best at this, but still, it was “no go.”
When it came to trying out for parts, I didn’t have the nerve.
Once again my movie plans took another swerve.
I worked as an apprentice at a Hollywood agency.
From all the other candidates, they selected me.
They had me reading novels and sitting in on sessions;
and this was more exciting than my former classroom lessons.
I met some famous actors and tried to be real cool,
and writing out readers reports was easier than school,
but still I knew that in my heart it just wasn’t for me.
After all this time, I didn’t know who I should be.
I’d been in California for three years by then;
and although I hadn’t found my place, still I had the yen.
But I’d run out of money. It was time to find employment
that would involve a paycheck and not just my enjoyment!
I’d heard of a position where I thought that I could cope
as publicity assistant for none other than Bob Hope!
So I wound up in production: typing, phoning, organizing.
The people in my Rolodex were frankly quite surprising.
I set up radio interviews with the famous Bob.
To read the National Enquirer was required in this job!
I went to filmings of the shows, sent out his Christmas gifts,
ran back and forth to N.B.C. and soothed some office rifts.
But all-in-all though it was fun to be there on the fringe,
to be completely honest, I was not a vital hinge.
And so when I was married, we decided to move north.
I left my life in filmdom and boldly sallied forth,
moving up to Santa Cruz to live by doing art—
never really finishing what I had tried to start.
I had adventures plenty and saw much of the scene
and I enjoy remembering everywhere I’ve been;
but all-in-all, the truth is that there’s one place I’m most groovy.
When it comes to all the skills that go into a movie,
the only place that doesn’t make me sort of tense
Is center row and half way back, in the audience!
When I originally wrote this piece three years ago, the prompt was: “The Show Must Go On–If you were involved in making a film, would you want to be the director, producer or lead actor? You cannot be the writer,” but the prompt today that also fit it was simply the word brilliant.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 