Dem Bones
The skeletons are all tucked in, safely in their beds
with naughty vitriolic dreams swirling through their heads.
Their atrocious behavior saved for another day,
they will not raise a ruckus. They’re holding it at bay.
They’re resting up for Halloween which is the night that they
will throw aside their covers and come out to play!
Prompt words today are ruckus, vitriol, atrocious, play and skeleton.
(photopainting by jdb)
Amused
When she enters, I’m in her thrall,
and I have no control at all.
Sometimes she carries a riding crop
and drives me on so I can’t stop.
She rides in smoothly from my dreams
inspiring reams and reams and reams
that must be written when I wake.
I’m driven onward for her sake.
If my muse should feel abused,
believe me, she is not amused.
She mounts my back and spurs me on
until all her words are gone––
released upon the teeming pages
while she rides off to join the sages
sitting there upon the shelf,
and I am left with just myself.
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)
Prompt words for the day are juice, fit, Uchronia, incurious, muse and moon.
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.
Prompt words for today are prism, scream, sultry, obdurate, letting go and cat.
The Littlest Zombie
Three small travelers, each attired in a different disguise
observe the lambent candlelight filling the pumpkin’s eyes.
Its outside is a Jack-o-Lantern, while all its insides
were scooped out for the candle, and then turned into pies.
A lurching small cadaver reaches out a hand,
intent on trick-and-treating, though he can barely stand.
He’s had a whiff of candy, which has made him come alive.
He’s seen the tiny Hershey bars. He hopes they’ll give him five!
Leaving, he now remembers to walk with legs unbent.
He breathes hard through his mask where his sister cut a vent.
He imitates the groans and huffs of the walking dead,
though if he’d had his druthers, he’d have been a dog instead.
But brother said a dog just barks and never moans and groans
and that barking trick-or-treaters are only given bones!
And so he screws his face up and puffs on down the block,
scaring all the littler kids with his zombie walk!
Prompt words for today are whiff, imitate, cadaver, lambent and candy and also for OctPoWriMo.
Better Off Friends
A study of your phenotype reveals that something’s missing—
a fact that I have noticed in our hugging and our kissing.
You seem not to be happy while following desire.
If you were a crematorium, they’d have to stoke your fire.
So although you are not lacking in gaiety or fun,
when it comes to sex appeal, I fear, my dear, you’ve none.
Prompt words for today are phenotype, study, crematorium, gaiety and following desire.
the set of observable characteristics of an indiv. resulting from the interaction of its genotype with the environment
On a Bench in the Park on Sadie Hawkins Day
It seems there is a plethora of libidinous misses,
and with one on either side, it is a rivalry of kisses.
Their exuberance is catching. He’s handling it well,
This type of encounter is one where he’ll excel.
So many social interchanges don’t go far enough.
They’re simply superficial or blustering and bluff.
But he knew this one was different. He knew it from the start.
Communication’s different when created from the heart.
Prompt words for the day are handle, rivalry, catching, excel and creating from your heart.
Martyred by The Camino de Santiago
I’m jabbed by thorns and scratched by hay, and we have barely started.
I must say this hike you planned is not for the fainted-hearted.
I never was a nature girl, in spite of what you think.
With just this amount of moving, I’m already at the brink.
It isn’t even noon yet, and we began at dawn.
“We’ll laugh about this later,” you say as I trudge on.
As we approach the cliff face, I worry about falling.
This mountain-climbing business is simply not my calling.
You say it’s a mere hillock, but to my exhausted eyes,
a hillock’s just a mountain in another guise.
Are we coming back this way? I ask, hoping the best,
thinking I’ll just wait here as the others mount the crest.
But alas, my hopes don’t gel. This trail leads to another.
Inside, I swear a bloody streak. Aloud, I mutter, “brother,”
as I lift my pack again and leave my comfy rock
to walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk.
When the day is finally done and in my bed I’m lying,
I am not laughing much at all, in fact, my dear, I’m crying!
I’ve grown blisters on my blisters and bruises on my bruises.
You can have your damn “Camino.” In the future, I’ll take cruises!!!
Word prompts for the day are: moving, laugh, jab, trudge, falling and hay.
First Child
When it comes to good midwivery,
for sure, ease in delivery
is ranked high on performance scale.
But nonetheless, the baby’s wail
creates a pleasure so insane
that it wipes out mom’s earlier pain.
Folks question dad’s sobriety
judging from the variety
of gifts he brings for wife and son.
A rolling pin? A bee bee gun?
A negligee? A fishing pole?
A cowboy hat? A casserole?
When he ran out of gifts to buy,
his philanthropy then went awry.
He bought the hospital a broom
purely for use within their room
lest dust and dirt from other places
land upon his loved-ones’ faces.
Once home, their baby care routine
was like a well-oiled machine
that wove through bike and hobby horse––
a toy department obstacle course.
If it’s true that chaos has its beauty,
then this young dad had done his duty
in spreading beauty wherewithin
it’s probable you’ll bark your shin
or hit your head or stub your toe––
on toys piled everywhere you go.
If you looked closely, then just maybe
you might be able to locate baby.
Stocked for life, he’s unaware
of all the loot piled in his lair.
He’s content if he is changed
and fed and cuddled, rearranged
and left to sleep the day away.
He will not see his daddy play
with all the toys he wished that he
had to play with when he was three
and five and eight and seventeen,
when kids weren’t heard, but only seen.
Back then, it’s true, he had his pick.
His ball a stone, his bat a stick.
Prompt words today are variety, delivery, switch, philanthropy, beauty in chaos.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 