Plethora
It began with one that attracted another.
Whenever I bought one of them, it called out for a brother.
Now they stand in clusters around my living room,
my bedroom and my studio––everywhere they loom
observing and judging me, perhaps, for my excesses,
crowded upon table tops, ledges and recesses.
I admit I own a plethora of objets d’art––
irresistible objects with which I’ll never part
For Weekend Writing Prompts (a poem or prose in 67 words on the word “plethora.”)
Plethora
If I had any gumption, I’d attack that backlog of
poems that I have written about life and death and love.
Fantastic in their numbers, those poems exist in piles,
bound in three-ring binders and squeezed into hanging files.
Thy cluster in my consciousness, swim nightly through each dream.
They are both strength and weakness as they stretch out, ream on ream.
They allow me no real leisure, for they’re everywhere I look,
begging for confinement in a magazine or book.
They crave to be collected between front and back cover,
but in spite of resolutions, I simply write another.
This poem and these photos are no exaggeration. I have 13 file cabinet drawers plus one big bin and a few piles, binders and stacks that contain poems and stories I’ve run off, or ideas for new ones. I have no idea now many poems I have in my blog and computer that I’ve never run off.
Prompt words today are fantastic, weakness, backlog, gumption, allow and cluster.
Plethora
How I love umbrellas! When I see them in the store,
frequently, I buy one, thinking I could use one more.
At the entrance to my casa, there is a jardiniere
with umbrellas tucked inside it, conveniently near.
All the long dry season, they sit shoulder to shoulder
waiting for the weather to get rainier and colder.
I see them in my passing and give each one a pat.
When the time comes that I need one, I’ll know where they are at!
The thunder comes at midnight. Wild lightning cracks the sky.
I see it all around me from the bedroom where I lie.
The rain comes down in torrents, but perhaps it will abate
by the time I leave tomorrow for my breakfast date.
If not, I know umbrellas stand ready at the door.
I can always use one, for that is what they’re for!
Until then, I watch the lighting flash, the drapery’s wild billow .
The dogs whine at the lightning. The cat curls on my pillow.
When morning dawns with raindrops beating a barrage,
I’m in need of an umbrella for my sprint to the garage.
All the trees are dripping and the rain’s still coming down.
So I need a big umbrella to protect my hair and gown.
I grab a likely candidate and draw it from the jar
like a sword pulled from a scabbard, but I don’t get very far.
It seems I can’t unfurl it. Its opener is stuck
and when I try to force it, I find I’m out of luck.
The next one lacks a handle, the third misses two spines.
The hall fills with frantic curses, my grumbles and my whines.
Where can all my umbrellas be now that they’re finally needed?
The one that shows the Eiffel tower? The one so finely beaded?
One loaned to Yolanda, another in the car,
one given to the old man who had so very far
to trudge up on the mountain in the driving rain.
There’s always one umbrella more, yet now I search in vain.
I grab the last umbrella, but it won’t fit through the door.
If it’s too wide to fit through it, then what is it good for?
Finally, I make a dash without the aid of shelter.
My shoulders soaked, my glasses fogged, my hair blown helter-skelter.
In my journey through the garden, the rain does not abate.
I dodge around the soggy dogs and wrestle with the gate.
When I reach the refuge of my car, I refuse to feel down.
I’ll just buy a new umbrella when I get to town!
(jdb photos. To open umbrellas wider, click on any one.)
The prompt today is frantic.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 