Tag Archives: Poetry

Poems in many categories: Loss, NaPoWriMo

Overdone (Ten Minute Flunkee)

The Prompt: Ready, Set Done—Today, write about anything, but you must write for exactly ten minutes, no more, no less.

Overdone (Ten Minute Flunkee)

One-a-minute two-a-minute three-a-minute four.
Big bad minute police waiting at your door.
If you take a minute more, I know they’ll somehow know.
So thinking about what you say is gonna bring you low!
They’re gonna crash your firewall and take you off to jail.
So with no other blogger there to get you out on bail,
you gotta write a piece that isn’t about anything—
not about-a-nothing, but the words they gotta sing.
Time is of the essence ‘cause there ain’t no other clue.
Topical-type bloggers? They just ain’t gonna 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.
And meaning keeps eluding me. I know I’ll never find it.
Somehow though I’m running, I just stay too far behind it.
I once said I never know just what I will be writing.
From line to line, I follow words and hope they’ll be inciting
a thought, a thesis or a theme somewhere along the way.
I always hope it will be soon, ‘cause I don’t have all day.
But now I look and see the time—9:20:52.
I know that is impossible, for there’ve been just a few
minutes since I started—only one or two—
but the clock says fourteen minutes and some seconds more as well.
So though I’ve met the challenge, once again I’ve missed the bell!!!

9:06:20-9:21:41

Mind Freeze

  • The Prompt: Overload Alert—“Everybody gets so much information all day long that they lose their common sense.” — Gertrude Stein. Do you Agree?

    Mind Freeze

    There is new news all day long, for every single minute.
    By radio and television, we are immersed in it.
    Even on the Internet, they repeat and repeat
    every warlike action, every athletic feat.

    We know before their spouses do when politicians slip,
    view every starlet’s nightclub spree via a Youtube clip.
    Stock market scams and Ponzi schemes and other news that scares
    as big guys pick our pockets in order to line theirs.

    Sans Blackwater and Monsanto, we would be better off,
    but we’d still be deluged by news of Enron and Madoff!
    We consult Wikipedia to see what it might say,
    keep up with the Kardashians a dozen times a day.

    It’s hard enough to keep abreast of those they might be bedding,
    let alone to know the date of their most recent wedding.
    Who has gained a pound or two or who’s the most hirsute?
    This information makes our lives a Trivial Pursuit.

    There are so many details that come at us day and night,
    filling up our minds until our craniums feel tight.
    We’re stuffed with sound bites, news clips and every TV show
    until it is inevitable. Something’s got to blow!

    No wonder that we can’t remember names of our best friends
    or what we came out shopping for or how that movie ends.
    We can’t remember song lyrics or what we meant to do
    when we came in here for something. Was it scissors, paint or glue?

    I am forgetting everything I always used to know.
    Every mental process has just gotten kind of slow.
    It’s taking me much longer now to ponder each decision—
    a factor that the younger folks consider with derision.

    Like-aged friends agree with me, for they all feel the same.
    They all have minds stuffed just as full, and we know what to blame.
    There’s too much information, and like any stuffed-full larder,
    to locate things within them gets progressively harder.

    If we could sort our minds out the same way that we pack—
    putting unimportant stuff way at the very back
    and all the more important things in front and at the top,
    we wouldn’t have to search our minds and wouldn’t have to stop

    to figure out the names of things or places or of folks,
    and then we wouldn’t be the brunt of all their aging jokes;
    but it seems that we can’t do this so perhaps the answer is
    to just turn off the TV news and gossip of show biz.

    The scandals and the killings—all the bad things that astound us—
    we’d leave behind to concentrate on happenings around us.
    We’d notice more the little things in our immediate world:
    the spider in the spider web, the bud that’s tightly furled

    and notice when it opens, and the dragonfly that’s on it
    and take a picture of it, or perhaps construct a sonnet.
    See the children who are hungry and instead of our obsessing
    on matters where we’re powerless, instead bestow a blessing

    on all those things around us where we have the power to act.
    When we see whatever needs doing, to take action and react.
    Perhaps then all the horrid facts that rise up in the mind
    will settle to the bottom and then all of us will find

    the keys we’ve lost, our glasses, and remember why we came
    into this room and how to recall every person’s name.
    And all the time we save we’ll spend on the important things
    and feel the sense of purpose helping others always brings.

    The world is too much with us with its bad news of all kinds,
    and all this information simply freezes up our minds.
    Perhaps with less input, there would be less facts to astound us
    and we could concentrate on what’s important close around us.

The Prompt Becomes Itself

The prompt: Curve Balls—When was the last time you were completely stumped by a question, a request, or a situation you found yourself in? How did you handle it?

The Prompt Becomes Itself

Every prompt I’ve bumped into
has been a task I’ve jumped into,
but today’s I fear has trumped me,
for I find that it has stumped me!
In short, I find this prompt to be
a self-fulfilling prophesy!!!!!

Epitaph of a Fulfilled Poet

The Prompt: Quickly list five things you’d like to change in your life.  Now, write a post about a day in your life once all five have been crossed off your to-do list:

Find an agent/publisher
Get all children’s books published
Write a line of adult picture books
Lose weight
Find someone to dance with

“Epitaph of a Fulfilled Poet”

Fulfilling all these book orders just seems to keep me hopping.
Without the time to cook or shop, my weight just keeps on dropping.
My clothes just hang around me, from my body they keep flopping.
I’d buy some smaller ones if I just had the time for shopping!

Five children’s books are published and my agents want some more.
My grief book they can’t keep in stock—It flies right out the door.
Libraries and bookstores just keep clamoring for more,
and still my weight keeps dropping till it’s really quite a bore.

Now that I am skinny—lithe and trim and toned,
no one has to make excuses that I’m just big-boned.
And I must wrap this up soon for a suitor has just phoned
who wants to take me dancing—so perhaps I should be cloned.

Then one of me can write that line of adult storybooks,
while the other stays at home and plans my meals and cooks.
The third has time to shop for clothes and tend to things like “looks,”
and the other goes out dancing with a brand new beau named “Snooks.”

As you can see, my rhyming prowess now is wearing thin.
The last word of that last stanza I admit is just a sin.
Frazzled and with much to do, I’ve broken out the gin,
fell off my pool ladder and badly bruised my shin!

Okay, I’m really hard up for more sentences that rhyme,
so I think that I’ll stop now and just write another time.
Perhaps tomorrow I can write of something more sublime.
But for now, I think my drink could use a squeeze of lime.

Our goals just keep us going—they propel us through this life
and keep attention focused through the problems and the strife.
I’ve always kept on working as both single girl and wife,
slicing through my problems with my words used as a knife

to trim the boredom from my life and go wherever I please,
to make my living with my wit instead of on my knees.
Taking care to always mind my q’s as well as p’s.
and extract all the fun from life that I have found to seize.

Now that my life is near its end and I’ve time to reflect,
I do not choose to pray about it or to genuflect.
I don’t crave meditation or to join a church or sect.
I‘ll find my own atonement and a way to resurrect.

I’ll do it through my writing, for I’ve found that is the key
to figuring my pathway while remaining true to me.
I’m just as I have written. I’m exactly as you see.
My words have all been written, and I’m finished—“a” to “z.”

Luddite Confession

The Prompt: Soulful Machines—Machines, appliances, and gadgets sometimes feel like they have their own personalities — from quirky cars to dignified food processors. What’s the most “human” machine you own?

Luddite Confession

Machines are made to serve us, so
life’s easier on us as we go.
They’re with us from our starts to ends,
so some consider them our friends.

Blenders, fryers,
washers, dryers,
curling irons and waffle irons,
fans that cool our environs,
smoke alarms and heating pads,
foot massagers and other fads
are handy, sure, without a doubt,
but really, I could go without.

There’s only one that’s necessary—
only one that I’d be wary
of giving up. For my success,
I must admit and must confess
I don’t think I’d go very far
in life without some sort of car.

It’s not that I hate walking so;
but rather that where’er I go,
I need to take a lot of stuff,
and a mere bag is not enough
for wallet, makeup, brushes, keys,
Kleenex (just in case I sneeze),
a case of CD’s, books and jacket,
sunscreen and badminton racket,

bug repellant, snacks and gum,
a bottle of Bacardi rum,
a first aid kit, my books to sell
(a box in case they sell real well)
bags for shopping because I’m green,
an ice chest, water and sunscreen,
a phone in case somebody calls me.
(I’m ready for whate’er befalls me.)

So now that we are near the end,
I’ll say my car is not my friend.
And I’ll admit to even worse:
my car is just my largest purse!

You Want Us to Write about What???

The Prompt: Voice Work—Your blog is about to be recorded into an audiobook. If you could choose anyone — from your grandma to Samuel L. Jackson — to narrate your posts, who would it be?

You Want Us To Write About What???

This prompt is simply for the birds.
It can be answered with two words!
The worth of it, I’m just not buyin,’
so I’ll just tell you that Meg Ryan
Is the one that I’d have voice
my blog if I were given the choice.
My reasons, though, are somewhat murky.
Perhaps, because her voice is quirky
with humor and variety
that seems to exclude piety.
However, I think this won’t be.
I doubt I could afford her fee!

The Baby’s Crowning!!!

The Prompt: Next in Line—A second #RoyalBaby will soon be joining the Windsors in England. Given the choice, would you rather be heir to the throne, or the (probably) off-the-hook sibling?

 
The Baby’s Crowning!!!!

Knit a little baby hat for his royal crown.
Put it on his tiny head and pull it firmly down.
He might as well get ready for the pressures of this hat
instead of one he might have worn except for the fact that
his great grandmother has to die or perhaps abdicate
and then his grandpa Charles would have to meet with the same fate.
And then his dad and brother would have to bite the dust
and so perhaps you’ll realize why I remain nonplussed
over today’s question. Why is it moot to me?
Too many living predecessors on his family tree!

 

Green Brownies

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(This poem evolved from notes that I scribbled into the margin
of our Mexican Train score sheet while visiting my friend Gloria.)

Green Brownies

The brownie that she serves me
crumbles when I try to break it into two.
Her sense of humor allows it and so I tease her.
“Gloria, this looks like the kind of food
my grandmother tried to pawn off on us—
weeks old and crusty from the refrigerator.”

“Those chocolate chips were like that when I bought them!”
she insists, even before I question their green tinge.
I think that this is even worse than the alternative,
and say so and we both laugh as she eats her brownie
and I reduce mine to dust. Not a hard task, as it turns out.

She’s had a bad infection for a week or more.
“I’m not contagious,” she insists each time she coughs
a long low rasping rumble that threatens to avalanche.
“Now stop!” she tells the sounds that explode
without permission from her chest.

“Perhaps,” I say, “These brownies are a godsend
and that’s penicillin growing on the chocolate chips.”
Then her deep coughs transform into
gasps of laughter that echo mine.

The young man there to rake the garden
looks up at us and shakes his head
at two old ladies drinking rum and
eating something chocolate,
and it occurs to me that perhaps
what the world sees as senility
is simply evolution
out of adulthood
to a higher
stage.

The Prompt: Locked and Sealed.  Can you keep a secret? Have you ever — intentionally or not — spilled the beans (when you should’ve stayed quiet)?  Yes, I must admit that I regularly mine my life with friends and family for topics for my writing.  As a matter of fact, that’s pretty much all I write.  My friend Gloria, however, has no qualms about my writing about this occasion.  In fact,  she insisted I send it off immediately to a local magazine/newspaper whose editor may or may not find it as funny as she did.  With one exception, I’ve had just one friend object to this practice of writing about friends and family.  She has always refused to read anything I’ve written about her.  “You haven’t spilled any of my dirty little secrets, have you?” she says (no small amount of dread in her voice)  every time I tell her I’ve written about her. No, I never would.  The only dirty little secrets I ever reveal are my own!!!

Note:  So amusing that today’s prompt, “Locked and Sealed” takes its title seriously!!!  Its link does not work. For this reason, I’m posting today’s blog in yesterday’s topic and counting down the hours until they discover this.

“How good are you at keeping secrets? Today’s @postaday prompt is Locked and Sealed: wp.me/p23sd-njA 2 hours ago“—This is a quote from the WordPress site.  And yes, the prompt truly is locked and sealed.  9:08 and still, none of us can post on the site.  At least this time they posted the topic.  I imagine by now there are at least 80 bloggers straining at the prompt, ready to spring into action to post as soon as the link works.  To the starting gate, bloggers!

10:58  133 bloggers standing in line to post…still, no link. Locked and Sealed?  Is it April 1 by any chance?

Mob Sob

The Prompt: Moved to Tears—Do movies, songs, or other forms of artistic expression easily make you cry? Tell us about a recent tear-jerking experience!

Mob Sob

I know that it is corny—sorta sentimental
and probably some cruel folks might even call me mental,
but something about people gathering together
in protected malls or out there in the weather
to dance or sing or orchestrate, coming one-by-one
has the effect of making me come totally undone.
First a knot forms in my throat. Then I start to sigh.
And then (I must admit to you) flash mobs make me cry!

To that first person dancing or with a violin
there soon comes another, anxious to join in.
Another and another, in singles or a pair
send chills right up my spine to exit through my hair.
They dance and sing, play music and entertain us all.
We stop what we are doing as we are held in thrall.
Babes on daddy’s shoulders or holding grandpa’s hand
cease at once their walking to sit or lean or stand
to watch this little miracle that folks have orchestrated
only for the wonder of it—rare and understated.

No flyers advertise them. They seem to be spontaneous,
though months of planning go into what seems like instantaneous
gathering together to have a spot of fun
creating such a spectacle. Then suddenly, it’s done.
One by one they leave us—go into their own lives
like swarms of busy honey bees retreating to their hives.
I don’t know why they do it, who starts them all or why.
I only know that flash mobs always make me cry!

If you want to see a sterling example of what prompted this poem, please click on this link!

Casting Reality

The Prompt: Cast Change—You’ve just been named the casting director of your favorite television show (or movie franchise). The catch: you must replace the entire cast — with your friends and family. Who gets which role?

Casting Reality

Instead of casting TV shows with folks you’ll never know
I’d rather cast my life with actors from a TV show
that all of you have seen and so you’ll understand the jokes
better than if I had cast TV with common folks.

A lot of Grandpa Walton might go into making Dad—
plus one ounce of Archie Bunker (though he wasn’t half so bad).
He was a rugged rancher and an avid storyteller.
One day he’d recite Shakespeare and the other, he would beller
a song of mountain bootleggers or “Old Chief Buffalo Nickel,”
then construct towering sandwiches and top them with a pickle.
So I’d add some Leon Redbone and a bit of old Mark Twain,
a little bit of Dagwood and a whole lot of John Wayne.

Though my mother cooked and ironed, often with no thanks,
she also was a jokester who loved to think up pranks.
Though she was often zany, she wasn’t dumb at all—
a sort of Gracie Allen all mixed up with Lucille Ball.
Add some Cagney and some Lacey and a little Nancy Drew
and of another side of her you’ll start to get a clue.
She always loved a mystery and crossword puzzles, too—
and UFO’s and Halloween—things scary as a “Boo!!!”

Stacey London is the next to join my family cast.
What Not To Wear”—the show that she has starred in in the past.
Her role of saying “No” to this one, then a “Yes” to that,
(as in, “That one makes you skinny, but in this one you look fat!”)
was just exactly how my sister used to talk to me.
That this skirt did not go with that was plain for her to see.
As an older sister, she was free with such advice;
but often loaned me her own clothes which, I admit, was nice.

Though my oldest sister Betty’s not accustomed to go last,
she’s the one last family member that there is for me to cast.
She was my boss from my first breath, as she was then eleven.
And if she could, she’d boss me still, though I am sixty-seven.
And so I try to figure out whom she would choose to play her.
And though I’d pick Bette Midler, maybe I should Doris Day her.
She was a singer and a blonde, so guess that she will do.
And now I’ve finished casting a whole film you’ll never view!