Tag Archives: silly poem

Canine Church

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Canine Church

Two dogs to my right and one dog o’er my head
As I lie on the edge of my doggie-filled bed.
Now one moves to my legs to anchor me down,
fearing my desertion for kitchen or town,
banishing canines to cushions or yard––
beds they find  chilly and lonely and hard.

Better this bed warmed by blanket and sheet
and a mattress pad heater to thaw out their feet.
A mom they can cuddle or lie on, or heck––
tunnel into her armpit or under her neck.
These Sunday mornings, they insist that Judy’s
meditations with dogs are her spiritual duties.

Alluring, for RDP

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An Aging Siren’s Lament

I once was alluring, bewitching and busty,
but now I’m decrepit, doddering and fusty,
making mountains of molehills and blocks out of chips
and adding them onto my thighs, calves and hips.

As I fall apart, I become more voluminous,
my eyes less dewy, my skin much less luminous.
I’m developing poorly, my aging less fine
than mellow old cheeses and whiskies and wine.

As my memory fades and becomes much less credible,
I’m less appealing and for sure less beddable.
I’m held together by trusses and braces,
Spanx and Ace bandages, spandex and laces.

Someone should just shoot me. (Botox, not a gun.)
I’d be more beguiling and have much more fun.
But diets are tedious. Shots must be painful.
Of all of these cures, I’m purely disdainful.

I guess I’ll age gracefully, sip from its cup
greedily, admitting I’m giving up.
I’ll simply sit here inert on my fanny
and trade in the title of sexpot for granny!

The RDP prompt today is “Alluring.”

The Red High Heels, For Writing Prompts, Jan 14, 2026

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The Red High Heels

When I saw them in the store,
one half classy and one half whore,
the Crocs I had on seemed a bore.
Those heels were strappy, cut low, red.
I knew those heels would knock men dead.

As I left the store in them,
I was feeling oh so femme
until one shoe caught on my hem.
‘Twas then that I went tumbling down,
wrenched my ankle and tore my gown.

This fall was just a quirk, I thought,
with no regrets for what I’d bought,
for I was feeling oh so hot
that men would surely all be gawking.
I’d be more careful with my walking.

In Mexico, young girls or crones
go tripping over cobblestones
with no risk to their ankle bones.
Moving with sure-footed grace,
they never fall upon their face.

They chat as they cross streets together
even in inclement weather––
Their four-inch heels of strappy leather
negotiate each slippery rock,
barely noticing where they walk.

So I just got up from the floor
and sauntered once more towards the door
onto the street outside the store.
Where, once I got into the swing
I knew those shoes were just the thing.

My car was just one block away
but it was such a lovely day,
I thought that I would just sashay
up to the plaza for lunch and booze––
a trial run for my new shoes!

I belted up my dress a bit
so I would not trip over it.
Once more I felt sexy and fit
as I accomplished no small feat
negotiating each walk and street.

I must admit that I felt hobbled
as I walked over roadways cobbled.
Perhaps I grimaced, winced and wobbled.
But at the time, I was enthused––
thinking only of my new shoes.

When I reached the plaza and I walked by
a table of men, I felt each eye
peruse my legs from toe to thigh.
I knew that those new shoes were why
I held the gaze of every guy.

Maneuvering towards an empty table,
I walked as well as I was able,
but overlooked just one small cable
as I glanced over for their reaction.
That’s how I ended up in traction!

 

 

For Writing Prompts, the prompt is “Red.” Image by Kira Severinova on Unsplash

Birthday Debacle for Stream of Consciousness

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Birthday Debacle

The rumors are untrue. He is a scurrilous liar.
I did not eat the birthday cake. I did not start the fire.

My serenity is not a ruse. I’m innocent of error.
I swear I had no hand in your recent birthday terror.

The dog has done his utmost to brand me as the thief,
but the fool is barely lucid. Could you not see his relief

when you started to upbraid me as he chased me, headed south,
crumbs falling from his chest hair, frosting around his mouth?

Oh that I knew your language and I could tell you that,
but instead, for ever after, you’ll be blaming “that damn cat!!”

The Stream of Consciousness prompt is “Crumb.” Yes, guilty. I had AI make the photos.

Two Will Do

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Two Will Do

I used to like friends by the score
squeezed wall-to-wall and door-to-door.
A party didn’t even count
until the guests began to mount
up to sixty, seventy, more.
But now, I’m finding crowds a bore.

Now I find that two-by-two
is something I prefer to do.
Conversations more intimate
make it simpler to relate.
So though I used to be a grouper,
now I’m just a party-pooper.

for dVerse Poets, the prompt is Number.

A Regal Final Breath, for RDP Wednesday

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Her Highness Contemplates A Seemly End

Nobility in dying is something I shan’t botch,
for I know it shall be one that the whole wide world will watch.
I cannot go by fire, for I’m sure I would be screaming
as the water quenched the fire and set my flesh to steaming.

So unseemly and so crass. I’d find it unappealing.
So, too, a rope around my neck, hanging from the ceiling.
Jumping from a roof won’t do. Nor will a gun nor pills.
Every sort of suicide just sports too many ills.

It’s clear that death by avalanche is the only one
that will really suit me when the day is done.
A certain swift clean fall of snow seems such a pristine death.
A queenly mode of dying. Such a regal final breath!

For RDP Wednesday the prompt is REGAL

Must admit that I am rerunning a poem I wrote for RDP six years ago. At that time the prompt was was “avalanche”, but as you can see, the poem works for “regal” as well!

One is Company, Two’s a Crowd, for SOCS

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One is Company, Two’s a Crowd

I have no need for company. I’ll make it on my own.
Most anything that two can do, I can do alone.
I am no Santa Claus who needs assistance of an elf.
All tasks that need doing, I can do myself.
I never interrupt my sleep by calling on the phone.
I never argue with the choices I have made alone.
The company I give myself is by far the best.
As my best friend, I have to say I outshine all the rest!

 

The prompt for SOCS is “Company.”

Halloween Tales, for the Three Things Challenge

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Halloween Tales

Halloween love stories are not so very thrillin,’
for it’s not  romantic to hook up with a villain.
Monsters, ogres, ghosts and goblins don’t excel at lovin’.
Nor do witches have much use for it within their coven.
And so you’ll find that Halloween tells a different story
still filled with thrills that are more gruesome and more gory.

Prompts for the Three Things Challenge are: Monster, Ogre and Villain

“Firm Ground” for Ragtag Daily Press

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Firm Ground

Between all of you and me,
I’ve no experience with scree.
Given the type of ground to walk on,
scree’s the surface I would balk on.
Other folks may be adventurous.
My choice is usually ventureless!

The RDP prompt is “scree.”  (Image borrowed from the RDP prompt site.)

Dental Retaliation

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Dental Retaliation

Do you remember toothbrushes lined up on a rack
in the medicine cabinet, at the mirror’s back?
Your father’s brush was ocean blue, your mother’s brush was green,
your sister’s brush the reddest red that you had ever seen,
whereas your brush’s handle had no color at all—
as though it was the ugliest sister at the ball.

How you yearned for color, reaching for your brush
as the first summer’s meadowlark called to break the hush
of the early morning while you were sneaking out
to be the first one out-of-doors to see what was about.
Making that fast decision, your hand fell on the red,
thinking your sister wouldn’t know, for she was still abed.

You put toothpaste upon it, wet it at the tap
and ran the brush over each tooth as well as every gap.
Each toothbrush flavor was different, your older sis had said,
so you thought it would be different brushing your teeth with red.
Your father’s brush was blueberry, your mother’s brush was mint.
Your sister’s luscious cherry—its flavor heaven-sent.

“But because you are adopted,” your sister had the gall
to tell you, “they gave you the brush with no flavor at all.”
You waited to taste cherries, but that taste never came.
That red brush tasted like toothpaste. It tasted just the same
as every other morning when you brushed with yours.
You heard your sister stir upstairs, the squeaking of the floors.

You toweled off her toothbrush and hung it in the rack
and started to run out the door. Then something brought you back.
You opened up the mirror and grabbed her brush again.
A big smile spread across your face—a retaliatory grin.
The dread cod liver oil stood on the tallest shelf.
You were barely big enough to reach it for yourself.

You dipped her toothbrush in it, then quickly blew it dry.
Replaced it, shut the cabinet, and when you chanced to spy
your own reflection in the glass, each of you winked an eye.
Then you ran out to cherry trees to catch the first sunbeam
and brush your teeth with cherries while you listened for her scream.

(Not a true story, by the way!!!)

 

For One Word Sunday the prompt is “Teeth.” Image created with help from AI.