Adventures in Walking
Wobbling in on three-inch heels,
I cringed and swayed and wobbled.
They were the strangest sort of shoes
that cobblers ever cobbled!
When they brought in a second pair,
I couldn’t help but shudder.
I couldn’t walk in the first pair.
Why would I want anudder?
For the Three Things Challenge, the words are: Cringe, Shudder, Wobble
Selective Superstition
I don’t believe in messages delivered by astrology.
I think my personality’s a matter of biology.
Images in crystal balls I’m sure are just projections.
I’m not about to spend my dough on engineered reflections.
But still I pluck at daisies. Does he love or does he not?
And I check out daily the Tarot cards I bought.
Every scattered grain of salt I throw over my shoulder,
and I won’t step on sidewalk cracks now that my mother’s older.
I’m flexible, I guess you’d say, dealing with superstition.
I want the ones I follow to match my disposition.
If I’m the one in charge of the ones that I am choosing,
I tend to have control of what I’m gaining or I’m losing.
MVB prompt: Superstitious
. . . Next to Godliness
Tuck in all the corners,
fold in all the sides.
Squared-off bundles are all that
our tidy world abides.
Snipped off little endings
must be swept up with a broom.
You must remove all evidence
of trimmings in your room.
The Doomsday Clock is ticking
and before it tolls our ending,
please clean up all your messes
that you have left pending.
You don’t want to leave evidence
that you were less than tidy
when the time comes that you must
meet with the Almighty!!!
Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “tack/tech/tick/tock/tuck.’” Use one or use ’em all for the bonus points. Enjoy!
Lunch Date
One thing I’d like that I will mention
is some old-fashioned attention.
The kind with no device in hand
is the kind that I can stand
better than the sort with texting—
minds caught in “before” and “next”ing—
and not a thought for whom you’re with
until I’m sure that it’s a myth
that I’m the one you want to see,
even though you have invited me.
For though our table is for two,
you bring so many more with you—
every relative and friend.
Your texts to them just never end.
Our tete a tete‘s become absurd.
I never get to speak a word!
Since I’ve discovered you’ve come to see
your smart phone as more smart than me,
there’s just one thing I’d like to state.
Please cancel our next luncheon date,
and the next time you desire a munch,
just take your iPhone out to lunch!
Parting Words
Before Rhett Butler went on the lam,
“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!”
was his parting imprecation
before he he left on his vacation.
For My Vivid Blog the prompt is Profanity.
My Shoes
My shoes go out without me. They do it all the time,
and do the things I never do. They jog. They hike. They climb.
When I wake up I find them strewn throughout the house—
one flip flop on the counter. High heels beneath my blouse
that’s flung across the table where I don’t remember putting it.
I bet they’ve been out dancing—two-stepping and high-footing it.
When my cowboy boots go riding, I’d like to go along.
I’m pretty sure, however, they think things would go wrong.
Perhaps the horse would throw me or I’d wind up getting lost.
I’m sorry that I bought them, considering the cost!
Other people are the boss of all their clothes and shoes,
but when my shoes and I face off, I am the one to lose.
I could take to going barefoot. This would work while at the beach.
Then when all my shoes are out far beyond my reach,
into the surf I’ll wade and then wander out again,
trapping sand between my toes everywhere I’ve been.
So when my shoes get home at night, they’ll be completely clueless
that I’ve left them out as well by venturing out shoeless!
For What Do You See?
The Ballad of Poor Molly
Poor Molly Smith was lonely sure on every weekend night.
No lover had she to insure an end to her sad plight.
She’d read of match.com and then eHarmony and others.
No more would she be chickless hen if she could have her druthers.
She took her keyboard in her hand to find a true love there,
for sparsely was the household manned of this poor maiden fair.
She put her name upon a site and waited for some word.
A day went by and then a night, but nothing had she heard.
Her profile words were erudite, written with such care.
Everything was done just right, yet no man found she there.
She started blogging all day long, “liked” members’ every word;
but still something was very wrong. She found it all absurd.
Other women found true love on OkCupid, but
no pierced heart, no cooing dove released her from her rut.
She sought her profile to imbue and stretched the truth, I fear.
Her hair turned blonde, her bust size grew, her beauty knew no peer.
She found a picture of some tart both sexy, tanned and toned.
Perhaps it wasn’t really smart, but soon a suitor phoned.
They made a date to meet for drinks, then she began to worry.
Her hair had all these ugly kinks, her upper lip was furry.
Her height was five-foot-four, not eight, her dress size twelve, not six.
How could she show up for this date? Poor Mol was in a fix.
She read his profile once again: handsome, rich and funny.
She felt a surge of pure chagrin. He’d humor, looks and money?
She printed up his profile pic and pinned it to her couch.
His skin was bronzed, his muscles thick, while she was flabby. Ouch!
She took a bottle to her hair and died it light as flax,
bought heels as high as she could dare and tummy-control slacks.
She ran three miles or more that day (or she more likely walked);
and thought about what she would say If her new suitor balked.
Could medication swell one out for twenty pounds or more?
Would he accept without a doubt this apologetic lore?
The time grew short. She bathed and fussed and straightened out her hair.
Her body girdled, squeezed and trussed––to sit she didn’t dare.
She’d take a bus and spend the ride standing in the aisle.
The acid churning her inside was turning into bile.
She grabbed her purse and locked the door and sprinted for the bus.
Her girdle crawled an inch or more. It made her want to cuss.
She tugged it down, got on the bus and tried to stand erect.
One way out of all this muss would be to have a wreck!
The driver drove with extra care to take her to her meal.
Yet when she wobbled down the stair, she broke one three-inch heel.
By then her hair had kinked again, her girdle slowly rose.
She had peroxide on her chin and also on her nose.
She almost left, gave in to doubt; but then she stopped to think.
Her curiosity won out. She’d stay for just one drink.
She saw him just as soon as she had entered in the door.
He was tall and golly, gee, was handsome, fit and more!
She ducked into the ladies room to tame her crazy hair
and contemplate upcoming doom. What an unlikely pair!
Then gathered all her courage up and went to meet her fate.
She’d have a drink, forget the sup and end this nightmare date.
She walked right up and tapped his arm and said his name,”Dupree?”
And when he turned, his look was warm, but he said, “That isn’t me.”
She felt a touch upon her hair and turned to find out who
or what had deigned to touch her where she’d recently changed hue.
A little man about her height, really cute, but chubby, too,
was chuckling with all his might and looking at her shoe.
“What in heaven happened to you?” he asked, and then he snatched
and snapped the heel right off her shoe so both of her heels matched.
“My name’s Dupree,” he said, “You’re you. I’d know you anywhere.
You’re tall and slim, your eyes are blue, your hair is straight and fair.
I hope you’re not too mad at my prevaricating way.
I’m really not too bad a guy no matter what they say.
I know I stretched the truth a bit. Not all I say is true,
but how else would I find a fit with such a babe as you?”
She went into the ladies room and slipped out of her girdle.
The date foreseen with dread and gloom was not the foretold hurdle.
They ate four courses, then one more. They laughed and traded quips.
He drove her home right to her door and kissed her on the lips!
Now Molly’s nest is feathered. Of chicks, she numbers three.
And Dupree is firmly tethered with Molly on his knee.
For SOCS prompt: Poor
Memory Aid
When lethologica rears its ugly head,
I give up and go to bed,
for when my conscious mind won’t stream it,
my response is—try to dream it.
Crabs!!
A consortium of crabs can be an itchy deal.
Not the sort of gathering that one wants to feel.
Perhaps out on the beach it’s easier to bear,
but crabs should never gather in anybody’s hair!
Yolanda tells me that when Yoli goes to school, they have to be sure to wind her hair up and put it on top of her head as there are people who steal the hair of children and women with long hair to sell it for wigs. Some world.
For Stream of Consciousness Saturday: Itch
Born on the 3rd of July!!!
Behold the Crab who walks on toes
to all the hot spots where he goes.
And though July is Cancer’s sign
and so the Crab is also mine,
I can’t walk up on toes at all,
for if I do, I’m sure to fall!
A 44-word poem for:dVerse Quadrille: Feeling Crabby. (The photo is copied from the prompt site.)
To see other crabby poems, go HERE.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 