Can you furnish a better story for this photo for me? HERE is the pingback to include with your post to make sure we all see it.
Short Short Story
No place for a nap could be crasser or baser.
It’s clear that that beer was simply a chaser.
Overly tired, three sheets to the wind,
I think that this fellow is overly ginned!
Last Straw
I’d make conversation but my upper plate
seems to be grinding my lower of late.
I fear there’s a fissure that’s preventing their matching
and somehow my back teeth just seem to be catching
and locking which creates a problem in chewing,
so eating’s another thing I won’t be doing.
I’m bungling everything done by my jaws.
At talking and eating I’m taking a pause.
For now I’ll just listen and watch you eat pie.
If you give me a straw, I’ll simply get by
by sipping my tea and nodding my head
in avid agreement with everything said.
I could have stayed home and stared at the wall,
but I couldn’t face not seeing y’all,
so I will just sit here and soak in the news,
forsaking my own chance to thrill and amuse.
Until I’ve seen my dentist, you’ll just have to wait
for the juicy story I was going to relate!
The SOCS prompt this week is “straw.”
The bromeliads looked perfect in the Oriental lacquer cup in front of the guitar,
If Only I Could Play Guitar
At times when now I only hum,
I’d pull out my guitar and strum;
and by the time that I’d be done,
completing my last pluck and run,
perhaps whoever sees and hears
would be reduced to sobs and tears
by every perfect tone and note,
the sentiments that I emote,
and tender lyrics that they knew
because of course I wrote them, too.
But I would be so humble still,
(my hubris would be less than nil)
that when they laud me at the Grammys,
I’ll be home curled up in my jammies—
still unaffected by my fame,
astonished at my new acclaim!
And when Bob Dylan asks me if
I’d like to come and share a riff,
of course I will not turn him down.
In spite of all my new renown,
I’ll take the time to show him some
new ways I’ve found to pick and strum.
Mick Jagger would hang out with me
(and Leo Kottke, probably.)
We’d get together to sing and jam.
The whole world would know who I am!
My fame would spread to presidents
and queens and Knob Hill residents.
I’d be so busy that I fear
my writing would fall in arrears.
I might forget to feed my dog,
forsake my friends, neglect my blog.
So all things taken to account,
as negatives begin to mount,
and though I know that I’d go far
should I decide to play guitar,
I’ve penned a note unto myself,
“Put that guitar back on the shelf!!!”
For SOCS the prompt is “sing.”
Short Memory
If I repeat what I just said,
I know I could go back to bed
instead of laboring to pen
what has not already been.
But I fear I can’t recall
past things that I have spoken at all.
So here’s a rhyme placed at your feet
that chances are, I won’t repeat!!!
The prompt for My Vivid Blog today is Repeat
Stopping by Friends Enroute to California
Whose house this is I surely know.
I’m sleeping on their sofa, though
And did not see that table there
And so I stubbed my little toe.
Their monstrous dog must think it queer
To find a stranger sleeping near
And yet no fuss he seems to make.
Golden retrievers are most dear.
He gives his collar tags a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
And wakens me from where I sleep–
A task that is a piece of cake.
The morning’s early, dark and deep,
But now I won’t return to sleep,
for I have schedules to keep
And miles to drive before more sleep.
I hope this parody I wrote of “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” will qualify For SOCS “Shake”prompt.
(This is the actual result of my speed test after I turned off the VPN.)
Wrecking My Ping
“I don’t know what to make of ping,”
he told me, simply answering
my question of the difference
and, in truth, my inference
that he would know the answer and
as usual would take a hand
in clarifying one time more
what a speed test measures for
and what they had to do with “ping”
and downloading and uploading
and whether one point twenty three
was enough download for me
and whether zero point six seven
would get me into upload heaven
and what this ping stuff had to do
with starts and stops that ruined my view
of films that I had hoped to stream
that only made me want to scream
because they came in fits and starts,
ruining all my favorite parts!
Are they adequate, I asked?
His scorn was only partly masked
as he admitted they weren’t at all.
“And ping?” I asked him this last thing.
and he was quick in answering,
“I don’t know what to make of ping,”
Ping Fact (Addendum)
These numbers are the actual,
although they aren’t the factual
upload feeds
nor download speeds,
for I forgot to disconnect
the VPN and so I wrecked
results of loading speed and ping,
but I was apt in my rhyming
which only goes to show a poet
is not a techie, so now you knowet!
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt, the word is Wreck
To Do List
Shoot moonbeams at your heroes,
shoot bullets at your foes.
Sing songs of blended melodies
to exorcise your woes.
Don your hood and start a brawl.
Flick hound hairs from your sleeves.
Wear your racing stripes to prove
what nobody believes.
This present trip around the track
is not your first or last.
It’s only things we have not done
that make us feel aghast.
For the Sunday Whirl Wordle702 the prompt words are: races wear hound brawl song hood blend heroes flick shoot trip beams
Jammed-Up Creativity
Dark genius sits there pondering and staring at the screen.
His features in reflected light glow a sickly green.
He works his cyber screwdriver slightly to the right.
His only tool––the keyboard––is his weapon in this fight
as every blog on WordPress skews slightly all at once.
He’ll show his third grade teacher for calling him a dunce!
He tugs a little here and there, adjusting cyber screws.
And just for fun, he adds a few zeroes to my views.
He knows that I am watching and he senses my excitement.
He chuckles that my false success has been at his incitement.
Then he shuts down the internet––Facebook, WordPress, Twitter.
and my seconds of great happiness turn just as quickly bitter.
Bloggers the world over are turned back onto themselves.
Photos trapped in media files or stacking up on shelves.
No place to reach out for a friend for shut-ins who, once freed
to roam a universe of blogs now sit in dire need
of someone just to talk to. To realize they are there.
They sit staring at their screens, though all of them are bare.
Week after week we wait for our deliverance from this blight.
We miss the internet all day, and even more at night.
I’m thinking about former friends, now lost across the miles,
tripping over poetry surrounding me in piles,
thirsting after comments about every brand new thought.
Having no fast outlet, my brain feels like it’s caught.
Bound up in old creations that have no place to go,
with no easy outlet, the thoughts are coming slow.
Jammed up creativity is worse than constipation,
for writing with no readers is just mental masturbation.
It’s true that I have friends to call and writers’ groups as well.
But they have not the patience to hear all I have to tell.
A blog gives me an avenue to fill out a whole world
with thoughts that for a lifetime, I’ve kept inside, tightly furled.
For those of us who always have felt slightly alone,
the Interweb has seemed a placed created to atone.
In the darkened hours when others are asleep,
we live that midnight life we’ve kept within us, buried deep.
History moves ever onward despite glacier, war or flood.
We see it trailed behind us in footprints etched in blood.
So we’ll survive the cyber war when it comes to pass
by spending more time with our friends, calmly smoking grass
or sharing drinks at Starbucks, devoid of texts or apps,
but we’ll miss our midnight family filling in the gaps.
For SOCS the prompt is Jam
Rhymed Rants of an Expat in Mexico
(Why you should never drink tequila when you haven’t finished your SOCS poem yet.)
Toss in the tequila
ice cubes and a lime.
Put it in a blender
and mix it for a time.
Put salt on your glass rim.
Pour the liquid in.
Take a little sip now.
Drinking’s not a sin.
If I hadn’t had two
with my evening meal,
I’d be writing verse now
you could take for real.
But Margarita got me
and holds me prisoner now.
I couldn’t engineer a poem.
I can’t remember how.
If you’ve a mind to scold me,
please don’t do it now.
I need to write something
to stay true to my vow.
There are laws against drunk driving
and driving while you’re stoned,
but nothing that forbids you
from writing when you’re zoned.
So please forgive this sad and
paltry little rhyme.
They need to make drunk writing
A misdemeanor crime.
To save you from the souls like me
who dare to take up pen,
disregarding just what
condition they are in.
You should give us pillows
and send us to our beds.
Remove our clothes, take off our shoes
and pat us on our heads.
Tell us that tomorrow
will be another day.
But now, for sure, the writing
we should put away.
Lock up our computers,
hide our ball point pens.
Throw away our pencils
in the garbage bins.
Please try to divert us
and help us to forget
so there will be no errant
verses to regret.
When we wake tomorrow,
we’ll hold our heads up high
with no embarrassing poetry,
no need to wonder why.
We posted here such drivel
that it could make one weep.
We just kept on writing.
We should have been asleep.
We did it for our SOCS prompt
against out better sense.
The late hour made us silly.
Tequila made us dense.
Tomorrow we’ll make up for it––
put bees within our bonnet
and write an ode, a ballad,
a haiku or a sonnet
Once more you’ll dare to call us friend
and read our royal rhyme.
I don’t know why I’m calling me
“we” all of this time.
I really don’t feel royal.
My identity’s not split.
I simply started writing
and “we” just seemed to fit.
I can’t seem to finish
this awful little rhyme.
So I’m just going to have to
stop and holler TIME!!!
The SOCS prompt is pat.
Goblins
They steal into town to pillage and croon,
Invading on tiptoe, every third moon.
With fiery red hair and warts on their noses,
they cut all the tulips and pee on the roses.
Venting belches that reek of porter and scallions,
they chase all the ladies in randy battalions
and press scaly lips on unwilling misses
who scamper away to wipe off their kisses.
But still the next morning, their sickly taste lingers
on unlucky lips and unfortunate fingers
of girls who’ve attempted to purge these advances
that with lecherous hobgoblins pass for romances.
So all ye young maidens take heed of this warning.
Put off your wanderings until the morning!
For RDP Saturday Prompt: Tiptoe
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 