ddvers
Overdone Quinceañera
She’s framed in a portrait that’s slightly off-center
wearing a fur stole her sister has lent her.
Her chin on her hand, jewels on finger and wrist,
she’s trying to hide that she’s never been kissed.
Just a teenager, she’s longing for glory,
trying to add romance to her story.
Though she looks mature, she is new to the scene.
Time enough for such glamour when she is sixteen!
An Ekphrastic poem for dVerse Poets Open Link
The Offering
My cat surprised me with a gift
but I must say, I’m rather miffed
with the hairball that she left––
(those locks of which she’s now bereft.)
Was this donation made by chance,
or was it planned far in advance?
Did she commence her furry tearing
with the intent that she’d be sharing?
I wonder if she formed that ball
with any future plans at all
to heave it out upon the chest
of one I thought that she loved best?
Oh that she could communicate
whether it was love or hate
that prompted this hair artistry
produced and then coughed up on me!
The SOCS prompt is to close eyes, open book, point to word, open eyes and use the word as a prompt, so here goes. The prompt word that suppllied itself was “Surprised.”
Indigo
The color known so well by teens
that is used to color jeans?
Bet you thought, as I thought, too,
indigo was a shade of blue.
Yet, upon further inspection
during internet detection,
it seems more pupleish a hue
which transforms itself to blue.
For dVerse Poets Quadrille Monday the prompt is “indigo.” (Image by Levi Strauss)
To read more Indigo poems, go HERE.
Incandescent Insect Insomnia
When nature made the glow worm glimmer,
would that she’d installed a dimmer;
for when I put out the light,
what I expect is total night.
When it puts itself in action,
I fear it sets up a distraction.
Little glow worm on the shelf,
please keep your glowing to yourself.
For My Vivd Blog, the prompt is Glimmer. Photo gleaned from the Internet.
Photo by Ryan O’Niel on Unsplash. Used with permission
Stickler
The banker, the doctor, the rabbi, the priest
used to jam back in high school and never ceased.
They’ve been meeting on Saturday nights all their lives
leaving their girlfriends and bishops and wives
to drink beer and rap and have deep discussion
about riffs and choruses, notes and percussion.
The priest is the drummer. He wields a wild stick.
The rabbi’s a string guy. The cello’s his schtick.
The banker plays sax and the doctor’s on keys,
but they’re all pretty good at shooting the breeze.
It’s as hot as a sauna and still they play on.
All through the night and into the dawn.
the priest squeegees his glasses off with his left thumb
while his right is engaged in beating the drum.
He’s a stickler for rhythm, enthralled with the beat.
He stirs a small zephyr while stomping his feet.
When they’ll stop playing is anyone’s guess.
It’s obvious they overlook my duress.
They’ve had a good jam. A most excellent session,
but the priest better scoot or he’ll miss my confession!
The prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is Stickler.
Poor Sport
I’ve never climbed a mountain.
I don’t dive in the sea.
Team sports are simply pastimes
that don’t agree with me.
I cannot bat or pitch or catch.
A baseball skill I lack;
and when I tried at tetherball,
it hit me in the back.
I flinched and ducked, then stood back up,
tried once more for the ball;
but when I missed, got hit again
and took another fall.
I ski a lot upon my back
and when I swim I sink.
The water I can handle well
is in my kitchen sink.
In grade school when we played those games
involving run and chase,
I was the last one chosen;
for I never won a race.
I did not shine at tennis,
nor at volleyball.
When it comes to doing sport,
I find I’ve flunked them all.
Bowling, golf and badminton,
croquet and racquetballing
are talents I just don’t possess.
They simply aren’t my calling.
I fear I lack the focus
to hit balls with stick or hand.
To me, it’s hocus-pocus.
I’d rather join the band.
In games that take sports prowess,
my teammates rave and rant
that I do not play kick-the-can,
but rather, kick-I-can’t.
Some people lacking talent,
coordination, speed—
simply choose spectator sports
to fill their sportly need.
But I don’t like watching football,
your soccer or your hockey;
and when it comes to horse racing,
I neither bet nor jockey.
I admit, at sports I am
the worst you’ve ever seen.
So stop expecting more of me.
I simply lack the gene!!
For Esther’s Writing Prompts: Team
Snow-Bound
When I saw the prompt words, I knew it would be topical
to talk about a climate that was anything but tropical.
Truly, in the past I have trudged through sludge and snow,
my socks sodden and water-soaked by the fire’s glow.
Despite those still-clear memories, I have some reservations––
a few inner thoughts about those former titillations
felt while swooping down a ski hill, zooming up the rise
of the hill that rose again at the old hill’s demise.
For sure, snow is a despot. It chills and then it freezes,
leaving souvenirs of grippe, sniffles, coughs and sneezes.
But oh what memories we might have, in fact I’m sure we will
of strapping on those sticks just meant for zooming down the hill,
and even though we started at various reckless paces,
somehow, some (and I was one) landed on our faces.
The prompt words for The Sunday Whirl Wordle 693 are: past climate water trudge sludge sodden despite despot rise demise few inner
The Lady Doth Protest Just Right, Methinks
Any idiot can use
Shakespeare as his means to excuse
ardor that is uninvited,
passion that is unrequited.
Just like a half-schooled jerk to quote
a line that he has learned by rote.
“The Lady Doth Protest too much. . . .”
he says as he expands his clutch.
As she then makes attempts to guard her
honor from his excess ardor,
if he won’t take her “No!” verbatim,
there is one way to educate him.
For when a lady’s had enough,
it may behoove her to get rough.
That she may return home intact
may require much less tact
and more physicality
to apprise him of reality.
A well-placed knee aimed at his tool
may seem unfairly base and cruel,
yet if mere words will not connect,
this simple action might correct.
If entreaties will not stir him,
extreme sign language might deter him.
Wednesday Poetry Prompt is “Just like ……”
The Rock Star’s Lament
I scan the shadows for lurking fans,
as staff surveys surrounding vans.
We know their tricks, know where they gather,
and what gets them in a lather.
Their heads snap back at full attention
when they hear the very mention
of my name and flashbulbs flash.
They ask for autographs and cash.
They reach to touch or cast me gifts.
They corner me on stairs or lifts.
They feign a faint or hum a song
I’ve just recorded as they walk along
the path they know I daily walk,
hoping for a little talk.
I should feel flattered, except that it’s
exhausting to be loved to bits!!!!
For the Sunday Whirl Wordle today, the prompt words are:
touch hum flash faint gather staff tricks head snap bits cast shadows
Thanks to Sam Moghadam on Unsplash for the image.
Loving (More Than) Spoonfuls
It seemed a meager portion for such a pricey place––
three peas, a single escargot. Potatoes? not a trace.
They’d spilled some brown stuff on the plate and dabbed a bit of green.
No wonder other diners all looked so very lean.
Two bites and the first course was gone, the plates all whisked away,
replaced by a sparse salad little more than mounds of hay.
A tiny slivered mass of yellow with seeds sprinkled over,
a spray of oil, some flower petals and a sprig of clover.
I looked my first date in the eye to see what he might think.
As he lifted a forkful, he gave a little wink.
We consumed their tiny lamb chops, complete with ruffled cuff
and scarfed the spoonful of dessert that wasn’t near enough.
He paid the bill, retrieved our coats and walked me to his car.
“I have another treat for you,” he said. “It isn’t far.”
He pulled up to McDonalds and ordered two big macs,
large French fries and two sodas and handed me the sacks.
Afterwards, at Dairy Queen, we sealed this new romance
with Butterfinger Blizzards and then a smoldering glance.
I accepted the next course with lips and arms most eager.
And what he served me next, my dear, was anything but meager.
I do not like posh restaurants with their nouvelle cuisine.
I find their foam and slivers and seeds and piles obscene.
Their single little vegetables hung on tiny racks?
I prefer larger portions and calories served in sacks!
And that is how we bonded, your Uncle Joe and I,
over Colonel Sanders, Taco Bell and carryout Thai.
Others may impress their dates with pricey gourmet suppers,
but my true love seduced with feasts of fast food filler-uppers!
In response to Linda’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt, “Spoonful”
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 