“I think we may be family,” was whispered in his ear, but he couldn’t see who said it, though he looked both far and near. Again that small voice spoke to him. “We share a family name, although as the biggest, you possess most of the fame.”
Thus did the massive elephant notice for the first time the tiniest of animals who’d finished its long climb from the dirt so far below up to his mighty ear. From foot to knee to shoulder, it had climbed in spite of fear
that one great flinch might cast it from the air down to the ground. Yet still it journeyed upwards, driven to expound on how great an irony, surely it must be, that this small “ant” and the eleph”ant” must be family!
My talented friend Christine Anfossie just surprised me with a musical rendition of my poem “Naughty Little Pleasures,” a poem I wrote for day 1 of NaPoWriMo 2018. If you’d like to hear it, click on the arrow below:
If you like to read along, here is the poem again:
Naughty LIttle Pleasures
Naughty little pleasures, secret little games— they are our private treasures, these solitary shames. We never can admit them to family or friends, for fear that doing so would bring about their ends. Childhood is when our private pleasure starts— not stifling our sneezes or holding back our farts. Eating the last cupcake or hiding Grandpa’s teeth. Watching skirts on windy days to see what’s underneath. Torturing sister’s Barbie Dolls and kidnapping her bears. Reading Daddy’s magazines underneath the stairs. Guzzling ice cream from the carton and milk right from the spout. Opening sister’s love letters to see what they’re about. Telling mom you’ll help her because she’s running late, then licking all the cookies you’re putting on the plate. If being perfect were more fun, then probably we would, but there’s little pleasure in always being good.
July to March, April to June, stir your boredom with a spoon.
Use a pot to brew your passion.
Clothe yourself in timely fashion.
Wear a bagel as a hat. Steam up the air, water the cat. Do what you must to pass the day, for all things pass too soon away.
After seeing my mixed bouquet in Cee’s daily flower challenge, Forgottenman challenged me to write a poem making use of the name of every flower in the bouquet. Okay F-man, here it is. I rise to every challenge!!! (The names of the flowers in the bouquet are in bold print.)
Zinnia was the fairest maid the town had ever grown. She flirted with the mill boy and claimed him as her own. She rose and fed their baby with a silver spoon each morning as her husband lay abed ’til noon. To wake him up, she lay their child well within his reaches. He woke to that sweet baby’s breath-—just redolent of peaches. Brushing off her flour-dusted lover, Zinnia sent him on his way to grind more grain for townsfolk who had the means to pay, for although her dusty miller was not the working kind, true love will not buy Gerbers nor diaper a behind.
You are a lovely woman, Kate— enough to cause my breath to bate, enough to stun and addlepate— but if we stop to ruminate each time we reach another gate, it is my fear that we’ll be late. Why not let me cogitate when forward progress to abate? If necessary, I vow to wait as we wage a long debate on whether to go left or straight as we approach the interstate, but each time you excoriate, criticise or agitate for route changes, I rue my fate the day I set up this blind date!!!
Nowhere to go, nowhere to flee. I cannot run away from me. I’m stuck inside with no way out. Just me, with no one else about. All the others are there outside this place where I alone abide.
If I could climb out of my skin and leave this body that I’m in, escape myself from head-to-toe, I wonder where I’d choose to go? Perhaps a river, perhaps a sea–– anyplace that wasn’t me.
For one day, I’d be a cloud if changing stages of matter’s allowed. Floating high up in the blue, I’d think of new things I could do. I’d find parades for me to view, then just for fun, rain on a few.
If I were water and you drank me, I’d view you internally. Tickle your uvula and then slide down the chute inside your skin. Inside you, I would rage and thunder, from your throat to way down under.
If I were wind, I’d lift the skirts of dour old ladies and teenage flirts. I’d muss the hair of social mavens, pluck nestlings from the beaks of ravens. No telling what a menace I’d be if I’d not been limited to me!