Tag Archives: SoCS

“Toast” for SOCS (Here’s to the Bride) Aug 29, 2025

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Here’s To The Bride

The groom’s family was titled and a bit anachronistic.
So when they saw the bride, I fear they went a bit ballistic.
Instead of white she wore a dress of scarlet oddly draped.
The mother of the groom grew faint. Her husband merely gaped.
She wore something archaic instead of merely old—
her grandma’s feather boa—a bridal statement bold.
Around her neck, a python, and her arms were densely bangled.
Her veil pinned to a tractor hat of satin, oddly-angled.
The brim turned back as though she were an umpire at a game.
In short, the bride’s ensemble was anything but lame.

As she hip-hopped down the aisle to a tune by Kanye West,
the groom stood fondly watching her in morning coat and vest.
Her lipstick blue, her bustier was borrowed and conditional
on return to its owner in a manner most traditional.
To complete her fashion statement, her combat boots were blue,
and if you’ve paid attention, you could guess that they were new!
Her bouquet was fresh dandelions bound up with some chives.
She held it in one hand and with the other, gave high fives
to friends all up the aisle as she jerked her way on by.
The groom’s mom gave a shudder and his father gave a sigh.

So did this modern wedding  forsake the antiquated
with customs much less stuffy, less predictable and dated.
The wedding fare was tacos, Cuban sandwiches and chips,
jelly beans and donuts, crudités and dips.
No caviar or salmon. Just ribs and Tater Tots.
The toasts to bride and groom were made with Jello shots.
The wedding cake was chocolate with custard between layers.
Good wishes voiced by ministers, gurus and namaste’ers.
In place of rice the bride and groom were showered with quinoa.
In short, it was a wedding to rival mardi gras!

The SOCS prompt is “toast.”

The Birth of Poetry for SOCS, Aug 22, 2025

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The Birth of Poetry

A pad of paper and a pen––
when these two meet, new worlds begin.
Born in the head of one who writes,
each magic word many more ignites
until at last, the story’s told,
once more as in days of old.
How many years may it have been
since first a poet lifted pen?

 

May I invite you to lift your pen to comment below?

The SOCS Prompt this week is “Pad.”

A Simple Solution for SOCS Aug 16, 2025

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DSC08473I found five old passports and an international driving permit from 1986.
Why, oh why can I not find my current passport?


A Simple Solution

An extra hour would be nice. A day’s not long enough.
I know I’d use the extra hour looking for lost stuff!
My passport has gone missing and it’s been a major pain.
I would give most anything to have it back again.
I’ve looked in all my files, my drawers and every purse.
I have too many places. It couldn’t get much worse.
If I ever find it, I’ve made myself a vow to
make my life much simpler, if I just could figure how to!

 

I actually lost my passport a few years ago. I looked for it for  4 or 5 hours without finding it, but  my housekeeper found it in 5 minutes when she came the next day––in a place where I’d looked twice!!! She lit a candle and said whenever I lost things I should do the same. She says her friend has a Virgin and Child statue, and whenever she loses anything, she takes the baby out of the mother’s arms and says she’ll return it when she has helped her to find whatever she has lost!! Talk about blackmail in high places! Ha. A simple solution.

The prompt for SOCS is “Simple.”

For SOCS toes or tows prompt

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Juxtaposition

Artistic types must juxtapose
these to these and those to those
just for the contrast, I suppose.
Somehow, each artist simply knows
to vary hues that they impose
upon the subjects that they chose
to depict from head to toes.

Poets may likewise words oppose,
and so may writers given to prose.
Composers also juxtapose
in sonatas or do si dos
whatever music sweetly flows
from saxophone, fiddle or Bose.

Shoulder to shoulder, nose to nose
such contrasts form the undertows
that draw attention, lift our lows
stir lethargy and banish woes.

As all these contrasts come to blows,
so our imagination grows.
Time enough to nap and doze
when life draws nearer to its close.
For now, stay open  to the shows
of all who seek to juxtapose.

Prompts for this week’s SOCS are toe and/or tow. I used them both…and a few other “ose, oes and ows” as well.

“Forest Sunset” for Friday SOCS

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Version 2

Forest Sunset

In the forest, wild and lush,
hear the music of the thrush
break the stillness of the brush.
If else disturbs it, make it hush,
for we have fled the world’s mad crush
with all its craziness and rush
that grinds sensation into mush,
distilling it as mindless slush.
The world flares up, the clouds are plush
as we see all its bloodshed flush
into the sunset’s subtle blush.

The Friday SOCS prompt is “blush.”

“Fishless Chips” for SOCS, July 18, 2025

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I received the below new lunch menu from a local restaurant :


A NEW LUNCH MENU is being offered from 11:00 am to 2:00 pm

  • Fish & Chips with Coleslaw
    Burritos ( Shrimp or Fish)
    Chimichangas (Shrimp or Fish)
    Tacos Shrimp or Fish
    Large Salad with  Shrimp

          This was my mental reply to their message:

          Fishless Chips

          Never have I had a wish
          for any kind of seafood dish––
          fillet of flounder or tuna knish.
          The only menu I find delish
          is piscine-free, served with a flourish.
          So if this bod you wish to nourish,
          just french fry spuds and skip the fish!

          The prompt for SOCS is “chip.”

          Child of the Fifties for SOCS, July 11, 2025

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          Child of the Fifties

          daily life color146 (1)

          These folks were the epitomes of every her and him.
          The men were all smooth-shaven with haircuts short and trim.
          The ladies of the fifties had their pearls and curly hair,
          and fancy little house dresses were what they chose to wear.

          Their kids were the epitomes of reproductive joy
          who could serve as patterns for the perfect girl or boy.
          They came out cute and perfect, created just to please.
          They never fought or cheated or brought home F’s or D’s.

          How do I know that what I say is not stretching the truth?
          How do I know these folks were all red-blooded, honest, couth;
          and that every one of them maintained the status quo?
          I know for I’m the perfect child that sits in the front row

          who somehow by the sixties  got somewhat out of step
          and later by the seventies had misplaced all her “hep,”
          did not become a hippie until nineteen eighty seven,
          and will join the moral majority  too late to get to heaven.

          I am not the epitome of any group you know.
          I do not wear the clothes you wear or go where you may go.
          Epitome’s a talent that I forgot to hone,
          and ever since I’ve chosen a pattern all my own.

          So, thanks to Forgottenman for reminding me it is time for SOCS. Today the inspirational word is “curl.”

          Cracked Open, for SOCS July 5, 2025

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          The Day Cracked Open Like an Egg

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          The Day Cracked Open Like an Egg

          The rain falls
          fresh as cucumbers
          on cobblestones and tiles,
          the dust of summer
          washed from crevasses
          and curves of stone and clay.

          The air is cleansed
          of the scent of primavera,
          jacaranda
          and flamboyan trees
          and the whole world
          breathes easily again.

          Clouds dried up
          by sunlight,
          the silent birds
          are flushed
          from their covering leaves
          and open in chorus

          to the booming crack
          of cohetes, splitting the air
          in celebration
          of Saint John the Baptist
          who has baptized all
          this day.

          The prompt for SOCS is “Something that opens.”

          Unplugged, for SOCS, June 28, 2025

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          Unplugged

          When I’ve passed a restless night,
          and once more welcome morning light,
          I do not leave a lover’s grasp.
          No knitted legs need to unclasp.
          What time on waking I can afford
          is spent by me, unwinding cord:
          the earbud cord around my neck,
          my PC power cord from the wreck
          of pillows, comforter and sheet
          that somehow, now, are at my feet.
          My MacBook Air, just by my shoulder
          has come unplugged and so is colder
          to my touch. It won’t power on.
          Then, when plugged in, my poem is gone.

           

          The Friday Reminder and Stream of Consciousness prompt is “plug.”

          “Chopped Salad” for SOCS, June 21, 2025

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          DSC02426

          Chopped Salad

          The story of my life is like a salad–more palatable when someone else does the cutting up and the mixing. I don’t know what to leave out of a salad.  I put everything into it every time–lettuce chopped so fine it’s better eaten with a spoon, carrots, celery, purple onions, avocado, apples, walnuts, cranberries, green olives and croutons, blue cheese, balsamic vinaigrette. All chopped up and blended to within an inch of its life so that each bite contains a bit of each.  Delicious, yes, but not enough variety between bites, perhaps. All of the elements mix up so much it is impossible to taste the flavor of each.  They blend into a fresh hash that becomes another thing entirely.

          And this is what my life is like, as well.  Everything is remembered in such detail that I can’t sort out the relevant facts.  No one thing stands out as being the thing to feature.  I can’t get the gist of events.  What does it mean–that year or more in Africa? Somehow, after a lifetime of reading books that  imply reasons for things, nothing in my own life makes sense anymore.

          I try to look at myself objectively. What in her makeup made her fall in love with a man who would become her stalker? What makes her leave places where things seem to be working out fine to jump into a new location and situation where she is thrust once again into the role of stranger?  Does she think, perhaps, this time she will come closer to finding herself?  Or does she think it will be a chance to try out a new life without the censure of friends who expect her to be the same person she was yesterday or last year?

          What writer more competent than myself could find the pattern where all these pieces fit together into a recognizable whole? Perhaps Barbara Kingsolver could determine more easily how I fit in to my time or Joyce Maynard could extract those details that would make my life read like a mystery. Anne Tyler could describe those eccentricities that make my family readable, even if they aren’t from Baltimore; and I could certainly use the help of Abraham Verghese in writing the portions of my life that took place in Ethiopia. But undoubtedly, these favorite writers are all embarked on projects of their own, so it is not likely that any will be forthcoming in helping me to solve the conundrum of my own life story.

          It’s like all of the details of my life are jumbled together in one of those big boxes out in the garage that I haven’t opened in fourteen years.  Even if I could bring myself to open those boxes, how could I ever make sense of them?  Yes, there are all these little boxes as well–where I’ve sorted the very best details into stories or poems or essays.–but where do those little boxes fit within the shipping container of my life?

          In spite of a lifetime of writing, I have to face the fact that I don’t have the skills to write my own biography. Perhaps my task was to get famous enough to prompt someone else to do the deed, but it is getting late in my life and that seems unlikely to happen.  My chances to become infamous are equally long past, or at least I hope they are.  I have no wish to become famous due to my misdeeds or eccentric behavior.  Perhaps it is enough to unpack these tiny boxes one by one on my blog–like little parts of the entire tossed salad of my life.  Not biography.  Just bites.

          For SOCS the prompt word is “jumbled.”