The prompt word today is rhyme.
Rhyming Violation
There is a reason and a rhyme
to the word they chose this time.
For though I am not in my prime
and don’t play tennis, do not climb
or stoop too low to conquer grime,
In any terrain, any clime,
my mind spins like a twirling dime.
If over-rhyming were a crime,
I’d probably be doing time.
(If you are a glutton for punishment, yes, you can click on these to enlarge them.)
Leftovers
New words fly at me in a swarm.
They do not mean to do me harm,
but still I feel beaten and battered.
They might feel they haven’t mattered
if I do not use them all,
and yet I feel the beach’s call.
The dog is clamoring to be fed
while I am writing this instead.
The guilt of it cuts like a knife.
I’ve got to go and have a life!
I save the words already used,
and lest the others feel abused,
I leave them on the page as well
to tell the stories they might tell
If I had the time to use them.
I hope you’ll take time to peruse them:
fife strife excel tell bell yell cell
The prompt today was swarm.
(photopainting by jdb)
Amused
When she enters, I’m in her thrall,
and I have no control at all.
Sometimes she carries a riding crop
and drives me on so I can’t stop.
She rides in smoothly from my dreams
inspiring reams and reams and reams
that must be written when I wake.
I’m driven onward for her sake.
If my muse should feel abused,
believe me, she is not amused.
She mounts my back and spurs me on
until all her words are gone––
released upon the teeming pages
while she rides off to join the sages
sitting there upon the shelf,
and I am left with just myself.
About “photopainting”: the photo above was created using only iPhoto tools from this original taken at my favorite crazy story (Galeria El Triunfo) in Guadalajara yesterday :
Today’s prompt was Muse.
jdb photo
Carefree in My Labors
I’m not so good at carefree, don’t know how to be gay.
When others loll out on the grass, I’m always cutting hay.
While other people spend the day on some fun and dumb thing,
something whispers in my ear I should be doing something!
When the alarm bell signals, my day’s labors start:
feeding dogs, then writing, sorting, filing, making art.
Even when at leisure, my mind is always working.
If I’m not doing something, I feel that I am shirking.
It’s one thing when you’re with someone and sharing repartee,
or watching interactions you encounter day-by-day.
It’s another to rethink all that has been done or said––
to mix them with the other things you have in your head.
If I put them all together, they make a lovely story––
sometimes love and romance and sometimes sad and gory.
And that is what I think about even in my bed.
I guess my retirement will be when I am dead.
Words are as versatile as bricks. Whether they build a sidewalk or a wall is up to the one who uses them.
(Click first photo to enlarge, then click on arrows.)
This Poem is a Sort of Street
This poem is a sort of street.
I wonder who I’m going to meet
as I walk down the dust of it––
plod along the “must” of it.
I do not know where I am going.
I follow it while never knowing
what’s around the next blind bend.
I do not know how it will end.
Each line is a new adventure
leading to acclaim or censure.
The GPS that’s guiding me––
determining what I will see––
is lodged so deep and far inside
a road stretched out so long and wide
that it must guide or I’ll get lost
in ruts of words and pay the cost
of trying to control by mind––
a street that’s meant to twist and wind
guided by a force within
that is intuitive and yin.
It is a guide that’s mostly lost
in this world so tempest-tossed.
The drop of it that I infuse
in rhymes that others then may choose
to read and ponder is the way
that I have chosen to try to pay
the toll for this tremendous gift
of life where I have learned too well
the lessons of the school bell.
I’ve learned to turn a deaf ear to
what pedants say I need to do
and take each day a road that’s new.
I’m led by dreams and intuition
down streets with no thought of fruition
but instead careen and ramble
without an outline or preamble
into places I’d never go
if I just reported what I know.
Then I record all that I see
so you can learn along with me.
No “cauldron boil and cauldron bubble” for me. I’m too busy with a different sort of ritual.
Ritual
Up at eight, feed the dogs.
Back to bed to write some blogs.
Around noon, finally rise.
Open drapes, survey the skies.
It’s really time that I got uppa,
donned some clothes and had a cuppa.
Pull on Levis and a blouse,
Make my sojourn through my house.
Blend a smoothie, drink it down.
Get in my car and drive to town.
Do some shopping, have some lunch
or meet up with my writing bunch.
Go back home to meet my fate–
three dogs barking at my gate!
Throw Morrie’s ball, pat other dogs.
Go back inside and write more blogs.
Post more photos, read the Reader,
then to the garden to be a weeder.
Take some pictures of some blooms.
(Cee’s daily flower posting looms.)
Post the picture, read blogs of others:
Serendipity’s and Mother’s.
Go out to dinner or to dance,
then home to have another chance
to catch up on the blogs I’ve missed––
To see if I’ve been “liked “ or dissed.
By now you’re probably all agog
at how my ritual’s mostly blog!!
The Prompt: Just Another Day–Our days our organized around numerous small actions we repeat over and over. What’s your favorite daily ritual?
