Tag Archives: your daily word

The Workaholic Calls in Sick


The Workaholic Calls in Sick

I feel so sorry for myself that in my pain I wallow.
I cannot eat a single thing. It hurts too much to swallow.
I don’t respond to illness well. My vision’s so distorted
that all my work plans for the day will have to be aborted.

However much I writhe in pain, I cannot ease my torment.
I’m waiting for my voicelessness to ease up and go dormant
so I can resume life again in all my past perfection,
putting well behind me my ideal health’s defection.

 

Prompt words for today are voiceless, distorted, swallow, however and illness. Image by Anh Nguyen on Unsplash.

Ever After

Ever After

A pair of decent buttocks could bring him to a halt.
Distorted or unusual to him was not a fault.
High or low or sagging part way to the floor,
he cared not how big they were. He cared not what they wore.
Clad in silk or denim, chambray or flour sacks,
he simply loved what bodies carried on their backs.
You would find him tongue-tied if you met him on your way,
but as he turned to watch you as you walked away,
he could pen a sonnet on what went through his mind
as he reconnoitered you purely from behind.

Prompt words today are unusual, halt, buttocks, distorted, decent.

Wise Words from the Mockingbird

mock
Wise Words from the Mockingbird

If I were alate, I’d have wings
to fly me up and over things.
I’d feast on everything that grows,
from oranges to tangelos,

then perch in trees to overhear
all the people who passed near.

When lovers squabbled under me,
I’d fly on down and referee.
I’d convey my firm conviction
in my aviary diction
that to squabble is absurd—
to rise above the common herd.

I simply can’t accentuate
sufficiently the words I’d state.
If you want your love to last,
after a squabble, make up fast.
Listen to my every word:
sound advice from the mockingbird.

 

Prompts for the day are referee, conviction, accentuate, alate and orange. Image from Unsplash.

Brutal Truth

Brutal Truth

Fresh as they come, you’re the pick of the litter.
Though too young for pathos and too soft for bitter,
how can I describe what fate has in store
later in life as the innocent lore
of your earlier life is exposed as just part
of what might affect your innocent heart?

Prompt words are soft, describe, pathos, later and young. Image by Alex Gomes on Unsplash.

Friendly Game

 

Friendly Game

You come to bat. I toss my pitch.
Convention dictates. It’s a bitch.
You note my sudden augmentation.
A loud crack signals your elation.

Over the fence with deadly aim.
You round the bases to loud acclaim.
Exploit the crowd’s ecstatic cheers.
This afternoon, you’ll buy the beers.

Prompts today are deadly, pitch, augmentation, exploit and convention.

Rabble-Rouser

Rabble-Rouser

I am the king of rave and rant,
the champion of irrelevant.
I raid the nest and throw the eggs.
I raise the lid. Stir up the dregs.
I abhor a quiet ride.
I want the chaos that’s inside.
I’m not a fan of calm reflection.
I stir up trouble, prompt dejection.
What arises is bound to fall,
and I contribute to it all!!!

Prompts for today are eggs, irrelevant, arise, abhor and reflection. I want to thank my compliant “poser” for being willing to mimic the worst in us.

Peaceable Kingdom

 

Click on photos to enlarge.

Peaceable Kingdom

Zoomorphic figures abound in the numerous sculptures and paintings on my shelves, tables and walls, and also around the pool where Morrie, Diego and Zoe take turns being the center of attention. Morrie’s stardom will always involve a ball being tossed—either into the water or down to the garden level below the pool. Zoe’s will involve rigorous play activities with either Diego or whichever human strays into her territory. Diego’s will involve interaction with Zoe, since she was thrust into his life suddenly upon my return from the beach two months ago.

We have formed a colony—Zoe, Diego, Morrie, my visiting cousin Kirk and I. The pith of our union is three-and-a-half-month-old puppy Zoe, who blithely goes about doing her mischievous business. Even the cats put up with her like saints. Her biting, chewing, jumping, yipping, purloining of cat food and general puppyness is tolerated by all. The cats have been known to join Zoe and me in bed. Diego watches her like a hawk, shielding her from dangers. Morrie occasionally yields his ball to her—a huge concession for his one-track mind to make. It strains credulity that he would surrender his most treasured object to anyone other than a human ready to throw it for him to retrieve.

For the last two days, I have been a martyr to amoebas and today I have finally given in and gone to bed. From my bed of pain, I can see their reflections in the pool and hot tub. Diego is positioned parallel to the edge of the pool on his stomach like a reclining Anubis, but with front legs crossed. Morrie is sitting on haunches on his grass throne in a large flower pot adjacent to the pool. He chews on his beloved tennis ball, not bothering to drop it into the pool for Kirk to throw for him as Kirk is for the moment absent—gone to liberate a pepperoni pizza from the oven.

Zoe lies on the thin ledge between the hot tub, its water still too hot to enter, and the cooler pool, which Kirk exited a half hour or so ago. If Kirk were here, he would worry, calling her away from the water that streamed  boiling hot into the hot tub from mineral springs twelve hours ago, but two months of observation have taught me that she knows its dangers—knows how to test its temperature with her nose without actually touching the water.

Now cousin Kirk momentarily casts his reflection into first the hot tub, then the pool, as he passes with pizza fresh from the oven, his plate held high to repel curious noses and hungry jaws. The canine and feline segments of our conclave were fed hours ago. The pizza is all his as I feel as though I’ll never want to eat again. The coral of the sunset sky is slowly fading to gray and the cicadas that the locals call rain birds are continuing their late afternoon/early evening chorus, signaling that the rainy season will begin in approximately 40 days. It will be Zoe’s first experience with rain. Will she try to chase each raindrop or to capture the circular swirl of water rushing down the drain on the terrace? Will she quake at the house-jarring bolts of lightning and cracks of thunder? Always a new thrill for a puppy just three and a half months old. And always a new center of interest for those of us who watch her.

The attitudes and responses of the cats five times her size when I first brought her home will be the topic of another conversation. At present, one curls to my side and the other one between my feet as I lie on the bed, knees bent into a vee to support my laptop. Suffice it to say that for the moment, this is a peaceable kingdom, a mutual-admiration society (except for the antagonism between the two bigger dogs and two cats) and I am well-pleased with all company present, hoping they are equally well-pleased with me.

For Day fifteen of NaPoWriMo, we are to write a poem about something we have absolutely no interest in. For some reason, I started out thinking that was what I was talking about, then strayed into the topic below which is exactly the reverse of the suggested topic. Since it is the first time in the nine years I’ve been writing a poem a day for NaPoWriMo that I’ve strayed from the suggested prompt, I’m giving myself permission to stray this one time and instead using the five prompts from my usual prompt sites. I’ve been gone all day and now that I’m home, the electricity has been going off every few minutes for the past hour. Grrr. Gotta get this posted while I can.

Prompts today are colony, zoomorphic, credulity, pith and reflection.

And HERE is Kirk’s version of his afternoon. The dogs love him and it is reciprocated.

 

The Changeling

The Changeling 

At heart I am a changeling, born of fairy stuff.
Reality and daily life simply are not enough.
I yearn for the forest, the valley or the ness.
The only place where I’m content is the wilderness.

And though siblings are rosy and love to laugh and shout,
frolicking like puppies as they roll about,
my skin is wan and pallid and I do not care to play,
keeping mortal company constantly at bay.

Faux parents can’t facilitate my raging appetite,
nor my predilection for the deepest night.
I was born of different stock, unsatisfied and mean,
preferring solitary life, untouched and pristine.

And though I petition that I be let alone,
those who come upon me, alas, are often prone
to try to draw me out, an act that I rebuff,
for I find myself to be company enough.

Somewhere in the forest, in a cavern or a tree,
I know that there resides the opposite of me,
living far away from the place where they were born,
dreaming of the family that they miss and mourn.

Two unhappy doppelgangers, always just off-mark.
One languishes in daylight, the other in the dark.
We stand before a funhouse mirror and without a doubt,
One is looking into it, the other looking out.

While somewhere in the vast lost world, parental arms are aching
for the child that long ago was of their dual making.
What evil force declared that both sets of parents should pine
for the natural-born child each yearns to claim as “mine?”

Those who seek disruption wander through our life,
seeking to take action that cuts us like a knife.
War and rape and pestilence, disorder and melee,
substituting one child and taking one away.

What more brutal action than this cruel deflection
that subverts two tiny lives, causing lifelong dejection?
The human-born and changeling, forced into different lives.
A honeybee and hornet forced into warring hives.

The changeling and the one replaced, both of them misplaced,
yearning from the life from which they’ve been displaced.
Who can blame their solitude, their yearning to be other?
Wanting to take one life and trade it for another?

Prompts for today are changeling, pristine, petition, facilitate and wilderness.

Note: A Changeling is a fairy  that has been substituted for a human baby. While changelings can look like anyone, they do have a true form. Their natural look can be scary to some due to their lack of detail and distinctive features. Their skin tone is always pale, either white or light gray, and they tend to have slender bodies with limbs slightly longer in proportion to other humanoids.The surest way to tell if you have a Changeling on your hands is by observing the temperament of the human in question. Changelings are constantly unhappy, unfriendly, and mean. They may be very cold and aloof, and may even recoil from human touch. Changeling babies’ appetites are never satiated. They may develop nocturnal habits and are abnormally aware of paranormal activity. The mortal child is taken back to the realm of the fairies to be raised and put to work, while the creature left behind usually sickens and dies.

Deirdre of the Sorrows

Misnomer

Why so taciturn, my friend? Are there things that displease you?
If you’re amenable to chat, perhaps I could appease you.
When they named you Deirdre, what could have been the reason?
To give a child a moniker like this is surely treason.
They put it on the record the day that you were born
that you were predetermined with propensity to mourn.
What sort of security is this to give a child
otherwise unblemished—beautiful and mild?
Such a tragic future and so many doleful morrows
must greet a child named after Deirdre of the Sorrows.

 

Prompts today are security, amenable, taciturn, moniker and record.

Mirror Image


Mirror Image

She’s a dingy sort of doppelganger, lackluster and fretful,
and when I’ve caught a glimpse of her, she seems to be forgetful.
She looks surprised to see me and although it should be magic,
when she catches sight of me, it seems she finds it tragic.

It’s a shame she never catches me when I am at my peak,
and so I seem to be an image that she’d like to tweak.
We both look in the mirror and we don’t like what we see,
the irony of that being that both of us are me!!

 

Prompt words today are doppelganger, tragic, forgetful, dingy and peak.

About the assemblage:

              “After Picasso: Self-examination” 

The watch part that serves as the womb to the woman beats with the pulse beat of the child within, whereas the mirror reflection contains no moving parts.  An antique “Tabu” powder tin  is imprisoned in an old  pocket watch case.  A tiny portrait of a woman is framed by one of the watch parts that make up the rest of this collage.