No one even knew it wasn’t an
Ordinary day.
Rearranging all familiar objects;
Making common melt away.
And now we only have the rubble
Left once the twister flew away.
Sarah Johnson
Se
Grappling with the precision of words to express nothing. Almost nothing. For the eighth time. Three cats, two kids, one spouse. A life wrapped in brambles. And a quart of dreams moldering, more relinquished to the starlings every year. And words, fewer still, flung from their murder back to me.
March on the Meadow
Step, two, three, four.
Across the floor, out the door,
Where the soft breeze blows
and birds fly free.
Flap, flutter, flitter, fly.
Birds go winging, swooping by,
Where sweet grass grows
in the meadow, green.
Putter, patter, pattern-step.
Past where the silver fox has crept,
Where birches sprinkle dappled shade
and the eagles hide their nest.
Marking, marching, making tracks.
Swans slide by grayed fishing shacks,
Where the water spills through the spring-green glade
and I stop here to take a rest.
Tracing back the way I came.
Rolling clouds spill a spring-time rain.
Where a wandering song fills my heart with light,
and I stroll back through the meadow, bright.
I am golden sun, though I cannot fly.
I am bursting clouds that fill the sky.
My heart spills over and I start to cry…
and ever more the meadow-creatures will talk,
how they tamed me with their nature walk.
Starving Worms
Graveyards are not what they used to be—
Back in 2073.
There are no more stones.
No longer bones.
They are visiting rooms you access with phones.
Great-great-great Grannny who died in ’02
Wasn’t cremated or interred, it’s true.
Instead, a recycle, post-DNA store;
She’s still around to love and adore!
Just scan a print of your finger or eye—
Even your blood will bring her ‘to life’—
All that was her, in her encapsule box,
Better, by far, than dates chiseled on rocks.
A holograph rewind of who, when and how,
All that once was, brought forward to now.
Good, bad and ugly, all tucked away.
Continuous viewing, instead of decay!
You can raise the whole graveyard–if you’re of a mind—
For a family reunion, the quite ghoulish kind.
A hundred-year span. A dead-relative Rave!
Where the specters and ghosts dance on each other’s grave.
And when YOU are re-ceased, they won’t wail or mourn,
But recycle your bits to someone newformed,
Who will grow with your traits, be they redundant or bland,
With eyes and hair like your three-headed Grand.
To Quit–or Not to Quit
Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things, by Jenny Lawson, gifted to me by HL Contreras, also an author.
“Because quitting might be easier, but it won’t be better.”
It won’t be better, I tell myself again,
as I pour the diet dressing—and ignore the ice cream cake.
It might be easier, I remind myself,
pedaling past the point of sweat—for another 2 minutes.
Nothing will taste as good as healthy feels.
Nothing will feel as good as buying smaller clothes.
It won’t be better, my inner voice chides,
As I edit one more time—and kill off ‘my darlings’.
It might be easier, I remind myself,
Finding just the right word—and birthing a line that says more with less.
Nothing will read as good as well-written.
Nothing will feel as good as well-read.
It won’t be better, wanting to quit,
As I keep weeding the flower bed—making room for new roots.
It might be easier, but…
ignoring the lawnmonster—leaving the meadow for the pollinators.
Nothing will bloom without nurturing.
Nothing is nurtured without effort.
Listen to the whispers.
Better is better.
Quitting is not easier.
Tail of the Dog
Cujo Fido Hamilton, III
Walked up to my door and left a turd.
He peed all over my porch rail,
Looked straight at me and wagged his tail.
He bit my cat. He trashed my car.
He and his dog have gone too far!
Smug old bugger, both, they be;
But they won’t get the better of me!
I’ll taint their kibble with a bit of Ex-lax,
Then watch them run while I relax.
*A rework from a piece a few years back. Still not happy with it, but it is meant to be fun…maybe as a greeting card attached to home-made ‘chocolate chip’ cookies?
Taken
Who told you that you could use
My image anyway you choose?
And likewise, Pix of them I take,
Will find they live a pseudo-fate.
For ‘taken’ they are
And ‘taken’ shall be;
Their image, yes,
Belongs to me!
And God Made Beans!
In my caffeine-powered,
auto-pilot
paean,
Sweetened by those
sugar-roasted
beans
Live forever,
Hail thee, Bean immortal!
Baptized Muse
encaffeinated
glow,
a mighty rush
mid-macchiato
flow.
Chocolate-melt endorphin spike.
Decaffeinated? Take a hike!
Live forever,
Hail thee, Bean immortal!
A song of triumph,
Solemn chant,
A cacao-crusted,
Mocha rant,
Monster-java,
Never scant.
Never changes; It just can’t!
Hail thee, Hail thee,
Brew and Bar
Hail thee, hail thee,
Near and far!
Roast thee forever!
Bean immortal!
Phoenix Unfinished
Hope rose from embers,
shook the ashes from its wings,
to challenge defeat.
When the Thing is Done
When the end justifies the means,
When all things known are not all things seen,
Enthusiasm wanes
Adrenaline drains,
Where did anticipation go?
Unanswered, lies, what is between,
that colossal start
and failure,
finite.
but, here at end,
worn, emptied,
spilled
an infinitesimal twinkle,
a spark of truth
asserts itself
above expectations–
Was all for naught?
Stirring the embers of what might yet be
–and lights tomorrow’s hope.
H24: The Gifting
The 24th prompt: quite a gift, I would say,
As I sit here awaiting it given away.
Though, like Christmas I’m certain, that no sooner done,
I’ll be sad that it’s over and plan the next one.
Like some Christmas thingie, with twenty-four treats,
That mark time til the next time, and won’t let you eat
Whatever, whenever, in one gluttonous gulp–
But give the treats metered (so you don’t throw up).
And here I sit, sugar-plums wedged in my head,
to get it all finished, and just go to bed!