It’s Surreal!

Ear worm.
1-877-Kars-for-Kids.
Tickling incessant tune.
Words over-and-over-
and over-and-over.
Go in and out the windows . . .

1-877-Kars-for-Kids.
Shut off the radio.
Cadence that kicks
rhyme that sticks.
Like ear muffs close exits
on cold winter days.

1-877-Kars-for-Kids.
I don’t even own a car
but it’s driving
through my ear canal.
Drive it to Panama instead,
out through those locks.

Out of my ear drums.
Quit base thumping,
1-877-Kars-for-
oh just snare it!
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Where are you, Aretha?

Lift the needle,
Just put on the B side,
PLEASE!

Click on the video and listen to it for a bit. I dare you. Beware the ear worm!

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Linda asks us to explore surrealism in poetry. She tells us surrealism in poetry is “the true function of thought. Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations.” To me, this sounds a lot like stream-of-consciousnes writing….which is what’s happening in this poem. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

 

Somewhere in the Catskills . . .

Mr. Bobcat trains wildcats
in his purrfect cat-filled town.
Miss Pussycat educates tiny ones,
eradicating copycats all around.

Devilish hellcats fornicate
in cold cathedral catacombs.
Catholics’ scatter catnip,
as holier-than-thou catchalls.

Mr. Tomcat struts vainly
in the town’s decathalon,
like a catty fat-cat victor,
like he’s the cat’s meow.

Catatonic mayor catnaps, dead asleep
as cat burglars roam the littered streets.
When crime reaches cataclysmic levels
catcalls will be heard, Abdicate NOW!

Cats will suddenly get sick as dogs,
as heat rises and dog days come.
Cats will be dogged by fleas
and this poem shall end . . .

in unbelievable catastrophe!

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It’s Poetics Tuesday at dVerse and we’re asked to write a poem that has something to do with cats in the subject matter, as metaphor, or wherever the muse takes us. My muse took me to the Catskill Mountains! There are twenty-nine cats in the body of this poem….some hidden as in educated. Can you find them all?
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Photo from pixabay.com

Aberrant Musings

. . . I could buy the Sea of Tranquility.
Probably more lucrative than Greenland.
Panoramic views.
Exciting ride to get there.
If a cow jumped over it,
how hard could it be?
Me: The Man on the Moon.
King of the Green Cheese!

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Second posting for Quadrille Monday: poem of exactly 44 words sans title, that includes the word “tranquility.”  Illustration from Pixabay.com

Summer Ditty

Freckledee doobie
summer me toonie,
singin’ some sillies with you.

Suckin’ orange slurpees
racin’ thru sprinklers,
singin’ our goofy-do tunes.

Hopscotch my sidewalk
ten in pink chalk,
singin’ hippity hoppity, bippity bop.

Friendship and freckles
grow in the sun.
Besties forever
singin’ as one.

It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Mish is hosting and asks us to include the word “freckle” or any form of the word in our Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Photo from Pixabay.com

I enjoy . . .

making new words
like bubblicious
scantilicious
and summerlicious too.

Merriam-Webster?
Poetic license is much more fun.
Spackle is a muddied sparkle.
Whine is surely weathered shine.

Think about it
and you’ll agree,
playing with words
is fun, you’ll see.

Catapult.
Hmmm what could that mean?
Well it certainly has to be
a tabby tumbled from a tree.

And now dear reader,
tell me true.
Periwinkle. Five-petaled flower
typically, most often colored blue?

Or a pair of stars, way up high,
set all a-twinkle
in the night-time sky.
Those are definitely
my periwinkle!

Image of this almost catapult, from pixaby.com.

 

Ah Boston, for the record . . .

Hear ye, hear ye!
Listen my friends and ye shall learn
of the accolades so well earned
by one auspicious founding city,
bordered by the sea.

1632: first windmill, erected upon Copp’s Hill
1634: first public park, aptly named Boston Common.
1635: first public school dubbed Boston Latin,
still educating youth today.
1636: first college, Harvard University
originally in Boston proper,
later moved across the Charles,
still today in Cambridge, Mass.
1653: first public library
1704: the first newspaper shared its tales.

Now I’m quite certain,
there are many more,
all of which burnish
that proverbial record book.
But do let me share
one most unusual first,
not oft discussed
amongst delicate Brahmin Bostonians.

Taking a birds’ eye view, as they say,
of Boston’s colorful history,
well beyond its revolutionary ties.

1886: the first known photo  . . .
. . . wait for it . . . ’tis really true,
of someone flipping the bird!

There in grainy black and white
the Boston Beaneaters baseball team
stands tall beside and behind
the New York Giants team of the day.

Look closely and ye shall see
Charles “old Hoss” Radbourn
leaning in, well ahead of his time,
Boston-proud that long-ago day.

Middle finger extended,
obviously raised,
hand rests firmly on the shoulder
of one oblivious New Yorker chap.

Now one can theorize
and I generally do,
this could mark
another auspicious first.

One raised finger, the first of many
shared over years to come,
between Boston and New York.
Long before the Babe walked out!

IMG_6089Written for Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where we’re asked to write about a theory, or use the word “theory” in a poem, or theorize within a poem. Information for this post is documented at https://www.chaostrophic.com/heres-first-known-picture-someone-flipping-bird/   Old Hoss is far left, back row. Caveat: some have since said he is holding a cigar…but others point to later pictures of him flipping the bird on other occasions as well! 

Summer Invasion

On a rainy summer day, melted cherry popsicle juice puddles on kitchen countertop. The now bare, but somewhat red-stained stick, is a walking bridge from stainless steel sink’s edge to sticky stuff. It’s a veritable picnic spot for sugar thirsty ants. Our kids, unaware of the insect invasion they’ve created, sit on the faux-brick linoleum covered floor playing with colorful legos.

forget dull bread crumbs
summer brings popsicle juice
ants’ debauchery

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It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, Gina is tending pub and asks us to write about a picnic. Haibun: short prose (cannot be fiction) followed by a haiku. Photo from pixabay.com

Dear Shadow of Mine

Fair warning, dear shadow of mine,
tonight we tinker with time.
Clocks are set anew,
springing ahead one hour.
I tell you now, dear shadow of mine,
hoping that when we walk tomorrow
you shall not lag behind.

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Day light savings time starts tomorrow. image from pixabay.com

A Stellar Tale

Lady Ursula fancied herself a star,
nay, bigger and better than that.
She with ostentatious tastes,
constellation better than most.

Daily she ate delectable treats.
Croissants, caviar, and fine patés
berries and truffles, chocolates too,
all as she sampled the finest of ports.

And as was her habit before the first snow,
into her four poster bed she’d go.
Curtains drawn, she nestled in down,
appetite sated, she slumbered to sleep.

N’er did she stir ‘till a bright April morn,
when bluebirds would warble and sun stream in.
Slowly she’d struggle to open her eyes
push herself upright, sit tall in her bed.

Suddenly famished she licked her lips
and stretching she toggled the service bell.
They chuckled and smirked hearing that sound
for they understood the secret she lived.

Their Lady Ursula, no Ursa was she
rather an Ursus she really be.

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It’s OLN at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. This means we are free to post any poem of our choosing – no prompt. I had a little fun with this one. Hope you enjoy 🙂

Perchance to sleep . . .

Tis the star lit night my dear,
we lie entwined, our lips so near.
Our spirits joined in dreams to soar
until you break the spell to snore.

No soft sighs, you sputter snort.
I toss, I turn, till last resort
when love is lost in raucous sound
and need for sleep is so profound,

I trippingly flee our marriage bed
collapse undone, on couch instead.
And when the sky is lit with dawn
to your side, again I’m drawn.

Morning comes, you wake refreshed
our bodies once again enmeshed.
You’re ready to greet the day,
I’m ready to hit the hay.

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Image from Pixabay.com