For the Love of Sound

The only job she could land
landed her in an out-of-the-way town.
She’d cajoled and connived her way
to a choir of four.
Refusing to admit defeat,
she would not
call them a quartet.

David, eyes cast down interminably,
droned a background hum
for whatever tune was sung.
Delilah, the defiant one.
Deliberately off-pitch to shine,
spotlight stolen by default.
Dissonant in life as well.

Miriam, the honey-blonde.
Sensuous red lips
licked and dewed before each word,
mouthed dulcet tones too late.
Behind in every measure,
she flashed her thigh for all to see
beneath unbuttoned robe.

And Carl, the rapper.
Lordy, what a snazzy guy.
Snapped his fingers
while chanting words.
Smelled of weed with eyes glazed,
unwilling to shed
his percussive beat.

She smiled and waved her baton,
directing the motley crew.
Sweat dribbled down her chest
to that delicate spot
between her ample breasts.
Music is as music does,
always music to her ear.

She’d defied the warnings,
music her one true love.
So here she stood,
tone deaf and proud.
Her quartet, after all,
was magnificently loud.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.

Today, Laura asks us to write a “sound poem” choosing one word from five lists she provides. She also points us toward Hart’s Thesaurus of the Senses, a valuable resource for poets. Laura, I ordered a copy yesterday. The words I used (or forms of the word) were drone, dissonant, dulcet, dribble, and chant. I also added a fifth word from the list, honey. Truly had fun with this prompt. Thank you, Laura! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

PS: dedicated with humor to my daughter and son, both of whom direct a chorus and/or choir; and son-in-law, who composes choral music.

Image from A Scrub’s Life, February 1, 2017: “Sometimes We Can Be A Little Tone Deaf”

Beware the Evil Tra-La-Lah

She sweetly sings Come be with me,
lullabyes them deep in sleep to kidnap.
Children, her calliope.

She crashes children’s dreams with glee
mists their minds, makes one commanding clap
and sweetly sings Come be with me.

Spins dulcimer tones in heads so wee,
savors treble clefs, craves their fiddle-dee-dee.
Children, her calliope.

Plants cotton-candy poisonous tree
in tussled heads so sweet, such evil trap.
She sweetly sings Come be with me.

Disguised she devil-sings come follow me,
codas dream with one giant gingersnap.
Children, her calliope.

Parents, heed my tale and listen carefully
lest you lose your children as they nap.
She sweetly sings Come be with me,
children, her calliope!

Bjorn is hosting Meet-the-Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. He asks us to write a nonsense narrative poem. We must clearly tell a story. “The characters and their actions may seem absurd or playful, but what they do makes sense in a nonsense way. It is fine to use invented words, but it should be clear from the concept if they are creatures, things, or even verbs.” Photo from pixabay.co

Are you with me?

Dump the pointy-eared pixie!
I may be tinsel-tipsy,
but what’s with that guy?
Elf on a Shelf, the supreme tattler.
Old St. Nick sure didn’t hire him.
Why cultivate fear in a kid’s heart
when Rudolph’s coming to town?
Unconditional love,
so much better!

A quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to use the word tinsel, or a form of the word (not a synonym) in a poem of exactly 44 words. Photo by Hello I’m Nik on Unsplash
Elf on a Shelf is a product predominately sold in the U.S. Parents can set the elf out and move it about the house every night when the children go to bed so it seems like the elf is alive. The children then hunt for the elf the next morning. The real purpose of the elf is to spy on the children and make sure they’re being good so Santa will come on Christmas morning! Parents actually tell the children they must be good or the elf will let Santa know they’re on the naughty list! I’ve never liked this idea – no offense to anyone reading this who uses it during the Christmas season. Just my opinion.

What’s In A Name?

Her mother was a stoner,
flowerchild of the sixties.
Braless, barefoot, oblivious.
She copulated in a purple haze.

Love child born in a stream,
drifted from womb to surface
floated in sun’s glistened path.
Named according to her origins.

Forever asked,
why Mica Shist?

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, De would like us to use the word “stone” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
When I saw the word stone, immediately thought of rocks, then different types of rocks as in metamorphic, granite, and mica schist. Mica schist is a metamorphic rock that includes the mineral schist. When on the surface, schist gives a sparkle to the rock. Some say mica is nature’s glitter. So I decided to have a little fun with the prompt! Image from Pixabay.com

Give me some . . .

gloriosity
sunshineeeeness
popsicles, fudgsicles
sprinkler dashes
tasty juicy tomatoes
sweet butter dripping corn on the cob
kernels stuck between my teeth.
That’s summerliciousness!

That’s our grandson who is now 14 and ready to start high school next year. Most joyous photo I’ve ever seen of someone eating corn on the cob! Happy summer everyone!

Messy? Who me?

Summer’s delight.
Ice cream time in smudgekin’s world,
that’s a toddler’s chocolate delight.
Chocolately face and fingers too,
lick by lick by lick
by drip by drip by drip.
Slow salivating yumminess
then nose-in-cone finale.
Mama says “look at me!” Click.
Then clean-up time.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where Mish is hosting and asks us to use the word “smudge” or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo from Inside Source.

Sally Rand

She always yelled at him
before her grand entrance.
“Harry, crank up that wind machine!”
Then she’d wind up those hips
get the feathers quiverin’
and strut out on stage,
fans strategically placed.
She wanted to entrance the blokes,
not wound their swoonin’ heart.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Quadrille Monday and I’m hosting, asking poets to consider homographs, and in particular, the word “wound”. A homograph is a word that has two pronunciations and two different meanings, but the same spelling – as in “a wound up top”, and “he suffered a serious wound”. One can also use a form of the word….as in “wind” which is the present tense of “wound” but can also refer to a breeze – thus another homographic word. Note the use of the word “entrance” in this poem also a homographic word. And of course, a quadrille must be exactly 44 words in length, sans title.

Sally Rand, born Helen Gould Beck, was an American burlesque dancer most noted for her ostrich fan dances and her balloon bubble dances. She was mot active from 1925 to 1979.

Light the Candles!

What’s one year more?
I am NOT a dinosaur!

I’m thrilled to turn seventy-four,
let me give that an underscore.
Some decry growing old,
equate grey hair and wrinkles
with creeping mold,
and simply cannot be consoled.

Not as nimble with a few pains?
Hands mapped in purple veins?
Come on people, grab the reins!
What more could you ask for
than to celebrate one year more
with your family and people you adore?

So I’ll put on my tap shoes for a loud dance,
blow out the candles at the very first chance.
Then I’ll give my husband a meaningful glance
and celebrate seventy four with a night of romance!

Written for OLN – Open Link Night – at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. OLN means we can choose any one poem to post today – no specific prompt, form, rhyme scheme, or length. And since today is indeed my birthday, I wrote this little ditty. I do believe it is a privilege to grow old. I continue to be thankful for every day.