narcissus sissies
yellow ruffles hide in leaves
waiting warmth of spring
Haiku written for Napowrimo Day 21: prompt is to write a poem related to narcissus: the myth, the flower, or anything related to the word. Photo taken yesterday of a daffodil/narcissus bed….too chilly to bloom!
“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”
Mark Twain, aka Samuel Clemens
Welcome to the Ball and Socket,
newest hip joint in town.
Formerly Mark Twain’s Pub,
still catering to the hale and hearty.
Specialty drinks have disappeared,
Huck Finns and Tom Sawyers gone.
But never you worry and never you mind,
what matters most, is easy to find.
Old Sam leans on the bar,
pours drinks and sloshes the foam.
Jaws and listens and nips a few too,
just like the place, he’s as good as new.
Written for Napowrimo, day 13, where the prompt is to turn a famous saying upside down and have fun with it. I’ve had a bit of fun with Mark Twain’s quotation, cited at the beginning of the post.
As a youngster,
she loved playing outside,
building dirt castles with lollypop flags.
Grade school entrepreneur,
her lemonade stands featured mud pies,
hand crimped with sand frosting on top.
Today, a sweet toothed geologist,
she loves layer cakes, marzipan sculptures
and all rock candy.
Quadrille (44 words exactly, sans title) written for dVerse, where today we’re asked to include the word “zip.” You’ll find it stirred into the marzipan! Also posted for Napowrimo, Day 9: prompt to write about the large and the small….stretching it here….from dirt and sand granules to geologist?
Sunny-Side Up Daze
Serves days of happiness to the populous.
one slash of rain
dash of peppered lightning
stir lightly
fold in one rumble of thunder
set aside for eight hours of sunshine
Goes well with laughter and song.
Written in response to Misky’s #67 Twiglet prompt. A twiglet is a short phrase, meant to prompt a flow. In this case, the twiglet given was “slash of rain.”
She lived her life
sunny side up,
choosing to ignore
everyday eggsasperations.
Fat slabs of bacon
slapped on the griddle
sizzled and curled.
That frying pan sings its song,
flame burning
grease bubbling
never spatter-free.
Stack ‘em high
with a few tomatoes,
mayo-slathered
between some greens.
Mama says,
Make it healthy,
serve on whole wheat bread.
A second quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Victoria asks us to use the word “burn” or a form of the word. Thought I’d add a humorous one to the mix today. For a more sensuously burning take, go to my first post Tryst.
Feeling weary?
Kind of dreary?
Dial R-Oh-6 Oh-31
for fanciful fantastical fun.
Never let your troubles steep
just take a liberating leap.
We absolutely guarantee
balloon-high spectacular glee.
Exchange your world of hullabaloo.
Drive to zabba-dabba fabulah-new.
Come on and make some whoopee,
risin’ up in the jazzy jaloopy!
Having fun today 🙂 hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. I’ve posted five examples of street art for folks and ask them to pick one and somehow write about it. Images in public domain at Pixabay.com. Only requirement is that folks post the accompanying image. Click here for second street art poem with different image. I couldn’t resist doing two — the second has quite a different tone!
We’ll be visiting Valparaiso, Chile in January and look forward to seeing the street art there — which is what motivated this idea for a prompt.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come walk the streets with us!
Home to . . .
blue onesied teenage girls
delicately batting badmintons,
and pimpled boys man-upping
in raucous dodge-ball games.
Crew cuts and ratted Aqua Net dos.
School assemblies.
Seats assigned by homeroom,
alphabetical misery.
Six-foot hoopsters.
Full-skirted
ball gown under-frames
and the tall gangly ball-shooting kind.
Hand-wringing game-ending cacophony,
and teenage clutching
Johnny-Mathis-crooning
sock-hop last chance
he-has-to-be-the-one dance.
Crepe paper.
Gathered in strips,
duct tape hand grips
bouncing in pompom cheers.
Stretched————————–
transformed to ceiling
with hanging mirrored ball
above parading bouffant heads.
Embarrassed girls
side-lined on folding chairs
watching nervous girls
lined up in pretended calm,
waiting to learn
if they would be the one
adorned in prom queen crown.
Fifty years later,
we stand on your creaking boards.
Is it possible? Is this the space?
Old age does not become you,
our once hallowed place.
Frank hosts dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, asking us to write an ode (poem of praise). No required form, meter or content. Photo: from my 1965 senior year high school annual, Waukegan Township High School in Waukegan, Illinois. Prom court….I was on a folding chair 🙂 And yes, there’s a metal hoop skirt under that second gown. You had to be really careful when you sat down! In the actual photo, you can see the basketball court lines on the gym floor. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.
Dew-kissed grass licks bare soles
seeking crocus crowns.
Cool liquidized sand
oozes between nail-polished toes.
Pulverized brittle red-gold leaves
prickle calloused heels.
Cold floor tiles ~
prelude to hot soaking bath.
Barefoot by the season,
almanac supreme.
Shuffle your troubles away.
Skip through leaves
listen to their rustle.
Hum three songs –
oldies-but-goodies
from your teen-age days.
Or shuffle off to Buffalo.
That’s a tap dance step
or a change in view.
Shuffle you happy,
shuffle me too.
I figures these days, we can all use a little humor and something to smile at! 🙂 Photo: a number of years ago, the grandkids hiding then popping out in a pile of autumn’s leaves.
