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
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 ofthe word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo from Inside Source.
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.
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.
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.
bother me with sunlight today, streaming through windows this crisp cool day. Bother me with good news, happiness smiles and a baby’s grin. Bother me with a romantic tale full of daffodil cups, a good merlot and love tendered kisses. Please, do bother me!
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De hosts, asking us to use the word “bother” or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3:00 PM Boston time – come imbibe some words with us! Also posted at Day 19 NaPoWriMo.April is National Poetry Writing Month and the challenge is to write a poem every day of the month.
Box of colored chalk in hand, hmmm…. how do I do this again? First, pick the perfect sidewalk spot. White chalk, start close, draw one square. Yellow chalked rectangle on top, divide it into two and three. White chalk again, I like consistency. Draw square four, same as one. Green rectangle right above that, evenly make into five and six. White me a seven. Orange rectangle next, divide precisely into eight and nine. Sky blue ten crowns them all, all squares point to heaven. Brush straggly gray hair off face. Ooh yes, scratch nose where it itches. Small rock in hand, stand steady, stand tall. Neighbor man walks by and smiles, stares at my colorful cheeks and nose. “Hi” I say. “Care to play?” “Nah” he says, “but you go ahead.” So . . . stoop and throw . . . hopscotch through my private rainbow right on up to that promising blue.
This human being is . . . stabilized. Once frisky, galloping, romping o’er fields afar. Ran the mighty race too, round the curve, thrilled by the chase. Set out to pasture in 2012 – slowed down, but still free to roam. 2020 came and all hell broke loose. Who knew I’d be corralled? Merry-go-round bound. Same path up and down, days blurred, round and round, going nowhere fast. Even old nags need to be free. Grease this damn pole! Shoot me up and uncarousel me! Little did I know out to pasture or not, the grass was always greener wherever my hooves did trot.
For those of you not familiar with the title, it refers to the tv show Mr. Ed. It aired from 1961 to 1966. As inane as it sounds, Mr. Ed was a talking horse. I never could understand how the show ran for five years!
Kim is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to begin a poem with the line “This human being is…” Have no idea why this concept popped into my head….other than the fact that for this past Covid year, we have mainly been corralled into our homes. Probably the most useless item we bought for the year 2020 was a Day Planner! And yes, I did rejuvenate (never say retire) in 2012. Photo from Pixabay.comSo I guess you could say, Mr. Ed had nothing on me….considering my life as a horse!