Mishmash Succotash

Little Orangey Raiding Hood
cocky and bullish too
spit on our lady’s torch,
shorting out her light.

Bellicose as Old King Cole
merry in his big white house
decorated by special order,
he stuccoed it with lye.

Kitchen menu his design,
donkey stew cooked on high,
boiling for a long reduction
still kickin’ in the pot.

Uneasy with house chairs,
too soft, none just right.
No match to for his needs,
only gilded throne will do.

Upstairs to try the beds
too short, too long.
Ah just right, finally to sleep.
Bird twitter starts at dawn.

Fitful dreams of Miss Tuffet
savoring curds and whey.
Spiders crawl out from covers,
itsy bitsy never more.

Awakened by Fox and hounds
he calls for cavorters three.
Get my breakfast pie 
and put that crown upon my head!

Then, oh so gleefully,
in goes his royal thumb
ready for a veritable plum.
YEEEEOW!

Inside that massive flakey crust
five and twenty blackbirds
baked in a bordered row.
Oh no! He’ll have to eat crow!

And now this silly poem must stop
although the tale itself does not.
Guess its ending from sounds you hear
louder, louder, more and more
that huffing puffing at his door.

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Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics, asking folks to write a poem, serious or humorous, that somehow deals with opposites or antithesis. Folks can include simple opposite words such as light/dark, good/bad in the poem; look at one event from two opposite view points; or take a nursery rhyme and write it in an opposite way — instead of There was an old woman who lived in a shoe – make it a man! In this post, I’ve satirically dealt with a number of different nursery rhymes, changing their meaning completely. For a more serious take on the prompt, go to my poem Hovering In Absentia. 

Nursery Rhyme Primed

Tawny Donny wealthy and sly,
kissed the girls and made them cry.
When they told the world their tales
tawny Donny lost his veils.

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Day 15, Napowrimo : using Hansel and Gretel and Blackbeard the Pirate as examples, today’s prompt asks us to rewrite a villain’s unfortunate situation. Today, Georgie Porgie’s friend gets caught in a kettle of fish. ILLUSTRATION from Volume One, Poems of Eary Childhood, Child-Craft, published by The Quarrie Corporation, Chicago, in 1947.

 

Harlequin

Medieval court’s poetic jester
leaps cross marble floor,
bells on cap and toes.
Sings boldly eyeing men,
their indiscretions
bared aloud.

Sag-faced courtiers
murmur hoarsely, choking coarsely,
cannot silence tales.
Red-faced king sits in midst
as women waggle fingers,
his scepter turned to stone.

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Quadrille (44 words, sans title) written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today De asks us to include the word “murmur”. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time — come on over and quaff some poems! 

Pentimento

Shall I sit
complacent?
Stilled
as if painted upon a wall?
Indelible street art
disintegrating in time?
No.

Dreamers, Mother Earth,
I care.
I give voice.
I demonstrate.
I remonstrate.
I strive to keep her arm outstretched,
a beacon of hope
promised to all.

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First photo is street art from our recent time in Valparaiso, Chile. Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Amaya is hosting and asks us to consider pentimento. A word about pentimento:  this can refer to an alteration in a work of art…sometimes visible to the viewer, such as the shadow of a flower appearing in a painting of the forest; or the hidden woman’s face in the bent neck of Pablo Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist.”  Shifting this into poetry, Amaya asks us to consider a time we changed our mind. Pentimento in Italian means “repentance” so Amaya suggests we think about a change for the greater good.  This started me thinking about Martin Luther King, the 60s, and the recent political scene. No matter the partisan side you lean toward, the election of Donald Trump did create a voice of activism that had been stilled in recent years. I was one of many women who found my voice and demonstrated with my daughter on the day after his inauguration. The recent #metoo movement is another instance of finding voice.

Infestation

Panders.
Off-loads guilt.
Loose lips abandon civility.
Instead spew
trite narcissistic patter.
Intimidates.
Cruel Machiavellian rule
steeps rot within.

Oh too similar to those
familiar with the

fruit fly who gloats over spoils
eviscerates solid cores
avariciously deteriorates the good,
reduces life to rot.

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An Acrostic Quadrille written for dVerse where Victoria asks us to write a quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words) using the word “fear.”  Acrostic: a poem in which the first letter of each line spells out a word or message. Note the first letter of each line from top to bottom in each stanza. You’ll find three words, including the prompt word for today. Apologies to those who do not care for poetry as commentary on the state of politics today. You might instead enjoy my second poem, also published today: Film Noir, Take 37

 

A Sign of the Times

Day after day, he stacked the mail
catalogues, ads, all on the steps
in rain and sleet, and snow and hail.

So I sat by the window, waiting one day
caught him as he was walking away,
and queried him nicely. Why?

Why don’t you use the LETTERS slot
that’s right on the door, quite plain to see.
He stared and looked blankly at me.

“Well ma’am, I see the sign on your door
capital block letters, all in blue,
and that little slot thing too.

But I have no idea what LETTERS means
and the slot’s too narrow to ever fit
all this important stuff you get.”

Ping.

“Excuse me ma’am,”
the young man said with a grin,
“That’s an important text coming in.”

 

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Mish is hosting Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to write a poem about signs. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop by and join in the fun! Photo in public domain.

Rat Race on a Horse

They live a merry-go-round life
maniacal calliope music
spinning circles, senses blurred
chasing what could lie ahead.

Blue horse, her mount
golden mane rich in gilt
cold cylindrical pole
clutched in lust.

Two steeds behind
eyes wild, hair disheveled
desperately out of synch
he up-downs as she down-ups.

Desire fuels the chase
bolted to spinning floor
moving unmoved
money, sex, fame
forever around the fluid bend.


I’m hosting dVerse today, the virtual bar for poets, asking folks to think about amusement parks, fairgrounds, carnival barkers. Write a poem that somehow uses an image from that scene – or captures a memory one has from going to such a place. Bar opens at 3PM BOSTON time, in the midst of Boston’s blizzard today! Come share a poem of your creation or just imbibe some words from poets around the world.

I see a suburb . . .

one street after another
plat map symmetrical.
Slide rule log-a-rhythm’s
syncopated beat.
Red-amber-green lights
directing the inane.

Where are the pick-up trucks,
dust-kicking rolling roads,
clothesline flapping shirts,
and front porch swings?


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where we’re asked to write suburban poetry today!  Looking at my Seascape photos and post, also done today, I think I prefer the sea side to the suburbs!