Translucent diaphanous wings. Only one of her not like hummingbirds who flit.
Collector of juvenile items pulled or shed. Never antiques.
Never the payer, she collects payments for the collectibles she collects. . Fair in her fee structure adjusted to inflation. Remnants of my youth, worth a dime.
Collectibles from my son? Fifty cents. Today? One dollar or more.
Children grin, proudly display gaps in their mouths. Proof of her existence.
I wonder, is she swayed by wealth? Or is she kind-hearted enough to make pro-bono flights?
NAPOWRIMO 2026. Day 30!Last day of National Poetry Writing Month. Prompt:Write a poem about a real or mythical being or profession with a musing yet dispassionate tone. AI image generated on Bing Create.
power and magic and lilt and creativity and rhythm and feelings and making sense with words. Rhyme scheme, haiku, free verse and so much more.
WTF? NGL. Will the flying thumbs of today have the patience to spell it all out? I’m just asking, will poetry survive? FAWC, I’m SMH and wondering. You may be BWL, but this is FR. SRSLY, PLZ tell me how to write a sonnet, create a rhythmic flow or express my POV using this shorthand chicanery? IKR? Maybe like Basho, there’s an enterprising new poet waiting in the wings who will add RIZZ to this new language. Teach us oldsters to translate. PAW. I’m watching. I’ve got TFW something new is on the horizon and the actual problem is, I’m just really over the hill.
TRANSLATION
What the fuck? Not gonna lie. Will the flying thumbs of today have the patience to spell it all out? I’m just asking, will poetry survive? For anyone who cares, I’m shaking my head and wondering. You may be bursting with laughter, but this is for real. Seriously, please tell me how to write a sonnet, create a rhythmic flow or express my point of view using this shorthand chicanery? I know right? Maybe like Basho, there’s an enterprising new poet waiting in the wings who will add charisma and charm to this new language. Teach us oldsters to translate. Parents are watching. I’m watching. I’ve got that feeling when something new is on the horizon and the actual problem is, I’m just really over the hill.
NAPOWRIMO Day 14. Prompt todayis to “write a poem that bridges (whether smoothly or not) the seeming divide between poetry and technological advances.” AI image generated on Bing Create.
So she said to me . . . I did it! I’m here in New York City, finally in the Easter Parade. Cost a bundle for the flight. But I looked out the plane’s window and saw the Archangel Gabriel. A real added plus to the trip. Couldn’t afford a real Easter bonnet so I resurrected my Christmas wreath. Tied it under my chin with pink ribbons, made it look more spring-like. Everyone said I just glowed. Best part of all, was the tinsel. It framed my face in a sparkly fringe!
NAPOWRIMO day 6! Today’s prompt: try writing with a breezy conversational tone, while including at least one thing that could only happen in a dream.
Image from Bing Create. And no, I didn’t get a phone call like this yesterday and I don’t know a Mabel. But if she was real, I suspect she’d be a lot of fun.
. . . eggs! Hens lay them, people abscond with them. Shelled with white and yellow insides, eggcellent when fully cooked.
Who among you drinks raw eggs? Holiday eggnog is not for me. Bourbon or rum added to nog? Never enough for me to imbibe!
Runny yolks pool on your plate, drip from your fork, require slurping to consume. That is definitely not for me!
Give me on-the-dry-side scrambled, well done frittatas, firm omlettes, or a good solid hard boiled egg. What can I say?
I’ve always been a firm handshake kind of gal.
NAPOWRIMO day 5!
The prompt today, for National Poetry Writing Month, is “to write a poem in which you talk about disliking something – particulary something utterly innocuous, like clover. Be over the top! Be a bit silly and overdramatic.”
I thought it appropriate to write about eggs today since that silly Easter bunny has presumably been hopping around leaving Easter eggs for so many folks.
Long-legged Lucy played with the boys, Barbies or baby dolls not her toys. Miniature soldiers marched in her room. Games with a ball, she really bloomed.
Grown up Lucy? A soccer star. Local legend, legs are her fame. Precision, passing and footwork her game. Pele’s bicycle kicks win acclaim.
Off season? You’d never guess. Third from the left in that famous line, a seasoned Rockette her kicks still shine.
NAPOWRIMO Day 3. April is National Poetrey Writing Month.
Prompt: “Write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be.”
Confession: as a young girl, I always wanted to be a Rockette!
Mr. Goodbar and the Red Hots jazz like you’ve never heard it before!
The Sugar Babies, Twizzlers and Sweetarts let your imaginations think about that!
Mike & Ike serving the best hootch in town great way to cap your payday!
Leave the Missus at home or bring her along she’ll enjoy the Big Hunk struttin’ his stuff!
A bit-o-honey for everyone AT THE KIT KAT, WE NEVER DISAPPOINT!
It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, I’m hosting and having a bit of fun with the prompt. I’ve listed names of twenty-seven candy bars and asked folks to create a poem that includes at least one of them in their poem. They’re free to include more than one from the list if they choose. If they select a candy with the word “bar” or “bars” in it, IE Oh Henry Bars, they can drop the word “bars/bar” — however, except for dropping that word, they must include the name of the candy exactly as it’s named in the prompt…no words in between etc. Can you find the candy bars I’ve included?
Image created on Bing Create. Candies I’ve included: Kit Kat, Mr. Goodbar, Red Hots, Sugar Babies, Twizzlers, Sweetarts, Mike & Ike, Payday, Big Hunk Bars, Bit-O-Honey
Rowan, Puss’ cousin, was the original one. He died on a cold winter’s night giving rise to number two, Tabby Tat. Nearsighted, she met her demise squinting down a busy street. Number three was Kit the Kat, catapulted to fame by a candy bar. Sugar highs and alley fights finally did him in. Mouser came next, not very smart, he followed a mouse into a trap and was last heard to say, oh crap! The next reincarnation came in a far away land. Penelope the Puma, sadly and cruelly killed by a hunter’s hand. Her ghost became the charming Ms. Cheetah, seduced to her death by a devilish Tom. Lorna the Lynx was up next. She lolled through life until her untimely death. And now if you’ve been counting with me we’ve come to the ninth penultimate life. That final reiteration, none other than Felicity Feline, intensely happy, true to her name. I am delighted to report, she found a happy home with the prolific painter, Mr. Louis Wain. Her portrait, painted in joyous colors, stands out in his collection. And so, while all those other eight are forgotten Felicity lives on in perpetuity, frozen in time, displayed on an easel, for generations to visit and see.
Written for dVerse Tuesday Poetics on prompt where Melissa is introducing us to the English artist Louis Wain. He is “best known for his drawings of anthropomorphised cats. Born in Londin in 1860…he attended the West London School of Art, where he would go on to teach for a time….In 1884…The Illustrated London News was first to publish Wain’s art. It wasn’t until 1886 that he received more widespread recognition….he was elected president of the National Cat Club….he was a prolific artist. During his lifetime, he drew thousands of cats (it is estimated that the number exceeds 150,000.” Melissa asks us to choose one of his paintings/drawings she includes in her prompt, and to “write a poem inspired by the artwork. Simple enough, right? There’s just one catch – you may not use the word cat anywhere in your poem, including the title.”
I selected Wain’s painting, Untitled.
I had some fun with this….using many different words that refer to cats: puss, tabby, kit, mouser, puma, cheetah, tom, lynx, and feline. I also had some fun with wordplay, without using the word “cat” as in the Kit Kat candy bar, and catapulted.
Yes, the dish ran away with the spoon, but Mother Goose got it wrong. She laid an egg with this one. It was not a happily-ever-after tale.
Turns out the dish was a cad. A saucer with sterling designs, and always a cups man.
Young utensil that she was, she never guessed his real intention to tarnish her reputation.
He led her past the infamous cow the one who jumped over the moon. Romancing her under cover of night, surely, he thought, she’d swoon.
But alas, there were too many stars that night, revealing what he truly was really made of. Just cheap melamine, not Royal Doulton or Spode.
Avoiding every advance he dished out, she ran back to the cat and the fiddle. She maintained her sterling reputation, after all, she was always a respectable ladle!
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe where today is Open Link Night and poets may post any one poem of their choosing.
This little diddle is an edited version of NaPoWriMo’s day 22 prompt: “to write a poem in which two things have a fight. Two very unlikely things, if you can manage it. Like, maybe a comb and a spatula. Or a daffodil and a bag of potato chips. Or perhaps your two things could be linked somehow – like a rock and a hard place – and be utterly sick of being so joined. The possibilities are endless!”
For those of you not familiar with this Mother Goose nursery rhyme, it goes like this: Hey, diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.
lillian the home poet 