Tickling incessant tune.
Go in and out the windows . . .
Shut off the radio.
Cadence that kicks
rhyme that sticks.
Like ear muffs close exits
on cold winter days.
I don’t even own a car
but it’s driving
through my ear canal.
Drive it to Panama instead,
out through those locks.
Out of my ear drums.
Quit base thumping,
oh just snare it!
Where are you, Aretha?
Lift the needle,
Just put on the B side,
Click on the video and listen to it for a bit. I dare you. Beware the ear worm!
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Linda asks us to explore surrealism in poetry. She tells us surrealism in poetry is “the true function of thought. Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations.” To me, this sounds a lot like stream-of-consciousnes writing….which is what’s happening in this poem. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Mr. Bobcat trains wildcats
in his purrfect cat-filled town.
Miss Pussycat educates tiny ones,
eradicating copycats all around.
Devilish hellcats fornicate
in cold cathedral catacombs.
Catholics’ scatter catnip,
as holier-than-thou catchalls.
Mr. Tomcat struts vainly
in the town’s decathalon,
like a catty fat-cat victor,
like he’s the cat’s meow.
Catatonic mayor catnaps, dead asleep
as cat burglars roam the littered streets.
When crime reaches cataclysmic levels
catcalls will be heard, Abdicate NOW!
Cats will suddenly get sick as dogs,
as heat rises and dog days come.
Cats will be dogged by fleas
and this poem shall end . . .
in unbelievable catastrophe!
It’s Poetics Tuesday at dVerse and we’re asked to write a poem that has something to do with cats in the subject matter, as metaphor, or wherever the muse takes us. My muse took me to the Catskill Mountains! There are twenty-nine cats in the body of this poem….some hidden as in educated. Can you find them all?
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Photo from pixabay.com
. . . I could buy the Sea of Tranquility.
Probably more lucrative than Greenland.
Exciting ride to get there.
If a cow jumped over it,
how hard could it be?
Me: The Man on the Moon.
King of the Green Cheese!
Second posting for Quadrille Monday: poem of exactly 44 words sans title, that includes the word “tranquility.” Illustration from Pixabay.com
making new words
and summerlicious too.
Poetic license is much more fun.
Spackle is a muddied sparkle.
Whine is surely weathered shine.
Think about it
and you’ll agree,
playing with words
is fun, you’ll see.
Hmmm what could that mean?
Well it certainly has to be
a tabby tumbled from a tree.
And now dear reader,
tell me true.
Periwinkle. Five-petaled flower
typically, most often colored blue?
Or a pair of stars, way up high,
set all a-twinkle
in the night-time sky.
Those are definitely
Image of this almost catapult, from pixaby.com.
I want to mail our politicians
The kind with cleats
like athletes wear.
To be sure-footed in muck
and muddied fields.
Atalanta was a famous Greek huntress and an exceptional athlete. She was also a favourite of the goddess Artemis because of her survival instinct, impressive skills, courage and noble character. Image from Pixabay.com
Fair warning, dear shadow of mine,
tonight we tinker with time.
Clocks are set anew,
springing ahead one hour.
I tell you now, dear shadow of mine,
hoping that when we walk tomorrow
you shall not lag behind.
Day light savings time starts tomorrow. image from pixabay.com
Lady Ursula fancied herself a star,
nay, bigger and better than that.
She with ostentatious tastes,
constellation better than most.
Daily she ate delectable treats.
Croissants, caviar, and fine patés
berries and truffles, chocolates too,
all as she sampled the finest of ports.
And as was her habit before the first snow,
into her four poster bed she’d go.
Curtains drawn, she nestled in down,
appetite sated, she slumbered to sleep.
N’er did she stir ‘till a bright April morn,
when bluebirds would warble and sun stream in.
Slowly she’d struggle to open her eyes
push herself upright, sit tall in her bed.
Suddenly famished she licked her lips
and stretching she toggled the service bell.
They chuckled and smirked hearing that sound
for they understood the secret she lived.
Their Lady Ursula, no Ursa was she
rather an Ursus she really be.
It’s OLN at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. This means we are free to post any poem of our choosing – no prompt. I had a little fun with this one. Hope you enjoy 🙂
Tis the star lit night my dear,
we lie entwined, our lips so near.
Our spirits joined in dreams to soar
until you break the spell to snore.
No soft sighs, you sputter snort.
I toss, I turn, till last resort
when love is lost in raucous sound
and need for sleep is so profound,
I trippingly flee our marriage bed
collapse undone, on couch instead.
And when the sky is lit with dawn
to your side, again I’m drawn.
Morning comes, you wake refreshed
our bodies once again enmeshed.
You’re ready to greet the day,
I’m ready to hit the hay.
Image from Pixabay.com
But not to me.
Paint brush body
bottle opener arms.
Metal disk eyes
Clock innard springs
‘neath blooming heart.
Curved metal strip
art speaks to you.
Pull yourself together,
use what you’ve got.
bloom where you are.
Wear a perky hat
eyes wide open,
smile at the world
and they’ll smile back.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets – which means I create the prompt. And today’s prompt is “Come hang with me!” Choose something hanging in your house (on a wall, from a bookcase, in your closet, etc) and write a poem about it! I’ve asked that folks include a photo so we can see what they’re writing about. This lovely piece of “trash art” hangs in my study, on the side of my desk. I see her every morning and she always makes me smile! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
waste not want not
she’d heard that all her life
lived by it too ~
Christmas wreath upon her head
ready for the Easter parade.