Handstand acrobat.
Mainly small time gigs,
circus tents in rural areas.
Environmentalist at heart.
Some thought her silly
giving up two weeks of pay,
assisting farmers in their fields.
Strange sight though,
legs in the air.
Pollen dusted knees
moving through acres,
attracting bees.
Quadrille (exactly 44 words, sans title) written for dVerse where today the prompt word is “silly” – or any form of the word. Photo from Pixabay.com
Another birthday?
Oh God to be young again!
Rid of the grey, the wrinkles.
To live those carefree days again.
Pimples? A crush on what’s-his-name?
High school cliques and watching Elvis gyrate?
No-Doze to pass Dr. Parkander’s killer exams?
Grad school living off hot dogs and beans?
Note to self:
Put all the candles on the cake.
Blow them out in thanksgiving
instead of blow-hard forgetfulness.
Day 20 of National Poetry Writing Month. Today at Toads, the prompt is to write about a wish that would somehow produce something not as good as what you’d hoped for – when good wishes go bad.
“You said you’d follow me anywhere,” he yelled out above the roar. She stood there shaking. Obviously he didn’t understand the meaning of hyperbole!
Her parents had warned her. Her stodgy father mumbled “He’s a fly-by-night.” Her mother wrung her hands and kept repeating “He’s not good enough for you.” But she loved him. So she followed her heart.
It was romantic at first. Driving cross-country in his converted VW van. Lying on the hood looking up at the stars. Then he got this ridiculous idea. She didn’t think he meant it literally for God’s sake! Who really runs away to the circus??? But here she was. Sequined tights, gaudy tiara, leather grips on her hands. No one left and no one came on the bare platform. It was her turn. And there he was, hanging upside down swinging on that damned trapeze!
Sarah is hosting Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. However, we’re not writing poems today! Prosery is the use of a given line from a poem, word for word, within the work of flash fiction which can be no more than 144 words, sans title.
Sarah’s line which we must use within our flash fiction is “No one left and no one came onto the bare platform.” it is from Edward Thomas’ poem Adelstrop.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Ear worm.
1-877-Kars-for-Kids.
Tickling incessant tune.
Words over-and-over-
and over-and-over.
Go in and out the windows . . .
1-877-Kars-for-Kids.
Shut off the radio.
Cadence that kicks
rhyme that sticks.
Like ear muffs close exits
on cold winter days.
1-877-Kars-for-Kids.
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,
1-877-Kars-for-
oh just snare it!
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Where are you, Aretha?
Lift the needle,
Just put on the B side,
PLEASE!
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.
Panoramic views.
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
like bubblicious
scantilicious
and summerlicious too.
Merriam-Webster?
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.
Catapult.
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
my periwinkle!
Image of this almost catapult, from pixaby.com.
Some days
I want to mail our politicians
spiked shoes.
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 🙂
lillian the home poet 