A blog for the midnight epiphanies and idle thoughts of a hopeless wordaholic.
Good tidings to all, and a short rhyme. Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, 12-23-21.
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Strange things befell me on the
way to Christmas. Seems I slipped a
cog along the way.
Had an “absence” spell and hospital
visit just when I had planned no life delay.
.Learned again to take no day for granted.
Each is a gift to treasure, come what may.
Here I am to say happy holidays. I’ve come
to rhyme another day
Poetics Tuesday, and Merril has challenged us to consider "passions stamped on lifeless things". Since the beginning of time, men have attempted to leave their stories for those yet to come, and many of those stories have remained undiscernible and objects of intense study. Submitted to dVerse, 12/8/21.
Ah, secondary characters! None more put-upon than Mrs. Claus. Santa gets all the accolades, and she's left to handle details. This occasioned me to reprise an old poem I wrote some time ago. Like the original, I like to think it's worth the read every Christmastime. Ir's a little risque, so I hope I don't offend anyone! Here's Mrs. Claus' story. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, Deember 4, 2021.
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TROUBLE AT THE NORTH POLE
‘Tis the night before Christmas, I’ve just cleaned the house
Now I find Santa’s been drinking, the louse
He’s been into that bottle of Christmas cheer
I’ve been using for cooking since some time last year.
So, now the sleigh’s loaded (and so is he)
There’s nobody left to drive but me
There’s no place to sit except on his lap
And he’s probably lost the blasted map.
Well, giddyup Prancer, and Blitzen too
We’ve got an important job to do.
Just fly high and fast as in days of yore
We’ll go really fast, so they don’t hear him snore.
We’ll deliver these toys with all possible class
In spite of this tanked-up irresponsible ass.
Who’d have thought when I married my handsome prince
He’d turn into the bum I’ve been living with since.
Rudolph, I thought I could count on you
But I see by your nose you’ve been hitting the brew
Oh, how will I travel this highway of stars
When even NASA can’t find Planet Mars.
I’ m only one woman, but can’t you see
All the boys and girls are counting on me?
Well, here we go fellas, it’s a leap of faith
Pretend you’re up and it’s the last of the eighth.
I knew we could do it, I just love you guys
In spite of our troubles, you were wonderfully wise
The toys are delivered, we’re almost back
With this besotted tippler, and an empty sack.
With MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT
We rose to the occasion and we did it all right.
He’s beginning to wake up….Oh you lecherous rake!
Not tonight, Santa, I have a headache.
It's Haibun Monday at dVerse, and Frank has asked us to consider in these troubled times those things for which we are grateful. Submitted to dVerse, November 22, 2021.
My grandfather was a man of small stature, usually wearing bib overalls. His forbears founded the first Methodist church in the settlement just north of the Ohio not many years after the Revolution. Each succeeding generation lived simply, working hard to scrape a living from the land. Grandpa bowed his head each day at supper, and thanked his God for simple things -- food for sustenance, weather for his crops, the roof over his head, and his family. I’m grateful I learned from him that these simple things are truly the necessities of life. All the rest is detritus, the miscellaneous claptrap we think we need today, the embellishments of the necessities.
grandpa had it right
we just need the basic stuff
giving thanks for enough
THE SUMDAY MUSE #178
Quadrille 140 and we're given the word "fair" for our poem of exactly 44 words. Submitted to dVerse, November 15, 2021.
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POETICS TUESDAY and Laura asks us to take a page from our memory as basis for our poem. I could not seem to get my memory in poem form, so I offer it in prose, still so vivid in my memory. Submitted to dVerse 11/10-21.
Prominent in my memory is the console
radio that sat by my father’s rocking chair.
I remember December, 1941, when it brought
somber news of the attack on Pearl Harbor.
I remember the voice of Gabriel Heater as he
reported each evening on the battles “of our
boys” as World War II progressed. I sat beside
it, an old blackboard across the arms of
father’s chair for my desk as I did homework
and listened to the soap operas of the day. such as
“Our Gal Sunday”, a little girl from a mining town
in the West who tried to find happiness married to a
wealthy and titled Englishman”. That radio is
part of the fabric of my memories growing up
during World War ii.
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TECHNOWAR
Recently I read Windows 11 is about to be released upon us. Simultaneously, Yahoo e-mail is giving me a daily “Update Now”. This means somewhere in some techno-den the geeks lurk, busily planning to make changes proving they are worth their exorbitant salaries, and it is about to happen in a double dose.--one from Microsoft and one from Yahoo. In my experience these changes are thrust upon us, the unwitting trouble-shooters, to help them sort out the kinks. “I am bombarded, yet I stand” to the very last minute with my Windows 10 and my current Yahoo e-mail. I’ve already seen their nasty little footprints when my mouse suddenly converted itself from single-click to double-click and began to respond tantamount to rollerskating in peanut butter. After a couple of weeks this seems to have mysteriously corrected itself. Don your flak trousers, friends, change is coming.
THE SUNDAY MUSE #185
FRIDAY WRITINGS
When I think of food, I think of my grandmother’s chicken and dumplings. On our visits, I enjoyed the entire process. First a fat hen into the pot, simmering away and smelling wonderful. Then putting flour on the great round table, and adding the richest of the juices from the pot until a dough formed. I see her now, rolling pin in hand, rolling out the rich dough, then cutting it into squares which became pillows of delight along with the deboned chicken bits that had been returned to the pot. Then, seated around the great round table, grandpa would say the grace that I recorded in the following poem. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, November 5, 2021
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I remember grandma’s kitchen
from those days of long ago
for never king no president
saw such a wondrous show
The smell of grandma’s dumplings
I remember to this day,
and just as surely I recall
Grandpa saying “Let us pray”.
Then, gathered around the table
each seated in our place
large and small we’d bow our heads
as Grandpa said the grace.
“The corn”, he’d say, “is might dry.
Lord we pray you see fit for rain,
and Neighbor Brown is poorly, Lord
We pray you ease his pain”.
And the trails of steam grew shorter
over Grandma’s wondrous bounty
as Grandpa brought before the Lord
each sinner in the county.
He’s finished, surely, I would think.
there is no more to ask…
only to hear to my dismay
Grandpa warming to his task.
“We pray, oh Lord, for wisdom
for the leaders of our land
that they may steer this country
with a sure and steady hand.”.
His burdens laid upon the Lord
Grandpa would finally reach amen.
When heads were raised, forks were poised
all ready to dig in.
Now I know Grandpa’s in heaven
for it is his rightful place
but when God’s hungry, I’ll bet he says
“You set the table, Fred, I’ll say the grace.”
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I see them now, the beloved faces at that table. All passed now into the Great What Comes After, but living still in the memory of those of us privileged to have had a seat at Grandma’s table.
MEET THE BAR: Our challenge is to consider the concept of conceit, and Bjorn has given us excellent examples. Even so, I am not sure I'm smart enough to grasp the interpretation of this challenge. Submitted to dVerse, November 4, 2021
Yesterday’s lush green grass is today white with frost
and the air is refreshingly clear and sparkling to inhale.
Leaves, seemingly turned overnight to spun honey
release their tenuous hold and denude tree limbs,
spiraling downward in crazy-quilt fashion,
likening themselves to a golden snowfall.
Yesterday’s pumpkins look on in dismay
accepting that their days are numbered.
Autumn is bidding farewell to the heartland.
TUESDAY POETICS
We’re to write a poem using only concrete nouns. We may not use the following words which are banned: soul, love, lust, dreams sorrow, suffering, wonder, heartache, etc. (As an aside, it would be refreshing if we could ban the word vaccination from our newscasts. It would no doubt leave the newscasters speechless!) My woeful effort is submitted to dVerse on November 2, 2021.
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PROFUNDITY
I stop on my walk at the oak by the path
to pick up a perfect flaming leaf.
Only yesterday, it seems, it was the color of jade
yet today it’s stunningly ruby
How convenient it would be if we could
just as quickly adjust to resplendent, perhaps
on the day we turn back the clocks. Yes,
I'll think about that as I continiue my walk.
Monday Quadrille. Our given word for our 44 word quadrille is "careen". Submitted to dVerse, November 2, 3021
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stay home son
don’t take the gun
a mother pleads
be careful, son
with your uniform on
another mother worries
a car careens
gunshots ring out
sirens scream in the night
morning news
another death
a mother cries
another mother
another son
another gun
FINAL WRITERS' PANTRY #84. My muse dropped by the other midnight and left me a Halloween story poem. We all know how I love a story poem! Submitted 10/31/21 at Poets & Storytellers United.
The Sunday Muse #184 Of course the song "The Old Lamplighter" came immediately to mind. I tried to add the You Tube link, but was unsuccessful for some obscure reason. The image put me in quite a melancholic mood.
of Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye sang of “The
old lamplighter of long, long ago“..
They’re gone now, Danny Kaye and Bing Crosby,
the scandalous bikini went on sale in Paris that year
and Tupperware was introduced to the market.
Rosie the Riveter was giving up her factory job
The war had ended and “the boys” were coming home
Now the Old Lamplighter is even longer ago.
We need someone to carry the light, to show
us an end to divisiveness and racism
and this infernal pandemic, someone
to restore pride in the red, white and blue,
faith in our national leaders, and respect for
our neighbors no matter their color or race.
Come back, Old Lamplighter, WE NEED YOU!
OPEN LINK #303 When we post the poem of our choice. I’m a hopeless wordaholic, and I love to examine words. I’ve indulged in that today, and taken a crack at the word crack! Submitted to dVerse, October 28, 2021
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I engage in word forensics
Exploring the many uses of a word
It’s often the way I go to sleep
(I got bored with counting sheep)
Let’s examine the common word crack
According to Webster a split in two parts
But what of the loud crack in the night
Someone trying to be a crack shot?
Consider the foiled attempt
That’s not what it’s cracked up to be
Some bloke free-basing crack cocaine
Or the fellow who tries to lighten the mood
Who’s sure to crack a joke
Or the quiet guy, man of few words
Who surprises us with a wisecrack
Crack the eggs and scramble them
I’m hungry….It must be the crack of dawn
And I do believe I’m getting sleepy ….Zzzz
FINAL WEEKLY SCRIBBLING #93 We're asked to write of a special childhood activity, something we especially enjoyed. Many things came to mind, but evening bicycle rides clung to my memory. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, October 27, 2021
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In my childhood world, the vast agrarian space of central Illinois was divided in exact mile squares, each comprising 640 acres of rich black soil, and divided into tidy little homesteads, each with a house, a barn, a corn crib and perhaps a small shed for chickens. There were only five such homes along the roadside of our mile square, and between them just the vastness of Illinois prairie. One of my favorite pastimes was a bicycle ride around our square mile just at dusk. The only sound was that of my bicycle wheels on the gravel road, and the occasional trill of a meadowlark or red-winged blackbird in the fencerows. The most perfect rides were just after the alfalfa and sweet clover had been cut to dry and be baled for feed for livestock during winter. The scent of new mown hay is intoxicating and unparalleled. No perfumer has ever been able to recreate it. I dreamed great things on those solitary rides in the innocence of my childhood. How I wish I could reproduce those magic rides.
Tuesday Poetics, and we're asked to write " a poem speaking to a human attribute that is particularly irritating to you — and it must have a Halloween or Samhain theme to it" A duodora form was offered, but I respectfully decline and fall back on my rhyme.
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Writer's Pantry # 93 and I indulge in a small pity party, most likely the result of a series of four gloomy, chilly, rainy days. I'm ordinarily not one for pity parties, but one seemed to present itself this morning. Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, October 28, 2021
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"The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on, nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all they tears wash out a word of it", ~Omar Khayyam
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LIFE LESSONS
Time teaches humility … and reality
in gradually insidious painful lessons
So much to be learned as we progress through life
I thought I’d always be a capable multitasker.
Though I can still drive .. I cannot lift my walker
into the car, so where will I go? and what will I do
after I get there?
I loved grocery shopping, and reading the
gossip sheets while I stood in line
Now I order my groceries on line,,,
and have them delivered.
We used to be a monthly eight for lunch,
dear friends and I. Now we are two,
...and can’t get there.without help.
Monthly art meetings were a source of inspiration.
No meetings now, and art projects grow fewer and fewer.
I always prided myself on being positive
Now positivity is a chore... and frequent façade
Criteria for planning outings: Are there stairs?
Is parking close? Is seating immediate? Is the
restroom easily available!
Adjustments to be made, and blessings to
be counted…and I find there are still plenty
of those.
Time to enjoy the beauty around me. Time
to observe lives of those I hold dear, and
let them know they are loved.
Time to be revered.
The Sunday Muse #183
THE STREET
“Ponder the image and the meaning of life
Link, share and visit others”
Keep it in mind as you walk down the street
All are your sisters and brothers
Remind yourself you’re no better than they
Each their own challenges to meet
Some dealing with victory, some with grief
But all walking the same cobbled street
Practice kindness, humility and a ready smile
They’ll remember it well if you ask
One day they’ll truly appreciate the smile
When it’s not behind a mask!
WEEKLY SCRIBBLINGS Moving forward to a new format, we're asked to write something on the theme of forward movement. I took a look back at all the poetic terminology I've encountered here, and I'm looking forward to learning more! Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, October 20, 2021
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WRITER'S PANTRY #82 It's the time of year I wish I were young enough to go on an old-fashioned hayride, if I could find one. I'll just settle for fond memories. Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, October 17, 2021.
HAYRIDE HISTORY
Once upon a long time ago in the times that used to be, October was not complete without a hayride and weiner roast in the woods. Mode of transportation was a hayrack pulled by a tractor. A hayrack was a flat bed wagon used for hauling baled hay from field to barn--large enough for a group of friends. A bumpy ride through the woods led to a clearing, and an awaiting campfire surrounded with bales of hay or straw for seating. Delicious roasted weiners were followed by s’mores--a sandwich made of graham crackers, a chunk of Hershey chocolate and a roasted marshmallow to melt it all together. YUM! By now the sky was a carpet of stars, the air crisp, and the campfire popping and sending sparks skyward. Time for the traditional ghost stories and campfire songs while the campfire does its magic. After a time, the fire banked, we reluctantly head back out of the woods, carrying with us a happy memory that will last a lifetime.
SUNDAY MUSE #182
WEEKLY SCRIBBLINGS and we're to feature a symbol or object of importance to us. My mind went to my fascination for old barns and abandoned houses. Many years ago I took some oil painting lessons, and naturally I painted old barns! One such is depicted below. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, October 13, 2021
I wonder why I’m drawn to abandoned houses
and falling down old barns
and why it is my mind wanders to
how life must have been,
who was the last person who lived there
and why did they leave.
Am I an old soul, wandering aimlessly
in this generation, as if transported
by some mysterious time machine
taking with me the memories
of that time and place in the pages of time.
What does it mean to be an old soul
and is there such a thing as reincarnation.
Karma seems to make sense
when I wonder why bad things happen
to good people, and if they are
paying back big time for wrongs in some past life.
If we are to learn a lesson in each lifetime
what am I to learn in this one.
Have I learned it or will I have to
do this all again.
The Sunday Musse #181
SAD TALE
Drucilla wanted to be queen
but alas she was only a pawn
she listened to the bishop and rook
until the knight was gone
Writers' Pantry @91 where we "let our imagination run wild". I'm having a flashback. I saw his name in the obituraries, the man with laughing eyes. I hope he found what he was seeking. He left an indelible smudge on my outlook on life. So, here's a poem for him.
THE MAN WITH LAUGHING EYES
I once knew a man with laughing eyes
who caused my heart to dance
who made me believe in love again
and, trusting, I took a chance.
I loved the man with laughing eyes
and oh, love was so sweet
I believed no challenge could be so great
that together we could not meet.
Sometimes we loved by firelight,
sometimes we loved by day
....then one day the man with laughing eyes
seemed to have gone away.
I said to the man with laughing eyes
"You seem to have built a wall.
I've tried to scale it but I cannot,
it's really much too tall".
And so went the man with laughing eyes
away from my life for good.
I guess I knew it could never last,
but, oh, how I wished it would.
For a moment we had it, my laughing eyes
but alas it was just for a day
and quickly as snowflakes disappear
our bright tomorrows slipped away.
WEEKLY SCRIBBLINGS #90. Rommy recalls an Anne of Green Gables quote "I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers!" Me too! The very word evokes so many happy memories. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, October 6, 2021.
OCTOBER!
Words come tumbling to describe sights,
sounds and memories from the
pages of my life.
Hayrides. Bonfires. Weiner roasts.
S’mores. Pumpkins. Gourds.
Chrysanthemums. Migrating geese.
Flocking birds. Cobalt skies.
Burning leaves. Flaming maples.
Russet oaks. Golden aspens.
Misty mornings. First frost.
Scarecrows. Sweaters. Crisp air.
Harvest time. Football games.
Marching bands. Pumpkin pie. Taffy apples.
Little Pigeon River. Great Smoky Mountains.
For each word a story to be told.
Poetics Tuesday, and Sanza has given us lengthy and explicit instructions in the art of panegyric poetry. I've chosen to depict my dream candidate in our next presidential election. Call it fantasy if you wish! Submitted to dVerse, October 5, 2021
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THE CANDIDATE
Your youthful vigor has been ever directed
toward the goal of service to this country
you love Since early years, you have conducted
yourself with integrity, treating others with respect,
but never veering from your goal. You are the
epitomy of an honorable man, humble and
God-fearing, yet courageous when need be.
There are no questionable issues in your past
to be divulged to demean you. You have accrued
no debts or favors to dissuade your goals. You are
my candidate. You have my vote.
QUADRILLE #137 where we are required to "throw stone poems" using the word stone.
Writer's Pantry #90 Methinks my interpretation of Miss Rosemary's Weekly Scribbling challenge for realism fell short, so here's another effort at realism. The photo is of a street in our community, the description is of a daytime view from my window.
FROM MY WINDOW
The late summer sky is a cloudless cobalt.
A new home is being built across the street,
and today the roofers are busy. They walk
effortlessly on the steep pitch of the roof as
they go about their work. At noon, they
stop and sit on the cement slab that will be
the front porch, and share their sack lunches
and daily gossip, no doubt, grateful their
outside work relieves them of the necessity
of wearing masks. Activity is interspersed
by the daily parade of dog-walkers, who
amuse me daily by their endless array of
four-legged companions. Soon the house
will be complete, new neighbors moved in,
and life will go on comfortably in our
over-55 community.
The Sunday Muse #180
My lips are sealed.’
I am the keeper of
dark secrets passed
to me by those
who came before
I do not speak of the
tortured souls they
left behind,. My eye
is ever open, seeking
respite from the
burden I bear.
It's Tuesday Poetics, and Lillian has given us a site that lists the #1 hits in the year of our birth, and challenges us to use that title in our poem. I'm not sure whether to be insulted, to weep or laugh. I am apparently so old the calendar at the site begins in l940 when I was 6 years old! I had to look elsewhere to discover #1 in my birth year was "Moon Glow" by.Benny Goodman. But along the way I wondered why we consider the moon to be masculine. Submitted to dVerse, 9/20/21
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Why do we say man in the moon
Why not lady of midnight
Could the moon cast her moonglow
On objects below
Could she send her magic moonlight
Moonbeaming lovers in the dark
Who says that's not right
Being the queen of romance
and star-studded dance
Could we just for once say
The lady shines tonight?
Haibun/Haiku and Frank asks us to overcome writers' block for our haibun this early autumn day. Having made a quick (?) stop at the grocery, I had no trouble with block at all! Submitted to dVerse 9/27/21
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GROCER MIGRAINE
In the Stone Age, when I was a child, the grocer in our little town had shelves stocked with everything from crackers to bag balm. It was a folksy little place where the local farmers gathered to visit a bit before going home to do the chores, and kids could get a towering ice cream cone for a dime. I was thinking of it this week while bumbling about my ex-favorite grocery trying to find the items on my list. The store is being converted to one of those mega-nightmares where I need a golf cart to get from produce to paper products. Nothing is where it used to be, and the layout, I’m sure, was created by a demented chimp on speed. A pound of coffee used to be 16 ounces, and picking up a box of crackers used to be a simple thing once upon a long ago. Now crackers gives me a headache. Low fat or no fat? Extra thin and crispy? Do I want regular, salt-free or low salt, cheddar flavor, ranch or barbeque, baked or traditional? It’s enough to leave hapless shoppers in a corner in the fetal position. My friends and I are in our senior years. We wear out quickly. We have decided to lobby for a first-aid station somewhre mid--store!
Grocer marathon
Requires time and stamina
No more quick pick-ups
Writer's Pantrv #89, and I've indulged in a bit of word play. Heaven knows the English language provides enough fodder for the mill when it comes to word play. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, September 26, 2021.
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WHAT'S UP?
The English language has lots of idiosyncrasies,
not the least of which is the little word up.
Attempting to explain it to someone learning
English is a lesson in frustration. Give up,
for example, is to concede, hold up is to rob;
and a tossup is equally divided. While makeup
means cosmetics applied to one’s face, to make up
is to mend a fractured relationship. Put up
implies to restore to proper place; but undesired
people are someone you won’t put up with.
To begin is to start up, but an impertinent
person is an upstart. A person over-impressed
with themselves is said to be stuck up (or uppity), but to
rob at gunpoint is a stickup. There are numerous
more uses, but it’s best to simply avoid the word
up when helping someone learn English, It just
leaves them...you guessed it...all mixed up. It’s no
surprise a common greeting is WHAT’S UP?
WEEKLY SCRIBBLINGS Autumnal Equinox, and Magaly has given us a choice of phrases to include in our poem. I've chosen "I see you". Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, 9/22/21
POETICS TUESDAY. Mish's challenge has us considering the marvelous fruits of autumn. Autumn trips to the apple orchard were part of my childhood. Submited to dVerse 9/21/2021.
It was autumn tradition -- apple orchard day!
A country drive down sun kissed roads,
painted leaves skittering across the road,
the sky a clear and cloudless cobalt blue.
At last, the familiar apple barn!
Savoring its heady. sweet smell
we’re offered cups of spiced cider
while mother chooses her familiar
--red delicious, jonathans,
Grimes goldens--every year exactly
4 1/2 bushels--we eye the caramel
apples that will be take-home treats..
With a trunk full of apples, off we go.
munching our crisp, juicy apples.
Within two weeks, the shelves in
Mother’s larder are lined with
sparkling jars of apple butter, apple sauce,
apple jelly, and sliced apples for pies;
the rest in cool storage bins for school day
snacks and the winter traditional Sunday
supper of popcorn and crisp apples.
Another year, another apple orchard day.
Ah, bliss!.
QUADRILLE #136 Linda asks that we use the word "linger" in our 44 word quadrille. Submitted to dVerse, September 20, 2021
MEMORY LINGERS
Gone so many years
yet your memory lingers
sometimes I feel your touch
hear your voice
smell your after shave
remember thoughts shared
and plans made
gentle loving nights
and for a moment,
just for a fleeting moment,
I don't feel alone
Writers' Pantry #87 Summer is winding down in my world. I've written an homage to country summers as I recall them. I really think they haven't changed a good deal over the years! Submitted to Poets & Stoytellers United, September 19, 2021.
COUNTRY SUMMER
Unforgiving heat and humidity
steals your breath and
leaves you without energy
like an inert dryad
clinging to an autumn leaf
Ears hang heavy on the cornstalks
tomatoes, plump and red in the garden
magenta grapes cluster on the vine
pumpkins destined for jack-o-lanterns
dot fields awaiting hopeful children.
Cattle group under shade trees
or stand in streams for relief
birds begin to gather for migration
in obsidian rows on phone lines, or
flying in undulating formations
Farmers prepare for harvest
their tractors join country traffic
and roads become a parade
in familiar processions accepted
by summer travelers
Thunderstorms and lightning
make way for picnics and watermelon
county fairs and festivals
family reunions and church suppers
It’s summer in the country
