THE MAN WHO WASN'T THERE

 Weekly Scribblings #76, and our task is to use one of a few phrases using the word "blank" that Rommy has given us.  While my poem is humorous, there's a bit of truth in it.  There are sometimes those  anonymous persons who seem to blend into a crowd and disappear....those who you don't remember on the morrow.   Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, June 30, 2021.

THE MAN WHO WASN'T THERE

There once was a fellow named Horace

Who proved that ignorance is bliss

The ladies identified Horace

By his blank stare and forgettable kiss

But Horace was a happy fellow

Though greatly uninformed was he

What you don’t know won’t hurt you

Was the basis of his philosophy. 

In a  crowd Horace was hardly noticed

A blank slate with his famous blank stare

In fact, when folks looked closely

He simply wasn’t there !

THE BELL

 Writers' Pantry #76.   Considering the suggested "what's easy and what's right", I'm reminded that life is about choices, and we're constantly presented with the temptation to choose what's easy.  Unfortunately, there are no do-overs!   Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, June 27, 2021

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THE BELL

Of all the things I’ve learned

That I remember well

One stands out loud and clear

You can’t unring a bell

Life’s a series of choices

To be considered well

Once made, it’s as if they’re written in stone

And you can’t unring the bell

No doubt the road to perdition

That vaunted  sinners’ road to hell

Is paved with the unwise choices

Of those who couldn’t unring the bell

FOREST SUMMER

 The Sunday Muse #166

FOREST SUMMER

Deep in the forest

the she-wolf combats the searing heat

by standing in the cool, dark stream.

Nearby, the pups are napping,

too listless in the heat 

to play their usual games.

It's silent in the forest, 

as if the birds lack the energy to sing. 

Small creatures are seeking

respite in shady places, and a

steamy silence hangs over all.

A distant rumble of thunder

promises a cooling shower.

The forest waits....

. 

STRAWBERRY MOON

 Strawberry moon, sometimes known as pink moon,  the last  full moon of 2021. is thought to announce that strawberries are ripe for picking.

                                                                  STRAWBERRY MOON

Barefoot in the garden strawberry patch

 after last night’s strawberry moon signaled

 the strawberries are plump and rosy,

 ready for picking.

  Bending to find the ruby gifts,

 my soul is at peace and worries fall away.

  There is a reassurance that comes

 with gathering garden bounty;

 the knowing that season follows season,

 marked by the phases of the moon.   

Serenaded by birdsong,

 working companionably with bees harvesting honey,

 and butterflies sipping nectar,

 my toes happy in the prairie dirt,

 I’m grateful for yet another strawberry moon…. 

and treat myself to that last plump, juicy gift.   

SUMMER STORM

Haibun Monday at dVerse, and summer solstice is upon us.  Time for gardening, picnics and, in my part of the world, wonderful, rumbling thunderstorms.  Submitted to dVerse June 21, 2021.

Dark clouds gathered on the horizon.  The birds fell quiet, and small creatures scurried for cover.  A rogue wind crested the hill, saddled the lightning and rode it, arcing through the dark clouds down to the valley floor.  Deafening bursts of thunder rumbled up the valley and the trees bowed and thrashed in a frenzied macarena.  Raindrops built to a steady downpour, and parched earth slaked its thirst, sending forth a fecund fragrance.  After a time, distant thunder signaled that the storm had moved on, and a soggy silence fell over the valley.  

Dark clouds foretell storm

Nature exerts dominance

Silence left behind

DOORWAYS

 Writers' Pantry #75.   Doors on city streets have always fascinated me.  I'm left wondering what stories they conceal, what secrets they hold forever.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, June 20, 2021

DOORWAYS

the closed door

shuts out chaos

warmth and safety within

the red door

speaks of welcome

to those who

wish to enter

schoolhouse door

house of education

key to success

the church door

God found within

spirit nourished 

AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN

The Sunday Muse #165

Call me independent

Call me contentious

I'm not a commodity

I'm not licentious

I won't be collected

Like a box from a shelf

If you want to court me

Come collect me yourself

 

BROKEN DREAMS

Weekly Scribblings where we're asked to choose an image and write a poem in the voice of the character depicted.  I've chosen Marilyn Monroe, whose life started in an orphanage and a series of foster homes, rose to fame as a sex symbol, and ended, sadly, alone and unhappy.  I've chosen a painting of Marilyn and added a number of movie titles for which she was known.  Submitted to Poets & Storytllers United, June 16, 2021.

***************

wanting only to be loved for herself, 

she became instead a sex symbol

objectified and exploited

wanting only to be loved for herself.

THE MASTER'S HAND

 THE SUNDAY MUSE #164

THE MASTER’S HAND

We are as the clay molded by the Master

How much is our choice in the what comes after

Is life serendipity, accidental happenstance

Is it preordained, or just lucky chance

Is good fortune a blessing, or just a fluke

Is it “give and it shall be given” as described by  St. Luke

Is it Kismet, karma or divine intervention

These déjà vu moments that grab our attention

They leave us remarking “Now isn’t that odd.

Can it be it was guided by the hand of God?”

CURE-ALL

 Open Link #74 Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, June 13, 2021. Vintage advertising has always fascinated me, with its use of  words lost in the pages of time.  The word "costiveness" in this ad is one such word...one to be listed in my book of oddities.

CURE-ALL

Browsing the antique shop, I came across one of those vintage advertising fans they used to hand out in funeral homes.  This one featured a couple of adorable kittens and was presented by  Carter’s Little Liver Pills.  “LIVERITA“, it says on the back “Best for Stomach, Liver and Bowels.  $500 REWARD.  We will pay the reward for any case of Liver Complaint, Dyspepsia, Sick Headache, Indigestion, Constipation or Costiveness we cannot cure with Liverita, the up-to-date Little Liver Pill, when the directions are strictly complied to.  They are purely vegetable and never fail to give satisfaction.  The 25 cent boxes contain 100 pills, 5 cent boxes contain 15 pills.  Beware of substitutions and limitations.  Sent by mail. Stamps taken.”  Of course I bought this bit of history. 

Imagine!  A $500 reward if cure fails.  Try to get such a guarantee from  your friendly physician today.  Wouldn’t that shock him right out of his stethoscope! A hundred pills for a quarter!  Seems like the cost of feeling good has certainly escalated. Megabucks are spent annually on the  health care industry in the United States today.  The cost of health care is prohibitive and politicians are debating solutions.  They should ask me.  I have the solution right here at home….on the back of a fan.   

FLUTTERBY

 Weekly Scribblings #73.  We're asked to include the word butterfly or moth in our scribblings this week.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, June 9,, 2021

The Great Poobah, He Who Names All Things

has posted an abject

apology.

"I don't know what I was thinking", he says

"when I named it a

butterfly

We all know my every intention

was to name it a

flutterby"

MOMMA SAID

Poetics Tuesday welcomes a new hostess, Tricia Sankey.  She suggests we use the word “risk” in our poem.  Somehow I hear Garth Brooks singing this one.  Submitted to dVerse June 8, 2021

             MOMMA SAID

He was born at the intersection of hope-so and maybe

Grew up in the ‘hood on the streets

Went to the school of hard knocks

Graduated with a degree in broken dreams

But Momma said “Son you can be somebody”

And somehow Momma’s words stuck

He avoided the gangs and the dopesters

Worked two jobs. and lived in an old Chevy truck

Momma’s voice echoed strong in his head

He escaped risk of trouble somehow

Spending his time in classes instead

Finally he set off  for his future

In a borrowed suit with degree in hand

Success came his way with its good times

Momma’s boy had grown into a man

“You can be somebody, son” still echoes

He’s living well and in great style

He knows he worked hard and earned it

And Momma just nods with a smile.  

THERE'S AN APP FOR IT

Keeping up with modern technology in my advanced years is challenging, and the business of parking has been added to the list. We’re asked to use a line from a poem by Jo Hanjo in our prosery, the line being “Crucial to finding the way is this.  There is no beginning or end” Recently my son and wife took me to dinner in an artsy section of our city, where I learned a bit about apps.  My prosery is submitted  to Monday Prosery at dVerse.

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                                                    THERE’S AN APP FOR IT

My grandfather used to ride his horse to town, tie it to the hitching post in front of the general store where he “shot the breeze” with his cronies and played wicked games of checkers.  Then came the advent of parking meters---those metal sentinels with coin slots to enable us to pay for the privilege of parking.   

Recently, we pulled into a parking spot in one of the artsy sections of my city.  My daughter-in-law raised her right hand (to which her phone seemed always to be attached), and entered the number that appeared on our parking meter.  Then she entered the estimated time we intended to be parked there, and said “We’re good to go!”  No coins needed.  When I asked how that worked, her answer was, “There’s an app for it”. 

When it comes to apps, it seems crucial to finding the way is this----there is no beginning or end..   Now I admit my aging mind goes on strange journeys, so as we made our way into the restaurant I considered that now there seems to be an “app” for everything.  When I tire of this earthly veil, I wondered, and it’s time for me to pass on to the what-comes-next, will there be an app for it?  Will I be able to enter a couple of numbers on my phone and POUF! I’ll be gone?  Something to think about.

A WOMAN'S PLACE

  

Submitted to Writer's Pantry #73 at Poets & Storytellers United, June 6, 2021   A bit of reflection on how times have changed ......

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 A WOMAN’S PLACE 

 Summer lay on the land in a suffocating blanket of humidity. 

Leaves clung listlessly to their branches, scarcely moving in 

the dense air. The sun shone relentlessly on lawns so thirsty 

crunched underfoot. Even the birds seemed unable to summon

 the energy to sing. All was quiet on Maple Street, except for 

the hum ot the laboring window air conditioners. In the tidy 

Cape Cod at 1423 Maple the housewife tied on a fresh apron

 and looked out her kitchen window. Her husband would be 

home from work any time now. She poured sweet tea over the 

tall glass of ice he expected when he arrived home from work. 

 For a moment, she thought of the time before marriage when 

she was working, and the excitement of feeling useful and alive. 

 As she reminisced, she saw his car pulling into the driveway. 

 Sighing, she went to the door to greet him with a smile. It was,

 after all, 1952, and a woman’s place was in the home. 

MELLOW CELLO

    

I cannot explain this poem.  The first stanza is AAB AAB, and the second is AB AB AB.  My muse seems to have a missing link, and I’ve long since ceased trying to control it.  Submitted June 5, 2021

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THE MELLOW CELLO

LeRoy was a lonely fellow

Each night he played his cello

Its plaintive wail filled the air

Its tones were so pervasive

The sadness so persuasive

The whole street fell into despair

One night there came a knocking

A loud knocking on LeRoy's door

The visitor begged he cease and desist

And the plaintive wails be no more

"Take up your cello", the visitor said

"We hope to hear it soon

Exchange the plaintive wail

For a happy, joyful tune"

SO LONG AGO

It’s time for Meet the Bar and Linda challenges us to consider anaphoria and epiphoria in our poetry, specifically epiphoria with repetition.   Last Fall I met old friends for lunch….and we discussed the long ago. Since we met, one of the four has passed on to the What-Comes-Next, but these are my memories of the day.  Submitted June 3, 2021

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Fifty years of the long ago

we were the mavens of the 

parent-teacher group, typical 

suburban Moms being room mothers 

for our apple-cheeked children, 

working at the school festival, 

chaperoning field trips, attending ballgames, 

and keeping our little post-war prefab houses tidy.  

It was so long ago.  

That day, we tottered into the restaurant, 

much more slowly than in the long ago,

discussed our children and grandchildren,

and all the years between.  Behind glasses, 

wrinkles and canes, older and wiser, honed 

by life’s joys and sorrows, victories and defeats, 

we wondered how the years had passed 

so quickly since the long ago.  It was autumn 

in Indiana and autumn in our lives that day, but 

the sun was still shining, the air was sweet and

life was good…almost as good as it was in the long ago.  

ROSES & THORNS

 WEEKLY SCRIBBLINGS  and Magaly has suggested we use one or all of the words uncommon, unusual, uncanny.  I’ve chosen uncommon.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, June 2, 2021

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         ROSES & THORNS

Ah, how sweet the smell of roses

When love is in bud and bloom

Hearts vulnerable and open

Never expecting the thorns that loom

How insidiously the thorns intrude

Along with sticks and stones

Love falls prey to disenchantment

Leaving naught but bare, bleached bones.

Disenchantment leaves one bitter

Uncommonly guarded from dusk to dawn

And the naivete’ that was first love

Becomes, sadly, forever gone.

Beware the hapless lover

Who falls now for her charms

He’ll be paying for scars she carries

From someone else’s arms