In response to The Daily Post’s daily prompt: if you could live anyplace else on earth where would it be? There is no doubt where I’d go.
I. Give me salt and sea
Let me wake to ocean’s roar
Guide my steps in sand.
II. Relentless waves shrug
Nudging shells onto soft sand
Here are her treasures.
III. Sunset on ocean
Mist caressing horizon
Capturing the light.
Peace, People!
much has been written
’bout men being sick:
they’re wimpy and snively
and not worth a lick.
and then there is Studly
that man among men
stronger by far than
one even might ken.
when Studly is sick,
though, all bets are off
his sneezes are epic
and, oh my, his cough!
he won’t take my help,
but, boy, does he need me
and heaven help us both
if I’m not there when I should be.
of course I’m aware it’s
my cold he’s caught,
still I’m an an angel when ill
and he’s certainly not.
Poor Studly!
MANDIBLE
Masters chew over marled
Answers seeking to bind
None other than that damn
Dame known for her lame
Illusion of turning a dime
Between her nimble
Limbs while repeating a line
Etched in stone for the blind.
In an anagram poem, each line must end in a word comprised of the letters in the title. The tense should remain the same throughout–hope I made that work! In addition I’ve begun each line with a letter from the title. This is fun. Weird, but fun.
Peace, People.
The evidence was clear
A small damp spot on the
Old door frame.
Damaged wood,
Fibrous, spongy
Clearly no good.
What’s the thought?
New molding should
Be bought to replace
This nasty wood rot.
After all wood should
Be sturdy and strong
And this wood is not.
This bit of nonsense was inspired by a conversation with an author whose blog I follow. Her name is Ellen Hawley and her wonderful blog can be found at:
I don’t believe you’ll find anything concerning wood rot on her site though. Just lots of witty and insightful observations from an American living in Cornwall.
Peace, People.
If my cats knew how
Much pleasure I derive from
Watching them, they’d leave.
under hobbies i listed
drinking wine, but no one took
me seriously.
“i say,” i said, “dont disparage my
good taste.”
if i had mentioned basket weaving,
scrapbooking, or candlemaking as
spare time activities, the crowds
would applaud me and ask to see
the fruits of my labor.
well this, this writing thing
that occupies my mind day and night,
waking and sleeping,
causing me to laugh out loud for
no apparent reason, is often the
result of spending time with a glass of
pinot grigio in my hand.
or sometimes a crisp Chardonnay.
Pinot Grigio
Peace, People!
Life forces us every day
to do one thing:
Breathe.
In a hospital room I sat
watching Mother
Breathe.
I closed my eyes for just minutes,
sleeping.
Silence
Woke me. Her life slipped
away while I still
Breathed.
For years I felt a deep
guilt for having slept,
Breathing
While Mother’s life
ceased with one final
Breath.
I should have been
awake for her, attentive,
Breathing
For her, perhaps,
instead I awoke to only
Silence.
A blogger I follow, dare I say, a friend, and I have begun playing Words With Friends. We are pretty evenly matched. At the start of a recent game he suggested that we each create a found words poem from our efforts. What a great idea!
So here’s our completed game, and my poem follows. Please read my friend’s poem at https://aroilinpain.wordpress.com .
On the brink of goodbye
She tread cautiously Into his space
A cup of joe as a parting gift
But he was curled under quilts in the fetal position
Claiming a pang in his wide open heart.
“You shrew,” he screamed, “You have no idea
How wide was my love for you. Woe is me!”
“Go ahead, throw darts,”she countered, “I can no longer feed your need for fame.”
In a dress of flawless moire, she addressed her ex with a shrug.
“This will make for dishy gossip via the neighborhood pipeline.”
“Just let me see, one more time, a glimpse of your areolas,” he said, “and I promise I’ll dig no more.”
“Aw, Ed,” she grimaced, “This is why we cannot relate.”
“Sh,” he cautioned in douce tones. “You are the nexus of my very being.”
Still, she placed her hand on the doorknob, “Once you were the tye to my tackle, the quahog of my pond. Now, you are just like a zit on a cob.”
I wrote this in response to The Daily Post’s prompt We can be taught.
Teacher, Teacher
When I taught years ago
There were days when
The mornings were hectic
Spent bent over student desks
discovering algorithms
And manipulating simple
Machines and describing
Force in terms of Newtons
On spring scales that broke
Routinely.
There were days when I
Daydreamed an alternate
Career for myself as a greeter at
Wal-mart, feeling that any
Job would be better than that
Of an elementary school
Educator who spent every waking
Moment prepping, grading, or
Worrying over pre-teen angst.
There were days when I
Felt like a master educator
Full of energy and capable
Of single-handedly saving
An entire generation from
The abyss of ignorance
Armed only with a piece of
Chalk and an eraser.
There were days when my
Classroom management
Skills went out the window
And I’d find myself standing
Rigid, in the midst of chaos
In fear of losing my ever-loving
Mind.
There were days when the
Rewards were huge, when a
Group of reluctant learners
Experienced that aha!
Moment and called out,
Teacher! Teacher!
There were also days mired
In test preparation, drill and
Kill, and drill some more and I’d
Watch the lights flicker out in
Some students’ eyes.
There were days when all my
Heart desired was an opportunity
To use the restroom before my
Poor bladder exploded.
There were days when our
Classroom buzzed with the
Excitement of creativity.
And days when I thought my
Heart would burst with love.
Those are the days I miss.
I. My man and I
Out for a
Cruise in the
Sunshine with the
Top down and the
Radio blasting our
Favorite tunes.
Damn, these
Florida
Winters are
Brutal.
II. Late winter sunshine
Indulging my contentment
Basking feels so right.
III. Snow where is thy sting?
My northern brethren know well
I revel in warmth.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 