Laundry Day Monday
Clothes grouped
Strictly in neat piles:
Whites with like
Darks the same.
Delicates,
Hand washables,
Unmentionables
Require special
Piles all their own.
Yet I’ve found the
Nearer I come to
Laundry Day’s end,
That some piles slyly
Begin to migrate,
Merging with similar
Neighbors
Cutting ten loads
Into five.
And only I know the
Rules have been broken.
I’m a bit of a maverick that way.
Shhhh.
Twenty-something mom
Dangles baby on her lap
Feeding chubby cheeks
Green beans from a
Tupperware dish.
Baby points to a brightly
Colored picture above their
Heads then reaches for a
Hug.
Businessmen, one a
Fast talker, both clear-eyed
Exchange a series of
Ideas in a flurry of
Serious conversation
Portfolio splayed before
Them. Fingers point for
Emphasis. Fast talker
Shrugs.
Two ladies my age
Highlighted hair
Bobbed expensively
Laugh as only truly
Good friends can
Sharing common
Experiences that are
Even better retold over
Scones.
Two pairs of young
Couples engage in
Rituals of courtship.
One seemingly new
From the awkwardness
Of their conversation.
The other pair might be
In love. They constantly
Touch.
There are other solos
Like me: an elderly man
Playing games on his iPad
Sound turned way up.
A career girl, wheeled
Briefcase at her feet,
Availing herself of free
Wifi on her laptop, reads
Email.
My venti chai latte
Keeps me warm on
This uncharacteristically
Cold Tallahassee day.
People watching keeps
Me amused. Wondering
About their lives outside
Starbucks keeps me
Writing.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Clone Wars.”
Best not to clone me,
Two me’s would be too many;
Three, ridiculous.
Clone instead two men:
Harrison Ford and Tom Cruise,
Then share their cloned selves.
I get Mister Ford
You get Tom Cruise for yourself.
Or we could switch out.
I really don’t care,
After all cloning ensures
There will be plenty.
And what shall I do
With my hunky cloned Harry?
That’s too personal.
By the way, Tom Cruise
Gained mention because his name
Has two syllables.
Instead of more, like
Huey Lewis, George Clooney
And Paul McCartney.
Ever since I first heard “Take Me to Church” by Hozier the lyrics and the sexy, haunting melody have been stuck in my head. According to Pinterest, I’m not the only one. Many people are loving the song and its handsome messenger.
Seldom do I look up musicians on Google, but after watching a clip of Annie Lennox performing with Hozier on the recent Grammy broadcast I googled him. According to Wikipedia,
Andrew Hozier-Byrne (born 17 March 1990),[1] known mononymously as Hozier, is an Irish musician and singer-songwriter from Bray, County Wicklow.[2] In 2013, he released his debut EP, featuring the hit single “Take Me to Church”, and his second EP From Eden in 2014. His debut studio album, Hozier, was released in Ireland in September 2014 and globally in October 2014.
I hope he is more than a one-hit wonder. Only time will tell, but I’d sure appreciate it if I could get this song out of its continual loop through my mind. In the meantime, take me to church. Please.
photo from scienceblogs.com
I tried to fashion an anagram poem after one of the bloggers I follow did so. Her name is Sam Rappaz, and you can read more of her work at tokillamimingbird.wordpress.com.
In an anagram poem each line must end with a word of four letters or more made from letters in the poem’s title. One may not add an “s” to the word, unless of course there is an “s” in the title. Verb tense must remain the same throughout.
I added a different twist and had each line begin with the consecutive letters in the name of my poem. I’ve read the darned thing thirty times or more since completing it. Sometimes I like it, sometimes it’s pure nonsense, but I did have a plan for what it’s worth. And, it was fun to craft a puzzle poem.
Matriculated
Miraculously she came,
Arrived in this world to alert
Those who had no clue.
Rebelliously, she staked claim,
Imbued with grace, she cured.
Commandeered a minor cult,
Until those devotees raised alarm
Left others somewhat too late,
Angry, while many limped, lame.
Then enabled a facsimile of calm
Even through the storm irate
Dared to build a lasting dream.
After completing my anagram poem I wondered if I could handle a sonnet. I found an instructional video on Youtube (shown below) and gave it the old college try. Shakespeare might just be rolling in agony within the confines of his grave. Poor bard.
Rescued
Gathered together in sight of their friends
Bride’s I do’s were uttered, intoned in fear,
When knight came a’gallop to make amends
Solemn priest looked alarmed, groom smirked a sneer.
Handsome knight leaned low, offered bride strong hand,
She blushed, smiled sweetly, swung into his arms.
As he turned and hastened back to his land
All present could see the work of his charms.
Scorned groom gave chase, apprehended the pair
Drew from his scabbard, his sword formed in doom
Flicked once with a vengeance, sliced through the air
Brave knight placed himself ‘twixt lady and groom.
Knight rests now beneath battlefield so bare
While poor lady dwells in cruel groom’s lair.
Second Photo by Colin Cowie Weddings.
He says he is no bigot
Yet each and every time
There is a but behind his
Phrase and a smirk beneath
His eyes.
“I’m no bigot, but there’s a
Place for folks like them. The
Poor, the immigrant, the
Black, the brown.
There’s a way for them to
Have the same rights as we,
Just follow our rules, believe
Our lies, jump through our
Hoops, and if they survive
We might let them in to the
Whites only club,
But, then again,
They won’t ever be one of
Us.”
He says he is no bigot
Yet each and every time
There is a but behind his
Phrase and a smirk beneath
His eyes.
This was prompted by a Facebook conversation with a friend of a friend of a friend who always maintains he’s no bigot–right before he rolls out evidence of his bigotry. He’ll never read this, but I needed to get it out.
Love is the best
Four letter word.
I can tolerate
F-bombs and
Damn, hell and
Dang and S-H-I-T.
But hate, no doubt,
Hate is the worst.
Hate robs and steals,
Lies and deforms.
Hate starts wars and
Ends compassion,
Hate aggravates,
Exacerbates, harms,
Defeats.
Is it fair to say I
Hate hate, or is
Hate too strong a
Four letter word?
Hallways grand, roughly chiseled
Stone walls, tapestried, still allowed
Chill to seep into bones grown cold.
Flames sequestered in recessed
Walls burned day into night with no
Pause inside the draft-filled keep.
Lute played softly, backdrop for a
Feast served in trenchers. Crusty
Bread sopped in juices, shoveled
Indelicately, scraps left for serfs and
Canines to scrabble over long after
Feast’s end. Snarling dogs compete.
Lords, ladies, retreat to chambers
Above the hall, met by servants in
Rooms kept warm for master’s use.
Candles extinguished, madame
Feigns exhaustion sending her liege
To the dressing room, adjacent.
Silently, love’s scented mimic slides
‘Neath brocaded bedcovers worn
Soft as new-shorn sheep, seeking
Warmth as much as lust’s touch.
Whispers a welcome, shivers from
Pleasures greedily anticipated.
How’s that for an innocent poem about castles turning into a bit of lustful folly? When I started writing I had no intention of taking the poem to the bedroom. It wandered there all by itself. Naughty little thing.
Shortcake, spongy soft
Smothered in strawberries pink
Whipped cream tops it all.
Strawberry shortcake is my all-time favorite dessert. Creme brûlée comes in a close second, though. One might even say I love them!
Praying for Eyebrowz 