Careening go I to the depths of my soul
To deliberate questions upon me bestowed.
Ponderous options, I’m bowed with the weight.
Considerations not dared left to fate.
The myriad choices, I –
“Ma’am? Your decision?”
“Chocolate. No. Vanilla. No. A scoop of each, please!”
“You’re such a witch!”
As if that’s a bad thing?
I stifle a laugh,
plot with which potion
your coffee to taint.
Insult me at will, I’ve been called much worse.
My cauldron erupts effervescently.
“You’re such a witch!”
I nod my agreement.
And you are a toad.
Just stating a fact;
I’m not calling names.
Croak your rebuttal, alas to no end.
Gaze into yon pond, your true self to see.
dVerse Poetics — Halloweeny Humans.
Today’s dVerse challenge, as hosted by Lisa, is to write a Halloween-themed poem that speaks to a human attribute that we find particularly irritating. For me, it is name-calling. The poem form, for extra credit, is called a duodora, which you can read about on the dVerse site.
“I wonder if I – “
“It wouldn’t work.”
“But what if – “
“You can’t. No training; no expertise.”
“But – “
“Can’t afford it.”
“I’m curious,” I say. “Do you even know
what we’re talking about?”
He glances up from the newspaper.
“Does it matter?”
The morning is spent, and me with it.
Hours of pulling weeds, spreading wood chips,
planning which shrubs to transplant where…
Some call it gardening.
It’s blatant manipulation, really;
rearranging earth’s flora to satisfy human aesthetic.
From my chair on the porch, I look skyward.
“Ah,” muse has joined me. “The sky is yours to ponder.”
I ponder muse instead. “The sky is mine?”
A scrub jay has been eavesdropping.
REE REE REALLY!?! his strident call inquires.
He flits away, a blue blur among green leaves.
WHO WHOOO WHO, questions a collared dove
from a tree further distant.
Who says the sky is yours?
I glare at muse. “See what you started?”
A lone grey pigeon cuts expanding circles above.
Owning the sky, eh, muse?
Usually, the homing pigeons fly in multiples.
Raised by a neighbor, I am told,
who lets them out regularly for exercise.
Are they his, I wonder? Or does he – in reality –
manipulate earth’s fauna for human enjoyment?
In the course of fifteen minutes three jets have passed overhead,
marring the bright blue sky with jagged white contrails.
Two big crows eye me from a nearby fence.
“No,” I sigh. “The sky is not ours.”
We just pollute earth’s elements for human convenience.
I’ve pondered enough. I’m going inside.
“The sky is mine,” I scoff, shaking my head.
“– to ponder… I said ‘to ponder’,” muse mutters.
“It was just a thought that struck me, like — out of the blue.”
“Tell that to the birds,” I say.
You slip into the crook of my arm as I recline on the sofa, your diapered bottom cradled like a football. I can feel your body beneath my hand rise and fall with your breathing. You – most likely – can hear my heartbeat as your head rests peacefully on my chest. I could, I think, sit like this forever.
Budding hearts of spring.
All is new; life pulses through
Veins and vines and views.
______________________
Whose legs these are I think I know;
Encased in jeans all winter, though.
Today I’ll shave, first time this year!
The spring reveal: legs white as snow.
high histrionics
hard to handle holidays
have a highball, hon
#AtoZChallenge: 26 posts in April, topics to proceed alphabetically. Creating a theme for one’s blog challenge is optional. My theme for 2021: a three line alliteration each day (5-7-5, haiku-ish) with the first letter of each line the same as the letter of the day.
The self-proclaimed matriarch deigned to hold sway
though the mothers before her had not yet passed away.
A whitewater rapid propelled toward the sea,
A true force of nature, one might (quietly) say.
The matriarch’s offspring like eddies were spun.
In fast-swirling waters to slick boulders they clung.
Two generations deeper the river was carved.
“A true tour de force!” might have (loudly) been sung.
The matriarch lived a great-grandchild to see.
Still white-capped, less rapid, still bound for the sea.
A force to be reckoned with up to her last breath,
then the matriarch’s mantle was passed down to me.
My waters run smoother, though the currents run strong,
and the offspring of offspring with my blessings flow on.
As to my own reckoning, may I kindly be seen
as a force (mostly) for good, when the mantle moves on.
Sunday school teacher
white-haired and diminutive
lessons lost on youth.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 