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!”
Smudging windows with your nose,
Marring floors with dirty toes,
Shedding on the furniture,
Crud you’ve rolled in cakes your fur.
Snoring, scratching, snorts and whines,
Odors one cannot define,
So many things best left unsaid,
For now, it’s late. Hop in my bed.
[to the Tune of the Tennessee Waltz (two-three) (one-two and-a)] When I was Seventeen High school band Agony Playing the French horn, you See (two-three), (one-two) while the Rest of the Instruments Soared with the Melody I got the Slow after- Beats (two-three) (one-two). Chorus: I re- Member the Days in the Stuffy band Room as the Teacher's baTon counted Three (two-three) (one-two) I would Wait for that Moment when my French horn would Shine as I Sweetly played Two after- Beats (two-three) (one-two) instru- Mental interLude here. Find your Horn, play aLong dear, and Soon you will See what I Mean (two-three) (one-two). If you're Lost in the Melody Listen for Me and I’ll Carry you Through to the End (two-three) (one-two). Oh the Waltz would start Playing with the Saxophones Braying, the Oboe would Try to com- Pete (two-three) (one-two). Clari- Netists’ reeds Squeaked as the Flautist's breath Peaked, and the Trombones’ spit Rattled and Leaked (two-three) (one-two). Chorus: I re- Member the Days in the Stuffy band Room as the Teacher's baTon counted Three (two-three) (one-two) I would Wait for that Moment when my French horn would Shine as I Sweetly played Two after- Beats (two-three) (one).
dVerse poetics: Meet the Bar ~ Waltzing
Today’s poetry challenge at dVerse is to write a palinode. As host Grace explains:
A palinode or palinody is an ode or song that retracts or recants a view or sentiment to what the poet wrote in a previous poem... The writing challenge is to write a palinode. This can be in relation to a poem you have written before (please link or include prior poem)...
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.
These legs of mine I will not show
Although it’s spring, it’s way too cold.
I’ll not yet shave as legs with hair
Are warmer than when they are bare.
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.
NaPoWriMo,*Day twenty-seven:
Today’s prompt: “write a poem in the form of a review. But not a review of a book or a movie of a restaurant. Instead, I challenge you to write a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. For example, your mother-in-law, the moon, or the year 2020 (I think many of us have some thoughts on that one!)”
Herewith,
“Do you have reservations, Madam?”
Oh, I have so, so many.
And calling me “madam” didn’t help one bit.
“Yes. Maggie… Quarantine for one.”
“Ah, of course! Right this way.”
Doesn’t look too bad on the outside.
Basic ranch style, minimal landscaping.
Is that the gardener digging in the flower bed?
Wearing a tuxedo?
Oh, I guess not. It’s the resident cat.
Inside, the vibe is very industrial.
Squirrel cage light fixtures;
original 1950s oak floors throughout,
pocked by staple marks, blackened with water stains.
Perhaps a tad too industrial:
an orange extension cord snakes down the hallway;
a Stanley toolbox claims half the floor space in the bathroom.
Sleeping accommodations are comfy.
pink sheets in a lilac room.
I question how long it’s been since the bedding was changed.
The gardener has come inside, and is now
curled up on a sunny patch of living room carpet.
The bathroom is small and appears to be under renovation.
It’s cute, though, despite the measuring tape left on the vanity top
and the caulk gun tucked hazardously beneath the rug.
As to cleanliness… well, let’s just say the industrial style
needs to include some industrial cleaning soon.
On to the kitchen. Oh, my.
I think I will be ordering delivery for the duration of my stay.
That’s okay. I can’t cook anyway.
It’s almost as if the keepers of this establishment knew that already.
A sliding glass door leads to an enclosed back yard, which –
curiously – continues the industrial theme.
A pair of saw horses stand at the ready.
A second pair have collapsed and lay in a heap where they fell.
Old splintered baseboards poke out from a stack of two by sixes
that had a former life as part of the now diminished deck.
On the lawn, a white dog has passed out in the shade.
Or so it appears; I can tell he is watching me through half-veiled eyes.
He must be the other tenant I was warned about,
but I was told he is an excellent self-distancer.
So this is where I’ll be spending the sum of my
indeterminate quarantine.
No five-star rating here, but the accommodations will suffice.
The tuxedo cat makes a sweet gardener.
The lawn ornament dog will keep me occupied;
he seems to have an acute sense of meal times.
I give this place a three “S” rating:
Stay home;
Stay safe;
Stay alive.
Whose house this is, I think I know.
Their village is the woods, and so
they will not mind my stepping in,
I’ll eat their porridge, then I’ll go.
Their furniture both sparse and spare,
I tried to sit in every chair.
One too hard and one too soft,
one broke beneath my derriere.
I tasted porridge, hot and cold,
and one just right. I drained the bowl.
Then up the stairs to take a nap.
I’m as ill-mannered as I am bold.
I fell asleep, but woke to stares
of three sizes of disgruntled bears,
I’ve miles to run ’til I escape
three hungry beasts with broken chairs.
Day 12 of National Poetry Writing Month. I’m off-prompt today. I woke up thinking of Robert Frost for some reason, so I went with it.
Happy Easter! Be safe!
Day Nine of NaPoWriMo. *
Today’s prompt:
” write a “concrete” poem – a poem in which the lines and words are organized to take a shape that reflects in some way the theme of the poem. “
As my bathroom remodel drags on, I have spent some sleepless nights worrying about things like p traps and wax ring seals and waterproof caulk. So today’s poem is a reflection of that. Herewith,
Tap tap…
“Is this thing on?”
I am answered with the squeal of feedback from my microphone.
Squinting through the bright spotlight, I see vague outlines of a few forms in the audience. I hear the shuffling of feet, some random coughing, chairs chirping as they scrape the floor.
“So, it’s been a while.” My breath stirs dustmotes from the mic.
Silence.
I clear my throat.
“Anyway, as you know, it’s almost April, and April is National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo for short. And I’m here to announce that – even though I’ve only posted once on my blog so far this year – I fully intend to meet the challenge of writing a poem a day for the entire month of April.”
Silence.
Apparently, I’ve lost a few audience members in my absence. Or maybe a lot. Not that I had many to begin with.
Sigh.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” I say to my muse. “Muse?? Muse!!” Now where has she gone off to?
Well, I’ll find her and bring her back well-inked and ready for the challenge.
See you then. If you’re still out there…
What Rhymes with Stanza? 