Category Archives: humor

Chez Maggie

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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,

Chez Maggie

Chez Maggie

“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.

National Poetry Writing Month, Day 27

Frostilocks

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tree leaves

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! 

Plumb Tired

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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,

Plumb Tired

plumb tired

I couldn’t sleep a wink last night
as I lay in my bed.
The drip, drip, drip of piped in thoughts
were swirling through my head.
My bathroom is a shambles
since I tried to fix some leaks.
What started out a simple task
has now turned into weeks.
The toilet out, a new floor laid,
the sink restored to white.
I’m flushed with pride, the leaks subside.
Perhaps tonight I’ll sleep.

*National Poetry Writing Month, Day Nine

NaPoWriMo Countdown

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microphone

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…

First Thoughts #1: Sarasponda

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evergreen branch

Sarasponda, sarasponda,
Sarasponda ret set set
Sarasponda, sarasponda,
Sarasponda ret set set.

A doray-oh, A doray boomday-oh
A doray-boomday ret set set
Ah-say pah-say oh.

Remember the Sarasponda song? Apparently, I do. I learned it forty years ago when I spent a week at Camp Kiwanilong as a camp counselor for a bunch of 5th graders.

“Outdoor School” at Camp Kiwanilong was everything one could hope for in a nature educational experience. Forested trails, a lake for canoeing, wildlife; and sleeping cabins without heat, lights or any other amenities other than rough wooden bunk beds (for keeping one’s sleeping bag off the floor; no mattresses).

There was nothing fancy about the main lodge, either. It consisted of two rooms: a no-frills kitchen with Paul Bunyan sized griddles for cooking up a ton of food at once; and a dining room with two long wooden tables that spanned the length of the room, and benches on either side of the tables. A deep fireplace covered the wall between the kitchen and dining room and served as an ersatz fire pit when it was too rainy to be outdoors.

We held outdoor classes in the daytime, and in the evenings, we played games, put on skits, and sang camp songs. No internet, no cell phones. You know, the (almost) dark ages.

Hence, I learned Sarasponda. It’s a favorite around-the-campfire tune, as it has all the requisite qualities: (a) the words are repetitive and easy to learn; (b) it can be sung in rounds; and (c) it’s nonsensical, even before one attempts singing it with a mouth glued shut by marshmallows.

So, here it is forty-odd years since my camp counselor stint. I haven’t sung or heard Sarasponda sung in the interim, nor even thought about it until this morning, when I woke up with the song running through my head.

It’s not like I’d been dreaming of dingy cabins, stinky-damp socks, or even dingy-stinky-damp 5th graders. It was just there, in my head, between should-I-mow-the-lawn-today and I’ll-have-cold-brew-instead-of-hot-coffee-this-morning. What kind of mental blip put it there, I don’t know.

It’s evening now, and the song is still here. I’m craving s’mores and wood smoke. I’m getting ready to go to bed on my comfy mattress in my warm, dry, lighted bedroom. No wildlife here, just an old dog snoring, a young dog twitching in his dreams, and a cat warming up for his nightly bout of climbing the walls.

But okay, before I retire for the evening, here’s to the good ol’ times at Camp Kiwanilong:

Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda ret set set 

Jackals in the Key of C-Sharp Major

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Day 21 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt:

write a poem that incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.

I’ve been told before that I don’t make sense, but I’ve never before been asked to make less sense. Does that make any sense? Here goes:

Jackals in the Key of C-Sharp Major

When the jackals came calling, we hid
on top of a mound of field mice stacked like rows of bricks.
The jackals didn’t see us;
they were searching through the magazine racks to the east.

Turkey vultures triangled above, calling to the jackals,
pointing with their flowing pink boas,
but the jackals didn’t hear them pointing.
They were listening to us sing songs about the stupid jackals.
The field mice joined in on the chorus,
but only when it was in the key of C-sharp major.

Then the tanks rolled in, three across and ten deep,
camouflaged with tie-dyed circles the color of a midday shadow.
They rumbled through the disco,
rattling the ground with their relentless tracks,
strewing trails of Skittles in their wake
like so many teeth shaken loose from a cantaloupe skull.

Turkey vultures flapped their pink boas and chased the Skittles to ground,
trying once more to alert the jackals,
but all the hapless birds could manage to squawk out
through candy-jammed beaks were
the words “peace” and “sunshine.”

The field mice, or at least the bravest among them and
those upon whose heads we were not standing, ran
toward the turkey vultures singing “peace and sunshine.”
They wanted to join in on the chorus,
but only if it was in the key of C-sharp major.

The jackals chased the field mice down the tank tracks,
scattering Skittles, tripping over turkey vultures,
dancing through the disco, flipping through magazines,
and came to a rumbling halt at our feet, and – non-coincidentally –
at the teeny-tiny paws of such field mice as had remained behind.

Other than the pink boas circling their heads like fluffy crowns,
the jackals looked utterly ridiculous.
And stupid.

We sang them a song in the key of C-sharp major
and headed home.
All of us.

Things People Say

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Day Nine of NaPoWriMo.

Today’s prompt is inspired by the work of Sei Shonagon, a Japanese writer who lived more than 1000 years ago. She wrote a journal that came to be known as The Pillow Book. In it she recorded daily observations, court gossip, poems, aphorisms, and musings, including lists with titles like “Things That Have Lost Their Power,” “Adorable Things,” and “Things That Make Your Heart Beat Faster.”

The prompt:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write your own Sei Shonagon-style list of “things.” What things? Well, that’s for you to decide!

And so:

Things People Say

“I understand.” A phrase often misunderstood.
If one truly understands,
there are many more effective ways to say so.
Better yet,
illustrate the understanding through actions.
Show, don’t tell.

“Are we there yet?”
Often responded to with a white lie:
“Almost.”
If one feels compelled to ask, the answer is
most likely “no.”

“I love you.” Best said when true.
Often withheld until one’s paramour has said it first.
Show, but also tell.

“Thank you.” Not said often enough.
Tell, and show,
at minimum seventeen times per day.

What Just Happened?

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Day Two of NaPoWriMo. Today’s prompt:

Write a poem that resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.

End with a question? Are you sure?

whats happening

What Just Happened?

Say, did you hear that noise just now?
No? Neither did I.
What do you suppose it was?
Or wasn’t.

Could have been most anything,
but you know what I think?
I think it was nothing; a very quiet nothing.
Came out of nowhere, and went…
nowhere.

You think I hear things that aren’t really there?
Where did you hear that?
Never mind, that’s neither here nor there.

Fact is, I’m not hearing things that aren’t really there.
Nothing wrong with that, is there?
Who am I to judge a sound by its absence?

Speaking of sound judgment…
are you thinking what I’m thinking?
No? Me neither.

What do you suppose it was?