All in the Timing

Posted on April 22, 2018 by Maggie C

You don’t think we can, do you?

I know it can’t be done…

I’ll prove I’m right, I’ll prove you wrong.

… by you or anyone.

Right down that row, that’s where we’ll go.

In here, it’s called a lane.

Set up the pins, we’ll knock ‘em down.

You’re really quite insane.

You pull Grandpa by the head

and mind his face, I know.

I’ll grab his legs and give a push.

Just take it nice and slow.

Steer clear the gutters ‘til the end.

That’s what my daddy said.

Dead center for a hole-in-one.

A “strike.” But yes, Dad’s dead.

They all fell down, we’ve won the round.

And Grandpa’s in the pit.

One problem, though, that’s only ten.

Well, just you wait a bit.

Pins swept away, news ones in play…

The gears are grinding slow.

And Grandpa clock is smashed to bits.

It’s really quite a show!

His casing’s cracked, his springs have sprung!

His hands are in the air.

He’s hit three pins in the lane next door.

I think he bowled a spare!

And there it is, just like I said!

It couldn’t be foreseen.

Grandfather clock will strike no more…

… but he did once strike thirteen.

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 22: Take [a] statement of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens. “The clock can’t strike thirteen.”

Mishmash

Posted on April 13, 2018 by Maggie C

Eat not, you’ll never want for less.
The next worst thing could be the best.
Heed not and you will find the hidden.
Spare the rod, the child has bidden.

Break some rules to mend the rest.
Let the sun rise from the west.
Speak not, others will pause to listen.
Smash the boat, champagne to christen.

If lies be told, pay heed to rumor.
I found my mind and sensed some humor.
The dead of night awoke the living,
so these sage words I’m thymely giving.

NaPoWriMo, Day 13: Write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended.

Story Time

Posted on April 8, 2018 by Maggie C

Rain splatters in puddles, and rivulets of water snake down window panes.
Snot spatters on child-sized sweatshirts, and rivulets of same puddle above little pink lips.

“Tell us a story, Oma.” Oma has already told half a dozen just since nap time, but how does one refuse such a rapt audience?

“Once upon a time there was a little girl and her little brother.”
“No, not about us! A princess with three fairies!”

“Okay. Once upon a time there was a princess with three heads.”
“No, Oma! Three fairies!”
“Oh, right. A princess with one head, and three fairies with three heads.”

Little girl sits back, satisfied with the new head count.

Little boy chews on the round, magnifier lid of a “bug catcher” container he has pried open. The bug catcher holds a big black spider — correction: used to hold a big black spider before little boy pried the lid off.

Oma gently pulls the lid from little boy’s mouth.
“A magic mirror!” Little girl reaches for the snot-laden lid and holds it up to her eye. “The princess has a magic mirror!”

Oma hands little girl a magic tissue with which to clean the “mirror.” Little girl misses the point. (Just as well. The tissue later becomes a magical horse blanket.)

Future pretend magical horse rolls onto his side and lazily licks his paw.

“What does the princess see in the mirror?” Little girl looks wide-eyed into the magnifier lid.

Probably not much in its current condition, Oma thinks.
“The future!” Oma says.

♦♦♦

The princess learns that an evil horse prince is going to turn her little brother into a horse on her brother’s fourth birthday, unless the princess can stop him.

With the help of the three fairies (one head apiece) and her magical mucous-filled mirror, the princess sets off down the golden path to the dark forest where the evil horse prince with glowing red eyes lives in a dark, dark cave.

♦♦♦

The story progresses — with minor plot changes at little girl’s request — and at last the princess prevails.

Little boy has long since lost interest in the princess story and instead pretends to be drinking water from the insect catcher container which, he informs Oma, has spider poop in it.

Oma assumes that announcement is primarily based on two-year-old little boy’s fondness for saying the word “poop.” After all, the big black spider that formerly occupied the container is a plastic toy.

Oma would, however, like to know the whereabouts of the big black spider. She half-wonders if it’s going to come flying out of little boy’s nose the next time little boy sneezes.

Just then, the beautiful, wise and brave queen comes riding up the hill to the castle in her magical Subaru, and little boy and little girl greet the queen with coughing, sneezing, snot-flinging hugs and kisses.

Oma takes her leave and climbs aboard her handsome Nissan steed to head home to her palace. As Oma checks the magical rearview mirror, she gets a vision of her own future.

In the not-so-distant future, Oma foresees that she will be coughing, sneezing and snorting into her own magical tissues.

And they all live happily ever after.

Achoo!

Based on NaPoWriMo day eight prompt: Write poems in which mysterious and magical things occur. (I don’t know that this qualifies as poetry, but it is mysterious and magical.)

BFF ~ Best Furry Friends

Posted on April 4, 2018 by Maggie C

When a new dog you meet,
with a snarl you may greet.

Invitations to play
will go a long way,

or sharing a tree
where you both can go pee.

A trip to the coast,
getting sand in your coats;

by the end of the day
a best friend you have made.

Dogs that smile make me smile, too.

The Daily Post weekly photo challenge: Smile

timeless

Posted on April 2, 2018 by Maggie C

hands so fine
I dare not hold
face so smooth
your age untold

style and grace
that ne’er grow old
faithful and true
as the years unfold

I profess my love —
may I be so bold —
of my clock, so long
as its battery charge holds

In response to NaPoWriMo early-bird prompt: write a poem in the form of a love letter… to an object.

Waking the Muse

Posted on April 1, 2018 by Maggie C

On the book shelf she’d hidden for nearly a year
‘mongst the likes of O. Henry and bard William Shakespeare.
From her disheveled looks and the smell of stale beer,
I assessed that some things are quite as they appear.

“Wake up and come forth,” I commanded my muse.
“I’m penning some poems and your help I could use.
I see that your break has been sorely abused;
I assure you assuredly I’m less than amused.”

Muse swiped at the sleep in her glazed, bloodshot eyes;
attempted to focus, or so I surmised.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, yawning, her ennui undisguised.
“I thought you’d conceded your poetic demise.”

“Au contraire,” I enthused with undeserved pride.
“I’m ready to rhyme with my muse at my side.
But your slovenly sloth I shall not abide.
‘Midst these rival word peddlers you no longer may hide.”

“Is that so?” said my muse with a withering glare.
“You’re forgetting one term of this contract we share.
I only assist you when I give a care,
so your impudent tone is a risk best not dared.”

“I meant not to insult you,” I quickly backtracked
in full comprehension of the talent I lacked.
I knew it was time to attempt a new tack.
“I would be most obliged if you deemed to come back.”

“Then I’ll help you,” she said, “to write exquisite rhymes,
sonorous lyrics, unforgettable lines.
There’s just one condition if I help you this time.
I expect with each poem I shall get a byline.”

“Agreed!” I exclaimed as I quickly agreed.
(My redundant redundancy belies my great need.)
“Then be done with this drivel so that we may proceed.”
Herewith ends this poem, and it’s high time, indeed.

Most gratefully authored by Yours Truly
AND my most eminent Muse