Story Time

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golden path 2

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.)

Take Two

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Here’s another take on Days Five and Six of the NaPoWriMo challenge, combined. Same photo, different poem, different experiment with line breaks. 

Mt Hood 

feel this day
with the soft touch of your gentle eyes
inhale this view; safeguard the scent in your heart
listen to the sunlight; taste its warmth on the mountaintop
tuck this day into the brightest recesses of your outermost soul
and share it as often and as loud and far and bright as you possibly can
for not everyone has the means nor  place  nor time nor the luxury nor sentience
to feel days like this

 

“Rued” Awakening

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You wake me in the morning and it’s always too early,
as though I had only just found sleep and had just chosen
my dream and then – boom! – here you are and there’s the
light coming through the curtains and my dream rolls away
to the edge of the bed where it hesitates just long enough
to tease a glimpse of how it would have played, where it
would have taken me and what lessons I may have gleaned,
and I stretch and try to pull the dream back to me, but it’s
already gone, and so in disappointed resignation, I reach
for you instead and take what slight solace — but mostly
revenge — I can muster as I find the “off” button and
silence your wretched alarm.

curtain3

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day Six: “Write a poem that stretches your comfort zone with line breaks.”  

NaPoWriMo, Day Five

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I’m participating in the National Poetry Writing Month challenge, writing a poem a day based on a specific prompt. So far, I’ve been running a day behind, but today I’m going to catch up and try to stay on track.

Today’s prompt is a bit involved. The gist is to choose a (relatively random) photograph, then find a poem in a language I don’t know. Ignoring any accompanying English translation, “translate” the poem to English as though the poem were actually about the random photo. The prompt says to “Use the look and feel of the words in the original to guide you along as you write, while trying to describe your photograph.”

Whew! Hopefully easier done than said.

So I opened up the photo gallery on my laptop, closed my eyes and pointed. I came up with this shot I took of Mt. Hood in Oregon, USA in 2013. So far, so good.

Mt Hood

Then I went looking for a poem, and found one written in Slovakian, coincidentally titled “Mountain.” The poem was hecka long, though, and seemed rather daunting. I decided to see what other bloggers were up to, and checked out “Mexi Movie the Third” to see Manja’s entry for today’s challenge.

Wisely, Manja had chosen a four-line poem written in Afrikaans. Now that seemed much more manageable.

So I stole her poem to translate. (Hope you don’t mind, Manja 😀 )

Here’s the original poem, as written by poet Hester Ley Ney.  (Hope you don’t mind, Hester 😀 : )

Hierdie dag
wat ek graag wou vashou
het gesmelt
en weggedrup uit my hand

Okay. Time for me to “translate” based on my photo:

hardy day
what a great view shown
and smelled
on the way up to it with my hand

Well, now. That was interesting… Wonder what fun tomorrow’s challenge will hold.

First Session

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session 1

Sofa. Davenport. Divan.
It could go by so many names, but
in here — invariably — it’s a couch.

“So… like this?” I ask, as I lie down.
As if I’ve never reclined on a couch before
and don’t know how.

“I thought this was just a cliché,” I admit.
Therapist smiles, bemused.

I shift my weight on the sagging sofa,
try to find a comfortable position.
But of course, there isn’t one.
Lumps in the cushions, scratchy fabric.
Is that a spring poking me in the hip?

Oh, I guess not. I pull the car keys from my pants pocket.
There, that’s better. A little.

“See if you can relax.” Therapist’s disembodied words
float across the room.
I squirm. I want to see her face,
read her body language.
But apparently that’s the point of not seeing her.
It takes her out of the equation, she says.
Or some such thing.

I stare straight up.
White fiberboard tiles rest on a metal grid.
What’s it called? A false ceiling?
Dropped? Suspended?
So many names for one thing.

I squirm some more on the sofa/couch.
Suspended.

Therapist does not speak.
Is she still there?
Has she nodded off to sleep?
She could be working crossword puzzles
for all I know.
I’m tempted to sit up and check on her, but I don’t.

What should I say?
What does therapist want to hear?
Why is it called a couch and not a sofa?
How much loose change has fallen from patients’ pockets
over the years, as they lay here for their sessions?
Does therapist collect it at day’s end from amongst
the lumpy, scratchy cushions?
Does she spend it the following morning on the newspaper that
carries the crossword she’s probably working right now?

I clear my throat.
How much time has elapsed?
I want to look at my watch. Timepiece. Chronometer.
But it seems inappropriate somehow,
to check my watch/timepiece
as I lay here on the sofa/couch,
staring at the false/dropped ceiling.

If only I could relax, I bet
I wouldn’t care what time it was.
In fact, it might even feel to me as though
time — like the ceiling — were suspended.

What’s a six-letter word for vulnerability?

NaPoWriMo, day four.

BFF ~ Best Furry Friends

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

smile a

Invitations to play
will go a long way,

smile b

or sharing a tree
where you both can go pee.

smile c

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

smile e

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

smile d

Dogs that smile make me smile, too.

The Daily Post weekly photo challenge: Smile

Top 10

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piano keys

When I become a song writer,
my Top Ten hits will be:

Heartless Love Song
First Lip Lock
I’ll Meet You in Cell Block A
The Keg’s Gone Dry and the River’s Gone Yeller
(a country hit)
I Left my Cart in Sam’s Tan Bistro

Ursa Major in E minor
Beer Belly Tango
My Boots Died, but They’re Still Kickin’
(another country great)
If I Were a Bitch, Man
Wine and Ding Dongs

In response to NaPoWriMo challenge, day three: write a list poem in which all the items are made-up names.

Waking the Muse

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books2

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