Tag Archives: poem

Float A Cornflake In It

The last couple of days I’ve been reading books, watching strange things on Netflix, copying weird stuff from Facebook and avoiding writing anything intelligent.  I can’t see why today should be any different.  So here’s some of the fruits of my labour.  Or lack thereof.

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Hope everybody is having a fantastic Tuesday!  Don’t work too hard!  In fact, if you can get away with it, don’t work at all.  I expect you won’t get any better advice than this from me and F. Scott  today.

“It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.” ―     F. Scott Fitzgerald

Under the Wire

The clock is ticking down on this weekends Trifecta challenge – exactly 33 words written in first person narrative.  Ha – how simple should this be, since I do it here every day.  It is forever and always, ad infinitum, all about me, me and me.  And then a bit more about me.  The hard part of course is saying something worth saying in just 33 words.  That’s probably why they call it a challenge.

Happy Pills
Happy Pills (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

I SO do not understand

All the unhappiness

In this crazy world. 

Honestly it confuses the hell right out of me! 

So, yeah, whatever.

Time to take my pill

And get a grip.

 

Trifecta!
Trifecta! (Photo credit: OctopusHat)

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All He Wanted

He could not abide the woman

And her squawking, huge and urgent need, for long.

Quietly he took off, left.

So what?

Inner blankness all he wanted.

Sensation of quiescence,

Blanket of relief.

Olive Kitteridge
Olive Kitteridge (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Trifecta Challenge :  This weekend it’s another word game – seeing what can be done with a particular word bank.  From the 33rd page of
Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge, scour the page, choose 33 words and reshape them into a piece of your own.

This is so much harder than it looks.  And that was a great book, by the way.  Happy Weekend.

trifecta button

Hello Yellow

Yellow is the color of his

Mellow Yellow (album)
Mellow Yellow (album) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

True loves honey hair,

Blythe and breezy, light and lively,

Sapid, debonair.

Banana, lemon, mustard, cheese,

Butter, quince and maize,

Sizzling sunshine, dazzling saffron,

Goldenrod ablaze.

Animated, spirited,

Brazen and upbeat,

Yet dulcet, smooth and soothing,

Sanguine, warm and sweet.

Daffodils and marigolds,

Yellow daffodils
Yellow daffodils (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dandelions bold,

Paper tigers eye and jonquil,

Sunglow harvest gold.

A chicken hearted scaredy cat,

School bus, submarine,

Ribbons, brick road, taxi cab,

Knife and ictirine.

Jaundice, peridot, ripe melon,

11_quince
11_quince (Photo credit: Royston Rascals)

Fever, squash, canary.

Babouche, mikado, zircon, zinc,

Aureolin fairy.

Sunflowers, jackets, straw and ming,

Yellow mellows everything.

Grandpa William

This picture is dated January, 1957.  I don’t have very many pictures of my Grandpa William Scott, but there he is looking like he might prefer to be somewhere else.

My sister and I must have been given dolls for Christmas.  I’m surprised mine is still wearing clothes and has all it’s hair and no missing limbs.  (It’s not that I didn’t like my dolls, we just played hard.)  Once they were naked and bald and had full body tatoos my mother would throw them out.  And there would be all my sister’s cute little blonde beauties looking about the same as they did straight out of the box.

The china cabinet on the left is still in the family!  When we had it here it belonged to my Aunt M, was used by my grandmother, (who threatened us with fates worse than death if we marked it up) and eventually got passed on to Aunt M’s daughter.  She has the whole set including table and chairs.  This hutch was blonde wood with glass doors and considered very chic and elegant furniture in the 50’s.

I don’t remember that lamp with its mis-matched bulbs, but the drapes were pretty unforgetable.  They were bold reds and greens on a white background with splashes of vibrant lime and yellow.   That’s grandmas sewing machine on the right, and my brother is sitting on one of my moms home made hooked rugs.

In this picture my sister is four, I am seven, and my brother is ten.  Grandpa is seventy three.  He died less than six months later in May of 1957 shortly after my eighth birthday.  So I suppose we can forgive him his unsmiling face. I remember how sad I felt for him when he was so sick.  Before that he was always quietly happy, very polite, truly gentle.  He helped me out when I was learning to ride a bike but didn’t give me very clear instructions about using the brakes.  I ran into the back of his pontiac to stop.  Grandpa was a hard worker.  He put up with grandma. He loved his family.

We found a poem my aunt wrote about him – perhaps it was a school assignment, or maybe she just felt like writing something nice about her dad.  My mom kept a copy of it and this is what it says:

My Father

Who gets up every morn at break of day

To light the fire and milk and feed the hay

And then comes in to eat three bowls of porridge?

My Father.

Who says when Mother firmly shakes her head

“Oh let them go this once,” – no sooner said

We’re out the open door with thanks to whom?

My Father.

Who kills and plucks the rooster by request,

Then eats the neck (he says he likes it best)

And then goes off to bed when company comes?

My Father.

Who carries in the wood and pumps the water

When blizzards blow and when the days grow hotter?

From one who knows –

Your ever grateful Daughter.

Perhaps it was written in a hand made birthday card.  I don’t know the circumstances, but I love the sentiments. 

Boxing Day Blues

On boxing day to wash my car

I ventured where the wild things are.

W left his truck parked there,

Otherwise I wouldn’t care.

I’d stay inside and opt for lazy

Cuz this is a day that’s known for crazy.

On Boxing Day the traffic rules

Only apply to dallying fools.

The cars jammed full of gift returns

Go screeching by, their rubber burns.

They fill up parking lots at stores

Blocking exits, slamming doors.

People standing in long lines

Ignoring helpful little signs

That say there’s no returns today.

(Take your crap and go away.)

Next time ask for gift cards please!

Holy Moly, Geez Louise

This sale is on for boxing WEEK!

No need to push and shove and freak.

On boxing day for your good health

Go home.  Relax.  Get over yourself.

200 Words, Real Fast

Bedtime story. THE DARING FROGGIE. Ready? Here we go.

Once upon a time on the border of a brook

A wicked little froggie who had never read a book —

(Yes I know it’s a poem, and that frogs can’t actually read. Poems are more concise. Concise means they get to the point faster. Okay, you’re right, it does mean short.)

Who had never read a story or a funny little rhyme,

Had a sad and tragic ending once upon a time.

(No of course I’m not trying to make you have nightmares! The froggie was wicked, remember? When wicked things have sad and tragic endings that’s a good thing isn’t it? And don’t you get tired of all those happily ever afters? I know I do.)

The little froggie, sad to say, was very fond of flies,

And thought on this unlucky day that he had found a prize.

(Please, do not feel sorry for the fly. For all we know he was wicked too. And the frog is only doing what frogs do. What, do you want him to just sit there on his lily pad and starve to death?)

“Up, up I go,” said Froggie; “I can climb as well as hop;

I only hope he stays right there until I reach the top.

(I don’t know why he didn’t just use his long tongue – perhaps he was out of range. Those things don’t reach clear across ponds as far as I know. But yes, it WOULD be cool if they did.)

“I wish this wouldn’t bend so much” said Froggie, going higher:

“I wish that flies would shut their eyes and come a little nigher.

But he is such a good one and he looks so very fine,

I think that I must have him, for it’s time for me to dine.”

(Well, if I told you at the beginning he was going to fall off a leaf it would have totally ruined all the excitement and suspense! Just listen – we’re almost done.)

So up he went, regardless of the danger he was in;

He saw a duck below him, but he didn’t care a pin’

But suddenly behind his back the reed began to crack,

And all he heard was just one word, and that one word was

“QUACK”.

(Why are you saying Eewwww? The duck was just doing what ducks do! No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell your teacher a story about how a bad guy gets eaten by a duck. Although, yes, I agree that would make a more thrilling story. )

(No, I don’t want to tell you another one, our two minutes are up. Well, the two-minute rule – um, that would be the bedtime story sheriff who came up with that one, and we don’t want him showing up here to enforce that rule, do we?)

(No, not being able to read doesn’t make you wicked. It’s time to turn out the light, okay? Okay. Goodnight. I love you too.)

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