(Thanks to Anders Bylund for pointing out that today’s prompt was not categorized–and not appearing on the Poetic Asides blog! Once again, Anders is a life saver.)
For today’s prompt, write a mixed up poem. I guess there are a few ways to come at this poem. Your narrator could have mixed feelings about something. Or a character could get “mixed up” in something. Or the poem could be about mixing up a drink. Or a mixtape. Or however you wish to mix this prompt/poem up.
Here’s my mixed up attempt:
“Following the road”
Or the path or the sidewalk or the river
along the bank or the shore or the rocks
worn around the edges or the collar or a ring
aournd the collar or a dog (or cat) collar
or a criminal is collared or we’re eating
collard greens or lettuce or soup or stew or
we’re not eating anything because we’re sitting
and talking or discussing or arguing or maybe
we are just following the road and we come upon
a festival and people are dancing in the street
and selling artwork and ice cream and cupcakes
or just ice cream but it’s good to be there with you
and to have nowhere else we could possibly be.
*****
An education in music
He handed me the
Mixed tape
‘An education in music’
Scrawled in smudged
Ink along its spine
I accept it
With mixed feelings
BACKYARD FILM-MAKER
Forget the carnival uptown
with tokens for the thrill rides, the side-
show, the bungee-jumpers.
We’ve got wild doings right here
at home beyond the back-porch steps.
The new puppy
leaps over rake and pail and garden shovel,
over the old gray cat sunning among
petunias yellow and maroon,
across the plastic wading pool
and through the sprinklers,
shaking rainbow water in all directions,
barking to scare a ghost, then
slides to a stop, and sits
smiling
like a porcupine, drenched fur
at crazy angles,
waiting for her cookie.
Mixed Up
Tonite was the big night
I was throwing a party
Everything on the menu an insight
From sweet to sour and tarty
I laid the tables
Put out the flowers
I cleaned all the ladels
Everything took hours
Just before the guests arrived
All the food was laid
Into the feast everyone dived
Everything to perfection was made
However when it came to drinks
There were lots of mix-ups
The scotch was served in sinks
And there were no glasses, but cups
There were margaritas
And there was punch
The margaritas had floating pieces of pitas
And the punch had bit of a spicy munch
The soft drinks, there were plenty
Ranging from sodas to egg-nog
The sodas were all minty
The egg-nog, a sour, muddy bog
There was no vodka in the Bloody Mary
The Smirnoff missed the tang
The tomato juice spilled on the durrie
The champagne was opened without a bang
The pink lemonade looked jaundiced
So the Curacao looked mellow
The usually aqua-marine bliss
Had a tangy tinge of yellow
The bar was a curse
The guests were aghast
Hence the party was terse
A truly big blast!
A Short Spoonerism
Once a time upon
where thas a provely lincess
Do hid know not tow wo halk
In case which
Is there lothing neft so tay
Mixed Up
By
Arrvada
Is it me?
I think it’s me
I’m the one
The problem
The one
I’m mixed up
Disturbed
Distorted
Somehow…wrong
It’s me
Isn’t it?
How else can I explain
The thoughts and actions
Of myself
If not to say
That something went wrong
In the making of me?
Some wires got crossed
The mixture’s off
Someone messed up
Mixed me up
The pieces of me
Somehow
Don’t match.
Man’s silence
My ears caught sight of thy fading scent,
While my eyes tasted thy glamorous grips,
That mingled with sighs on my lustrous lips.
Thus my heart lulled my senses peculiar skill;
Only thee, my soul, welcomed with sweetly will,
And love took my thoughts where it shan’t faint,
Where man’s silence troubled not by fate or hate,
Or pain, or oceans of a single sincere thought,
Blaming eyes for a word kept unwrought
Though plangent passions echoes never relent
To faithful love bait of impunible taste,
And mind urges incentive cry of the soul’s repent,
While paths of hearts are charged with suspect.
See, what makes man’s pleasures conceal
In silence of mines of words, not to be told,
Brooding on sage noble untrodden zeal ;
Only to vex chained bosom with heavy load.
Hark, silence dances unrealized, flowing free,
Loitering untarnished in ecstasy buds unseen,
Parrying scud of piquant words, not thee
To conquer audacious emotions between
Lusty wickedness and tenderness of a saint.
Mix-tape
Blues in your eyes, fire in your heart
lost little girl just being found out
broken hollow doll at the doctor’s
infinitive scars drawing a map
to get into a brand new shelter
in the middle of an earthquake
you’re safe now.
Mixed Up
Lake Michigan:
sapphire blue today
shot through with shimmering sun
more lovely than a painting by Monet,
don’t you agree?
A chortle erupts
from the Emperor’s belly:
You’re mixed up, Mom, says he.
That’s the ocean, have you forgotten?
God’s finger touched this place
It isn’t Chicago anymore;
it’s an island in the Caribbean
the largest.
I did forget he told me that;
we’ve already had this conversation
but I try once more to make him see
reason. Jeff, the water isn’t salty.
It can’t be the ocean.
Did you taste it? asks he.
I answer, Yes –
with the mental reservation
that I did by accident last summer
when I lost my footing on the sand
and fell in, mouth, unfortunately open.
Another chortle and the Emperor says,
You must have tasted it before God
changed it because it’s salty now.
I shut my mouth and hold my tongue
knowing one of us is all mixed up.
OK working hard here to catch up after days of running behind in everything!
Mixed Salad
A simple start of lettuce greens
a slice of red tomato, the nip of radish
and crunch of celery heart, but then
it all went wrong, apples and oranges
a toss of raisins, slim slivers of almonds
a slick slather of lemon poppy seed
dressing, a soupçon of sesame
and all the strawberry slices started
to flaunt flavour, their sweet
saucy savour sending it all sideways.
Carol A. Stephen
April 16, 2012
“There’s Been a Mistake”
I thought I’d be taller than this. A couple more
inches would do wonders for my serve. But tennis
abandoned me when she shredded my knees.
At least I have the backhand–cross court, down the
line.
Half Baked
Mix
Butter, sugar
Beat until
Fluffy
Begs for a taste
Crack eggs
Throw shells
Into the compost
Can
Miss can
Hit floor
Ignore it
Add two cups of
Flour
Water the flowers
And a bag of chocolate
Chips
Maybe two
Can never have
Too much chocolate
Spoon onto cookie sheet
Spoon into your mouth
Spoon with your honey
Keep life sweet
Fusion Fairytale
Tom and Jerry chased each other
And then they saved a princess
Went to meet the king, Bugs Bunny
Fought a big green slimy monster
Story illustrated by the writer
A second-grade student in
English class, India
Creative writing assignment
Look at that face
Cat that got the canary, cream
And the three-hundred dollar koi
Headache
Walk into the kitchen.
Hey mom, can I have an apple?
Sure.
Wait, why did I come in here?
Walk back to the bedroom.
Oh yeah, I needed some aspirin.
Right.
Back to the kitchen.
Honey, have you seen my briefcase?
It’s right by the front door.
Thanks.
Wait, why did I come in here?
Walk back to the bedroom.
I slap my forehead…aspirin.
Damn.
Back to the kitchen, again.
Mom, sorry I spilled!
Let’s clean it up then.
(sigh)
Back to the bedroom.
Geez, I really have a headache.
I need some aspirin.
Caren E. Salas
The 1986 Spring Diary Monologue
Because goodbye requires my heart’s corroboration,
I played the mix tape before leaving it on the dear
John note.
Gladys Knight: now there’s a woman
who knows how to entertain fallen angels.
He says he went to the gym to get some ring time.
In the meantime the bell in our round fell silent,
except for the baby’s sustained crying , which is more
like she’s lamenting, as if her tiny soul aches
for the break of things that words cannot piece
together. Until now “neither one of us”
was just a song we sang to young nightingales.
not always a good mix
she bakes outside the box
but even her relatives are
perplexed when she took
to mixing up the batter
while standing in the
middle of her bed
My Mixed-Up World (Life in Three Stanzas)
Chair legs caught her,
Tree limbs fought her
Childhood loomed large in her senses.
Mid-life assailed her,
With children entailed her,
Freedom an illusion in her lenses.
Old-age amazed her,
Befuddled and be-dazed her,
And then introduced Dependes.
Pat Carroll Marcantel
Attachment
Limpet mine.
You stick to me like the add-ons
In an e-mail.
Like the stud earrings I wore
When I’d just had piercings.
Like fingers super-glued together
Like nail-polish freshly applied
Like a tattoo on skin.
Limpet mine.
One wrong move…
And you explode.
MIXED UP
Sky green and grass blue
Birds dive, Flowers float, sees sing
Coloring books, fun
mixed up describes my dreams
my father riding a horse out of the orchard
although he never did,
my dog taking me along on
a flying carpet ride,
strange, round, black-robed people
dancing up and down,
being loved in impossible places
by the man of my dreams.
I’m never running,
never falling,
just crazy.
Mixed Up
The cat thinks it’s a dog.
The dog doesn’t know which way is up.
Why is the fish swimming upside down?
Why is there a penny in my coffee cup?
The hamster is changing colors.
The chameleon is spinning on his wheel.
What is that on the floor?
Who didn’t throw away their orange peel?
The turtle twitches his nose.
The rabbit just can’t win the race.
Where is Henry the ferret?
Why are there so many animals in this place?
Love blues in your bones
You were born from the fusion of pelvic bones and thighs,
vertebrae bending in sacred poses
beneath the skeletal frame of a home
carved from cedar, finished in birch, covered in blood.
Honor the oblique curve of your mother’s sacrum, her strong bones
heavy in the dark reeling in cotton fibers
and goose down writhing at her toes—
honor her holy scales, her apex, her ilium wing gently
fingered by melanin, milky morena, and flaked with cinnamon—
honor her woolly mammoth roots,
the potency catered to her cleaving umber
phalanges sinking into daddy’s sugared cream back—
his hallowed spinal column humming like bees—
like blue notes,
her balmy calves
draped over tibiae like milky cloth.
MIXED UP WORDS
Isn’t it bazaar how often you here
someone say, “She’s so vein.”
Coming from someone whose
to cheep to pay anyone a complement
it isn’t quiet fare,
and seams a bit anti-climatic
all so a breech of good manors.
I have maid a conceited effort
to advice her of her fowl
arrows, but all to know affect
Sense they’re seams to be
a lack of communion.
she can exorcise her own
judgement, sew to me its a mute point.
weather or knot she feels
she is rite, and can except advise
remanes to be scene
SISTERS.
We laughed, she and i
(or is it “her and me”?
I always am confused by those)
coming up with a simile
(or is it metaphor?
those tend to trip me up)
and decided in
our family tree we
were two Marilyns
in the Munster family.
(and here’s to hoping anyone knows about the Marilyn in the Munsters nod.)
Oh yes, I remember Marilyn from the Munsters, she was the normal one, or was she the weird one, depends on how you looked at it.
haha! true!
With the cellphone lost
I cannot access you to let
You know you are unfound
You, the essence,
the bitters, the ice,
and that which
intoxicated me
And after the shaking, and the
drama of heaven-bound pouring,
the garnishes I added
to your everyday every day,
I’ll slide it down
the bar and let the
next Foolette in line
start the sipping,
the dizzying,
the astonishingly predictable
arrival at Dead End,
the yellow diamond
so many of us
choose not to
notice at
the turning in
love your imagery of the drink and your slightly cynical turn.
Once again, taxes and computer woes have delayed my posting, but now at least the first of those is resolved. Yesterday’s prompt from NaPoWriMo was a photo prompt, so I used one of their three photos, one of rowboats, for my poem. I’m also late for Robert’s tanka contest but wrote one anyway.
Tanka: Aimless
four empty rowboats
drift together on the lake
unnavigated
four captains wander the shore
unaware of who they are
“A Midwife Explains the Baby’s Position”
I kneel down beside the mother.
Her baby will come soon.
I place my hands on her belly
to feel the body of the baby inside.
He needs to turn, head-down,
but he has chosen to curl up sideways—
his hard little head to the right,
his tiny little feet tucked in to the left.
I tell the mother we can try
lots of things to help her baby to turn.
But if he will not move before the day,
she will need to have surgery
because babies cannot be born
from his position.
I explain this as slowly
and as reassuringly as I can.
This is the mother’s fifth baby,
and she’s never had a cesarean.
She nods and is not afraid.
She tells me she had a sense
that this one
would be born that way.
Jane Beal
VISITING YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE
——————————————————-
Among the stones
Lies Bobby Jones,
A chip-shot from
Memorial Drive;
I hate to say
We’ve been this way,
A time or two,
Or three – or five.
The Lion keeps
His watch and sleeps,
Over who knows
How many men.
We’ve come around
To Cabbage Town
and Boulevard -
No – not again!
Let’s pause our walk,
And sit and talk,
Amid dogwood
And azalea;
Recall ours days,
Since parting ways,
In Newnan and
West Australia,
Till time has flown
And shadows grown
And we know we
Must be going
No wait, no wait,
There – near the gate,
We passed them
Without knowing.
Flight to Oz
Whizzing Earth’s space
I did race;
like Dr. Who’s tardis,
through the northern
constellation of Camelopardus.
I think I passed through Cassiopeia
but to tell you the truth, it was all a blur;
it could well have been Andromeda.
Drifting through Ursa Major or Ursa Minor
I lost sight of the Great Wall of China
I recognised the three stars of Triangulum,
and felt a sense of equatorial equilibrium.
But then I saw another triangle
spinning my mind at an angle;
I asked ‘Dog Star’ Sirius
if it was aware of this?
It barked the name Triangulum Australe
adding I was now in the opposite locale.
When I saw the Southern Cross
I was no longer at a loss
I had read about constellation Crux
in some astronomical books.
I felt more at home in Chamaeleon
remembering my ability to chameleon
Norma was a lass, Hydrus a gas,
Mensa was a tester, Circinus a jester.
Into the atmosphere I whirled east to west
over the land of my looming test
I could make out the Great Barrier Reef
providing a valuable landmark brief
A long way from home I heard hound sound
whirled upside down I descended to ground.
Day 16 – a mixed-up poem
This one beats me
I must admit
a poem that’s reluctant
and throwing a fit.
Don’t mix me, muddle me
rock my boat -
I’m committed to surviving
and staying afloat.
I’m logical, clear and easy
to deliver -
not on choppy waters,
I prefer a river
or stream. Of consciousness
if you prefer.
Dance with me, my writer
a wordy pas de deux!
My Mixture
Take one part girl from Brooklyn
Add years spent in the snow belt
as a callow youth
Mix one year of Los Angeles smog
and frantic movement
Stir generously with one year in Binghamton
Fold in the restless years of Buffalo life
and the sadness of losing both dogs and
an unformed life
Spread on the streets of Kew Gardens
for eight years and then bake well in
Rocky Point in a suburban home
complete with children and Newfie
Unmold and place in Bedford with
days spent ferrying children back and forth
Frost with two decades of work and worry
Sprinkle a finally published book and
poetic friends on top and serve
PASSING NOTES
I listen, but your lips are dubbed against an unfamiliar track
your lyrics move me forward, your falsetto brings me back
your mixed up symphony, sung beyond its jazz
slurred past my heart with your drunken pizzazz
hand on my inappropriate hip, slow dancing to your heart robbing tune,
you wonder why I stiffen, why I’ve found the rhythm and become immune
i’ll spare your feelings, and even say you were on key
but I know you just wanted an audience, you never wanted me
you can ask me again, when the harmonies align, charm me
with the refrain when your metronome finds its time
Mixed-Up Poem
The poem is distracted.
She wrings her hands
and curses freely.
I am so mixed up, she cries.
I amb so not a sonnet,
and as for pentameter,
I’d as soon have distemper.
Am I just some kind
of lune-y?
Well mate, you tell me!
I used to love
sitting in sweet silence,
all the dear words
waiting for me to choose,
then telling me, ‘Tanka!’
but now I ghazal them whole
I, the poem without a soul.
I cannot bear to stay alone
without a ballad to my name.
With all my rhymes and metres gone
there is no fame, there’s only blame.
Listen! the high coo
of a mournful dove flying
away from this page…
Rosemary, this is BRILLIANT.
!!!
And beautiful, of its own right, in many places, in spite of all the mechanics that had to go into it.
“Ghazal them whole” is my favorite.
got such a kick out of this – wonderfully penned!
I loved the Haiku at the end – great playing with words! I could even hear the high coo! Fantastic!
Mix-Up
I want you to keep holding my hand
so you don’t have to get closer;
I want to spend the rest of my life
not being with you forever.
Slow Cooker
A little love, a little hate
quantified sufferings mingled with joy
Cracked hopes spilled together
into one vessel
stirred with emotion
Measured spices
sprinkled stress
a dash of sweetness
a pinch of strife
seasoned with the
lessons of life
Wow…. This is deep (or should I say “a dip”?)! After losing my potion, your specialty can be my daily bread!
My Bad
“Aloha,” you said.
“Aloha,” I replied.
But:
I heard hello.
You said goodbye.
yes. i wish i had thought of that this morning…:-) nice wording too
Lovers’ Disaster Potion
01. Mix up, carelessly:
A few years of a boring, but lovely marriage
A few weeks of Exciting New Perspective – Rapid Yeast
02. Stir in the emotions and bring it to high heat.
Add some confusion, bold feelings, and curiosity.
03.Sprinkle fun, laughter and cool childish moments. Knead well. Let it raise, covered.
04. While the potion rests and takes form, prepare the sauce:
05. Mix together the hot spices: lust, adventure, danger, doubts, secrecy, and lots of passion, with natural juices. Let it boil and confuse your senses. Stir and keep it over high heat until it gets thick.
06. Now, roll out that dough (item 4). It must be elastic and nice to the touch.
07. Cut it in two heart shapes. Bring one to the fridge and let it rest. In the center of the other heart, drop the hot sauce of item 5.
08. Oh, No! The sauce spread all over. The secrecy is out! Danger is taking over! The adventure and passion was discovered by an undercover cup! It was a big mess! A huge disaster. I lost the dough and the sauce. All down the drain!
09. Except… for the other part….the second heart shape… the one without the spicy sauce. The one resting in the fridge. That dough became crunchy, fresh, new. Didn’t even know what was going on! Just as well. Just stayed there… keeping cool!
10. All I have to do now is develop a taste for that. This is what I have today, but tomorrow is another day! I may mix a better Potion!
Bon Appetit!
LOL. This is a delightfully mixed-up goodness of a poem!
Can’t wait to see what the next “potion” will be. Hehehe.
I can’t either! LOL
Bon Appetit, Mon Amie. Tres bien!
I love your recipe.
;-P Thanks! But if it weren’t by the nosy cup, I’d be still savoring the potion! LOL
i shook myself awake this morning (found poem)
i shook myself awake this morning
to find plum-colored clusters of asters sagging
in the gray sky on branches that are frailer
than level thought. they shaped themselves
to the wind echoing one another in their sameness
of lifting their skirts and shaking off beads
of raindrops collected at their stems.
a tiny honeysuckle-colored butterfly slips
through those skirts and folds itself neatly
like a dog-eared page of a william carlos wiliams
book. but this morning, the heaviness
of things settled on the edges of my heart
were like those sagging sighing clouds.
there were too many muted lips chattering
into handheld screens on the drive to school.
if only i had flowered myself with those asters
and wished for a day off, i too would fly
and become a thirsty vessel of pollinated words.
For information on selected lines, please see link here: http://alotus-poetry.livejournal.com/138699.html
For me, a mixed-up poem, why not a found poem?
Tequila Sun
The sun’s intrusion through my bedroom window
Pushes back the Patron-induced fog.
Tequila’s evil tricks swirl in my head,
Last night’s events only a hazy blur.
Angry words ricocheted around the room:
You’ve changed…
Why do I even waste my time?
I need someone younger…richer…
More energy…more flexible…
Then after our dramatic exchange, the bar…
Shot after shot of smooth agave blend
Stoking vengeful flames…
Attitudes soften, igniting a different fire…
And now, with daylight rudely insisting
I return to coherent consciousness,
I feel his hand splayed across my hip,
Forceful and possessive,
His hot breath on my bare shoulder.
I cast a sleepy glance
Toward his sweet brown eyes and whisper,
“What was your name again?”
This rocks! (not that I’ve ever been there or anything…) Caution: Tequila makes your clothes fall off.
The KitchenAid
Is unafraid
Of the thickess of the batter
It paddles fast
To a point past
Which you’d think the bowl would shatter
My arms are weak
I cant compete
So i will beg for quarter
the mixer wins
and still it spins
and makes a mocking clatter
But I can hide
the stand inside
The freezer or the oven
and place the cake
upon a plate
Before my trusting husband
The moral of the story is
the KitchenAid’s a tool.
you dont need turbo power.
In the kitchen smart cooks rule.
Fareie Tails
Twice upon a time
there were a homely princess
who longed for nothing more
Than to wear an homely dresses.
She spun upon a spinning wheel
In a turret in a garret
She dropped a needle on her foot,
A drop of blood fell where it
Grew into an apple tree,
and ever after she munched quite happily.
Until an evil step-fairy-aunt
Cast an evil apple spell,
And our dear homely princess
Into a deep sleep fell.
Her dreams were filled with sugar plums,
Dancing in her homely head,
She dreamt she floated softly
In a cotton candy bed.
But a gangly prince decided
To end her happy slumber
And he crafted a tall, tall ladder
From leftover reclaimed lumber.
He whistled as he worked
Wielding axe and hammer,
And the friendly mice and bluebirds
Wondered at the clamor.
His lanky legs made quick work
as he climbed to the turret garret
where he placed a sloppy kiss
on her forehead, where it
blossomed into a red red rose
and our homely princess did arose.
Therefore evermore happily after
They ate sweet apples and sewed dresses
And whistled with the mice and bluebirds
And braided the princess’s long golden tresses.
The evil step-fairy-aunt they commanded
To clean up their apple core strewn messes.
The magic apple seeds they kept
In a magic box and the princess slept
In her cotton candy pillowed bed,
With it underneath her homely head
With her long golden hair wrapped around it.
Where the evil step-fairy-aunt never found it.
This is the happiest tale
Just as it was told to me.
And if you catch a singing mice
Or a friendly blue birdie
And sprinkle salt upon their tails
And toss them over your left ear,
They’ll live to tell the happy tale
Just as I told it here.
Mixed Berry Pie
Strawberries, blueberries,
raspberries, blackberries,
all hand-picked with care
when it was summer out there.
Iced in the freezer ‘til the moment was right
to bake a mixed berry pie, that delicious delight.
A gathering of friends is just the occasion
to retrieve Grandma’s recipe and follow her equation.
The end result – a berry-licious treat,
served a la mode, it’s especially sweet.
Strawberries, blueberries,
raspberries, blackberries -
sweet taste of summer, my
mixed berry pie.
BEING HIM
She smiles and sidles up
to me, begins to speak
as though we’ve kissed,
and I nod along, trying
to guess at who she is,
but then she spasms
as though stabbed,
realizes I’m not him,
(whoever he might be)
and stammers an apology,
flees without glancing back.
Now I am stuck with what
I’m not, wondering who
could make that woman
beam with such abandon,
and I long to know his brand
of cologne, the verbs
he pitches. I try being him,
raise my turquoise eyes
so they catch the light,
but the jut of his stubbled jaw
blots the sun.
Oh, man, Brian. I LOVE this one. Especially pulled by “the verbs/he pitches” and that crazy-good last line. Brilliant.
Thanks, DJ!
Brilliant, Brian.
Merci, sweet lady.
(mixed hues)
on knees and palms she hovered with pastels in hand
filling the spaces between the sidewalk cracks
with periwinkle skies and rolling jade hills
careful strokes outlined the silhouette of a tree
just before the first cloud rolled over
sending drops racing down the scene
coalescing hues into a vibrant waterfall
My Big Fat Greek Salad
Rub a cut clove of garlic
around the inside
of a glass bowl.
Rip romaine lettuce
into bite-sized pieces
and mix them
with chunks of seeded
tomatoes, cucumbers,
green and red peppers,
and red onions sliced
translucent-thin.
Toss in chunks of white feta
fresh Italian parsley
if you have it
and kalamata olives.
Mix it all up with
red wine vinegar or the juice
of a lemon and some olive oil
dried oregano, pepper
and salt of the sea.
It’s best to have
warm pita bread
nearby.
Linda Voit
Off
She wears her heart on her foot,
puts her foot in her shoe.
She hides her heart in her pen,
puts her pen in her shoe.
Removed.
She holds her pen on the left—
with what’s left of her ink,
she draws a line from her foot
straight up to her knee.
Round and round
and straight
she goes—
she goes on
to the right
side.
She writes
on the right side
of the page.
She turns away from the page—
makes a page of her belly,
makes a page of her back.
Lies back.
Lies back and takes a nap
with her shoes
off.
http://rosemarymint.wordpress.com/2012/04/16/off/
Yay, Shawna! So fun to see your gorgeous, fun piece here!
Thanks for sending [pushing] me over [the edge].
Shawna, sounds like quite a mixed-up gal! Funny!
So cute! Glad De pointed me in your direction, Shawna!
WELCOME!!
Oh, I see. My comment made 332 comments on this prompt. 332 is my number. EEEEErily so…
Whose magic number is 332? That is WEIRD. You must be a lot of fun.
Welcome Shawna to the “street” – glad De pointed you here, and some of us to you .. cool poem; hope we’ll see more of you here as well as at your usual haunt ..
welcome Shawna – love the playfulness of this
POOR NURSE JONES
The cute young nurse made her rounds,
patient-to-patient, room-to-room.
Helping the sickly on with their gowns
Medication in syrups or pills
offering comfort and compassion,
easing the suffering from their ills.
She was putting many steps on her orthopedic shoe,
But her latest faux pax spelled her doom.
Behind with her charts, she in her rush made a mistake she would rue.
Taking the temp of Mr. Martinez, thermometer positioned in haste,
when he asked poor Nurse Jones if ’twas oral or anal,
she asked, “How can you tell?” He said, “The taste!”
oh yuck lol – I hope I never run into that nurse!!
The Way Home
I drive up to the school and find
my place in the pick up line.
Why is it so hot I query.
I sit and wait and wait.
When will the kids finally appear?
I see them begin to trickle out.
Now I just need to find mine.
Where, oh where, are my kids I ponder.
Not here, not there not anywhere.
As my heart begins to race,
I brood over their perceived fate.
A teacher leans in to ask
whose class they should search
to find my lost children.
I answer, and before they can
send the troops to find,
I remember why they haven’t shown.
Today they insisted
on their feet getting them home.
oh my – what a scary few moments that must have been!
Mill Day
At four, I loved to go milling
with my dad when it was
silage grinding time,
all the corn and grains
of summer rendered food
for cows and horses.
The whole place was
warm and oaty, dusty
but smelling of seeds
and ferment, molasses,
rotting sawdust and mulch,
and lawn-mower oil.
The farmer’s mix would
be spilled into the hopper,
men with wide brooms
sweeping in stray grains,
the components of the feed
adjusted for each farm’s
needs, then the great grinder
would swirl, mix, and grind,
as I stood against my father’s orders,
my toes hooked over the edge,
looking down into that mealy
tornado, transfixed, drawn
by the dark mixing of it,
coiling in on itself, all
sound beyond obliterated.
My father once quietly
walked behind and grabbed
me away from the edge,
spanked me, and cried himself,
we both crying for different
reasons. The other men came
by to lay hands on his shoulders
and mumble words I did not
understand, about getting mixed
up in that great vat being horrible.
They petted me some then,
talking of their own children and
smoking, while I was sent
behind the mill to pick wild
strawberries, small but sweet.
this hints at grown-up stories too horrible to put to words and a father thinking about what might have happened. You took up right there with the smells and the sights. Wonderful memory piece
thanks, deedee.
MIX-UPS
~ 1 ~
grief-stricken,
she stands near the box
that holds her
newborn babe;
lifting lid to say goodbye,
she hears baby’s cry
~2~
best friends crash:
one dies, one survives;
heartbroken
families
don’t know they’re crying over
the other’s daughter
2012-04-16
P. Wanken
Written for Poetic Asides 2012 PAD Challenge Day 16: write a “Mixed Up” poem, and in response to actual stories reported in the news.
wow and yikes all rolled into one…
Oh my goodness. I can’t imagine either one. So in #1, the baby couldn’t have actually still been alive … what is the story?
Ooh, that made me shiver.
A Sturdy Cocoon
A butterfly built a sturdy cocoon.
We stayed up all night and slept in past noon.
The sky turned green and the grass was blue.
You cared for me more than I cared for you.
I had great hair and was not going bald.
You answered the phone each time I called.
My debtors all paid me the money they owed.
We shared an address and a common zip code.
The cat kept barking while the dog went meow.
We shared a dream which was more than a vow.
You drank the water and I drank the wine.
We looked in the mirror and knew things were fine.
By Michael Grove
yup!….lol this is awesome!
Fun stuff, and the cadence is perfect!
Thanks for the morning smile, Michael.
Mass Confusion
take a thought and pull
a dream out of
the air and stir them up
and mostly you will
jumble up the muddle
of our middling ways we
want to try to
strive for clarity but
all the mystery is that the
more we try and cry and fry
our brain cells brain swells
big heads nod with
understanding wisdom
of the ages fill the pages
and we read and meditate
on all the information
but it causes conflagration
smelling smoke now
something’s broke now
take a poke and how
we think we have the answer
but the truth the deeper meaning
pundits preening it escapes
from under noses striking poses
knowing all but seeing nothing
fluff and stuffing just a bear
a silly bear would share his honey
and a hug you might as well
I’m here to tell you
It’s a mess and bless
your heart you think you’re smart
but part of you is like that bear
just silly willy nilly
take a breath or hold it in
you scold me but
I do not care and will not share
get on the bus and do not fuss
we’re all the same just in the game
and hope the driver knows the way
we bought our tickets
have to ride so hide the button
the inner spinner it’s your turn
feel the burn and realize
there is no prize
just keep on trying
stop the crying
take a peek and make your move
and try to prove
it’s not mixed up
we lost the rule book eight ball
all shook and the message
of the day is not today
tomorrow not too likely either
“… we try and cry and fry
our brain cells brain swells…”
“we lost the rule book eight ball
all shook and the message
of the day is not today
tomorrow not too likely either”
Clever stuff, this!
thanks – it is all mixed up
Lost in Translation
“Dear Department Head,” he said,
“You are valueless,” instead
of saying what he really meant,
mucking up his true intent.
(A word of advice: “value” and “price” in exchange for each other won’t always suffice.)
bahaha love it! Kind of like grammar can save lives “Let’s eat Grandma.” versus “Let’s eat, Grandma.”
Heehee! And this is actually based a true story. One of our Chinese students was very thankful for a recommendation letter written by the chairman of our department. The student told him, “Dr. Freimer, you’re valueless!” We just about died trying to hold in the laughter!
Why die holding it in? If you’re going “out” anyway, die laughing!
But stay clear of the Dip! (Shameless Roger Rabbit reference)
Oh believe me, it would not have been in our best interest to laugh at that point. Dr. Freimer was not nearly as amused as we were, and our laughter would have brought out the side of him we tried our darndest to avoid.
Not a Roger Rabbit fan … can you ‘splain?
I think I worked for that guy once!!
Mixed Up Bon Jovi?
whoops… stupid enter button.
Mixed Up Bon Jovi?
Bon Jovi
song titles mixed up
was my plan.
Tried a lot,
but I couldn’t stick the lines.
Slippery When Wet!
SHUFFLE OFF IN BUFFALO
I touch my iTouch in a sensual way
to coax every ditty in consecutive play,
I don’t jump around to hear random songs,
to pick and to choose is most certainly wrong.
Here in the “Queen City” I choose not that function,
they play as they lay, that’s my personal compunction.
So, you’ll hear A to Z the songs on my “pod”,
Shuffle’s off in Buffalo, please don’t think me as odd.
A Portrait In love
You’re prettier than a tree
Nonchalant beauty alone
Up the bare hill
Reposes in the golden Beams
lightly warm and free
to placate the moody wind
in the abode of leams
far from the thirsty rill
and the doggedly crow
and all of it I can see
From my dormer window
From a house I imagine to own
Far in the abandoned land
Beyond that bare hill
Where a lake mimics tranquility
A womb of life laden and still
Mirrors as your calm beauty
And all of it I can see
From my dormer window
From a portrait of me
A sketch unframed, unfinished
On an easel, fancifully colored
Waits frailly thy brush and hand
To accomplish my metamorphosis
To achieve thy miraculous guesses
Of the unity of pure whiteness
And colors of passionate kisses.
SEXDAILY!
The winsome lass she stood there each night;
fetching, catching every male suitor’s eye.
But try as she might, they did not bite,
it’s for sure they did not even try.
But I was taken by this girlish beauty
who stood outside the reading center
her placard offering her service, this cutie
“I can help with SEXDAILY”. I meant
to keep composure, but I was sure taken
by her wiles, her smile, her voluptuous… teeth,
and I was horny, there was no mistaking,
with her standing there quite replete
with the offer, “SEXDAILY” which flashed in my head.
I smiled and approached her; she was rather perky.
And I hemmed and hawed and stammered instead,
despite her compassion I was acting quite jerky.
I pointed to her signage, gave a nod and a wink,
but she blushed extremely embarrassed,
when I misconstrued her “SEXDAILY” I think
she believed she was sexually harassed.
Her slap ‘cross my cheek would confound and perplex ya
in her innocence I did unnerve her.
I had read the sign wrong, “I can help with DYSLEXIA”;
you can see why this old man perturbed her.
Ruh roh! LOL!!
Hilarious!!
Mixed Veggies
Mixed veggies seem to get along.
The carrot/pea thing’s really strong.
Just buy a bag and you will see,
that veggies get it. Why don’t we?
Green peppers dote on onions. Why?
They make ‘em laugh until they cry.
No matter vine or branch of tree:
mixed veggies get it. Why don’t we?
Yes, cauliflower and lima beans
play poker with the collard greens.
And succotash digs broccoli.
Mixed veggies get it. Why don’t we?
They’re frozen, fresh or from a can.
They hail from Italy, Japan,
the US, even Hungary.
Mixed veggies get it. Why don’t we?
###
Bravo on the message, and the delivery is just too stinkin’ cute!
Loooooove this, RJ!
I love veggies, and I love your poem. Very cute!
Poe-etic
Once upon an early morning, while listening to my MP3 player droning
Over many songs that were a bore I came across some forgotten lore
While before nearly napping, I began to sway and then toe-tapping
As if some one was gently rappin’, rappin’ some poetic score
‘ ‘Tis some maniac,” I muttered, ‘rappin’ poetry in gore-
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the late November,
And each stanza had me dancing with your ghost about the floor
How I wished there was no morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
You from your grave and instigate you ravin’, Edgar Allan Poe
For the grim and gloomy poet whom we know as Edgar Allan Poe
Your name dwells on my MP3 player forever more.
On the Razor’s Edge
Confusion
Reigning unfettered as
Rain falling unbidden
Not welcomed but
With the torrent comes a brief reprieve
Distracting from without
Turmoil blooming from within
Weather changing as
The mood flowing from
Negatively to positive
Then sinking to depths
Where no joy lives
Sanity a boom needed
But insanity sometimes
A beautiful thing
What is love
What is love? I don’t know!
Yes i do! No, i don’t!
Is it pain that brings rain
Or is it happiness that brings sunshine?
Is love just a word
Or does love have meaning?
People say it but do they really mean it?
How do i know if you speak the truth?
When u say to me, “I love you”.
“Oh dear”,what do i do?
This word love sure has me confused.
Samantha Tinney
April 16, 2012 – Day 16
Write a mixed up poem
Unbalanced Mixtures
Two children die
predeceasing
their parents,
overturning
natural order
of seeds sewn
first, flowers
flourishing next.
Deleterious effects
of dysfunctional
families where child-
hood is curtailed,
due to parents unable
or unwilling to step
up, raise their children,
and sacrifice their
streak of selfishness,
results in children bred
to function as caretakers.
Some cocktails measure
out in proportional
perfection, while others
burn throats, their individual
tastes and subtleties lost
in a muddled mess.
When No Sense is Nonsense
The taste of morning is honest
And fine – and drips off your toes
Like the juice of a blood orange
Noon’s scent is all frayed edges and
Swamps gone dry on top and crackling
Late afternoon; you can feel it settle
Like three hundred thread count silk
On your thighs just before it slips off
Into early evening, that sleight of hand
Time when your eyes do deceive you
And the sun setting sounds like death.
Gorgeous!
Thanks Sara!
Dear Moosehead,
Yes sirree!!! That’s what I’m talking
´bout! 11 – 4! way to go Mr Jeter, a homer
batting in 3! And wasn’t it great to see so many
wearing a Nº 42 jersey? Don’t get me wrong, I
am very happy that the gudfernuffin Dodgers
scampered out of Brooklyn and headed west,
but that man Jackie Robinson made this a mixed
game for the first time and we should all be
proud of that. Now we have a week of home
games – the Twins coming to their “House of Horrors”
to get mixed up good. Then we have a road trip
to Boston to take care of those darned Sox.
Harpies are back a week today, so let’s enjoy
it while we can! pick ya up at 7 – I’ll get the
goodies in.
Yours with no mixed emotions,
Ringo the Howler
Your “Ringo the Howler” poems always make me smile, Iain. My daughter was at the game last night and between trying to catch a glimpse of her on tv and all the 42s, I was mixed up!!!!
Thanks
Easter Friends
the four of us grab hands
and Twirl! Twirl! Twirl!
our skirts bellow,
our white loafers squeak on the dewy grass,
and the parents and brothers
and aunts and uncles turn into streaks
of greens, and yellows and blues
but our faces stay constant
as we pass glances back and forth,
catching each other’s eye
and giggling and squealing and leaning
back to see the spinning sky above
just long enough to believe
this is our world now
and joy of the dizzying rush
will never, never end.
Crazy Little Thing Called Luff
Everything’s by the board,
when we’re three sheets to the wind
and it’s cold enough
to freeze the balls of a brass monkey.
So, don’t be taken aback,
when you’re being had over a barrel,
stick with us till the bitter end
and when you’ve had your chips,
it’s time to cut and run.
So, don’t waste time flogging dead horse,
just get on the fiddle,
or you’ll be left high and dry.
So, if you scratch my back,
I’ll scratch yours
and we can push the boat out,
luff the wind
and beat a hasty retreat
before we are hoisted by our own petards!
(These are all naval idioms except for the last two which are army…hmmm…seems I mixed them up!)
Iain
Metaphorically Mixed & Matched
Your image fades with time,
darkness creeps in at the corners,
like a photo caught by the flame,
dreams curled under the heat, forever gone,
cast out to sea in a bottle,
with the cork left on the shore.
It’s in the mix.
The maiden, the whore
the wise old hag
all mixed together
to create this bag
of contradictions
truths and fictions
part of silk, part oily rag.
For in amongst the feminine
is added something else of mine
a certain masculinity
which truth to say bewildered me
until I came to recognise
what makes life fun is the surprise!
There is no person on the world
who knows the secrets yet unfurled
hid deep in hearts and minds and souls
and every scrap makes up the whole.
Amen!
Loving the creative twist and fun of these last two prompts, Robert! The muse is happy!
THE PATH
Brought a wrath,
Of grapes that were raisin,
In the sun,
The hot, hot sun,
In the desert,
Now deserted,
Gone to look,
For dessert,
Like ice cream,
We scream, we all scream,
For ice cream,
It would seem,
Or seamlessly,
We fall apart,
To pieces,
Not my nieces,
Who stand strong,
All day long,
Until the boys,
Come along,
Then girls hum a different song,
I warn there might be pain,
Can’t refrain,
Little advance, no gain,
But I digress,
Dance around the mess,
Avoid the stress,
Prefer much less,
Or I eat chocolate . . .
I confess!
Fabulous, Janet.
Thank you, Sara! Appreciate you dropping by! Your words are clear . . . glad there was no “mix-up”!
Two haikus today — about mixing &mingling. They read better with the pics I’ve included on my blog.
violets mingle
among cinquefoil, bluets,
mixing spring magic
- – - – - – -
Seasons comingling
spring nestles in winter’s sand,
remnants of autumn
- – - – - – -
Playlist: Id
The beach is a place
where a man can feel
he’s the only soul in the world
that’s real,
here’s the thing:
we started off friends,
you say
I only hear what I want to,
how do you cool your lips
after a summer’s kiss?
I was born from love
and my poor mother worked the mines,
there’s nothing you can do
to turn me away,
broken lives, broken strings
broken threads, broken springs
welcome back,
your dreams were your ticket out,
I’ve been searching a long time
for someone exactly like you.
Come on everybody
open up your windows
turn on the music!
I’ve got to say it
and it’s hard for me,
last night I didn’t get to sleep
at all,
add a little sugar, honeysuckle
and a great big expression of
happiness.
Who’s the black private dick
that’s a sex machine
to all the chicks?
I’m coming straight for your love baby
Like a rocket, girl,
stand!
in the end you’ll still be you.
Oh I say the damnest things,
superhighways coast to coast
easy to get anywhere,
you just could not know
how long we tried
to see how this building
looks inside,
Late night flight, LAX
limousine and you’re all set
for Sunset,
now if there’s a smile on my face
it’s only there trying to fool
the public,
life is a song worth singing,
I can hear you sighing,
another morning,
you are on my mind,
you can tell the truth,
you can tell a lie,
baby, lift your head up,
they tell me you’re shy, but
I love you just the same,
been around the world
and I can’t find my baby,
I’m writing letters
and your candle’s burning,
my heart starts breaking
when I think of making
a plan to let you go.
I’ve been walking in
the same way as I did,
when I say I’m in love
you best believe
I’m in love, L-U-V!
As I was lying in a hospital bed
a rock and roll nurse
going to my head,
forgot my six-string razor
and hit the sky,
he was a boy
she was a girl
can I make it any more
obvious?
It doesn’t matter what I say
as long as I sing with
inflection,
I don’t think I can handle this
another day in Metropolis,
I met you on somebody’s island,
I have had my eyes on you
from the day I learned to laugh at myself,
caught you laughing too.
Hey, don’t worry
I’ve been lied to.
[Note: these are the first lines of the songs in my current Rhapsody playlist. Whoever guesses the most of them correctly, wins a free copy of my latest e-book!]
Wow!
“JABBERWALLY”
‘Twas tyme, and the writpaged tomes
surely taught and matched in the word;
All walloet were in bookhomes,
And the rants, such outrage heard.
“Heed caution to the Jabberwall, dear boy!
devoured, scratched by the talons what grip it!
Caution too the cuckoo bird, such a ploy
the frurious Bastard scratch and whip it!”
He wrought his mighty pen a verbal swatch:
e’er rhyme the manpome penned as he ought—
an’ forty winks ‘neath poet tree catch,
And snores, erstwhile it ever sought.
And surely iam pented up he stood,
the Jabberwall, with poetpyres inflamed,
came to shill gladly his famtome WOOD,
And gurgled giddily just the bloody same!
One, one! One, won! And done and done
the verbal quill went scritch-scratch!
No write in his head, and no thoughts come
he went unwrit then, there and back.
“And hast thou read what Jabberwall doth say?
Come, my worded charms, this squeamish boy!
O bitchinboss day! Haiku! Villonette!”
He wrought in form inspite his joy.
‘Twas tyme, and the writpaged tomes
surely taught and matched in the word;
all walloet were in bookhomes,
and the rants, such outrage heard.
I remember teaching you
how to make
pancakes from scratch,
white flour on your blue shirt,
pants, the counter, the stairs,
go for it, I say
and white dot
the tip
of your nose,
scrambled eggs,
a bit crunchy, of course,
you had to try it
one handed,
just like
your father.
We pack as much as we can,
you searching the house for
whatever it is you feel
you’re leaving behind.
It’s only 2 hours, I say, and
you’ll visit on weekends,
and you have friends
there too.
I remember you
walking away from the car -
I guess you forgot the hug,
how we used to cook breakfast together,
you were probably just
all excited
about school and
whatever else
you expect
to get mixed up in.
This poem is lovely. That whole dropping off at school thing changes life forever.
Thanks. Yes there really are a lot of mixed feelings when our kids start growing up and learn to be independent
This is so good!
———————————————————————-~ENTANGLED~
————————————————————————-I surrender
—————————————————————————my soul
—————————————————————————-to the
————————————————————————–shrill call;
————————————————————————–piercing,
————————————————————————–reaching
—————————————————————————directly
————————————————————————-my depths,
————————————————————————–arresting
————————————————————————-my senses
————————————————————————–gaining
————————————————————————-my heart,
———————————————————————-blood pooling
———————————————————————in swift bunches,
______________________________________bringing me back
_____________________________________to dock lying days;
_____________________________________soak, sipping sun
______________________________________with fresh skin,
______________________________________salt encrusted
______________________________________and creeping
____________________________________drying completely.
____________________________________Closed eyes invert
___________________________________submerged in the glow,
___________________________________this pink/reddened burst
_________________________________resembles the inside of womb.
________________________________In this very room behind my eyes
_______________________________I drink in fully, with all of my faculties,
______________________________the truth message held here, this magic
_____________________________I allow to mix with my being and the freeing,
____________________________falling feeling of sinking into porous, aromatic
___________________________smell of wood that is lapped, rocked ever gently
___________________________by the bay of those days, so crisp on my memory,
___________________________brought back with the call, voice brightly shrieking,
___________________________an osprey soaring overhead; immediately it grasps
___________________________innards and brings me hunger for the taste of home.
______________________________Planted, intertwined with rich aroma of pine
________________________________the thick smell of loam, that flat stone
____________________________________I gathered while roaming;
________________________________________all interspersed
__________________________________________a blessed
____________________________________________curse,
____________________________________________a part
_____________________________________________of
_____________________________________________me.
______________________________________© H.G. @ P.A. 4/16/12
Worth the effort?! Phew…I don’t know how you do it, Walt!! Smiles to everyone!
That’s a great attempt, Smiles!
To reiterate, the code for INSERTING spaces is ALT+0160. Key that for each space needed and it will allow your figure to stand freely without the “umbilicals”. Keep trying.
Or, if you’re on a Mac, it’s simply “Option” (ALT) at the same time as the space bar, for each individual space.
Thank you De; I’m a Mac user.
Humanity?
The words are twisted
As era after era we think
We are the only ones
Who know what it feels like –
To be human, to love like this,
To know God – and we rarely
Even realize our presumption,
As I declare hypocritically
That I know They thought This.
The Mixup
A child sad outside the school for hours
while he waited to be picked up.
No one came. No one called.
The school tried four emergency contact numbers.
Three were disconnected.
One reached a woman who just got a new cell phone.
She explained that people are calling her
in the middle of the night
asking if she has the money and is coming over;
she gets texts about partying;
men call her “angel”;
utility companies say
the power is being shut off.
Everyone wants to take that child home.
No one wants to take him to his home.
Heartbreaking. Especially the last two lines.
Freshman Mixer
Take several dozen boys and girls,
mere weeks removed from high school,
new to campus and barely settled
in the dorm, feeling grown—and scared.
Pack them on the intermural field
for a night of fun and games—corny
get-to-know you ice breakers, same
ones every year—streets and alleys,
find your shoes in the pile, name that tune.
Sit back and watch the magic as quickly
they are drawn to their own, jocks to jocks,
nerds to nerds, beautiful really, in a way
that never worked in high school
where the chess team never made
for lack of participation and where,
after years on the cheerleading squad,
everyone knew the rumors whispered.
Despite the attempt, for public relations’
sake, to recreate the melting pot, they move
like metal to magnet, relishing the chance
to start in a fresh pool, with a clean slate.
A year from now, they’ll have started mixing
on their own as group projects, randomly
assigned, put the clean cut with the pierced,
cowboys with rockers, north pole to south.
This first week, replete with rude awakenings
and total shocks, they’re content, even giddy
to land—finally—and mix with others
who are the same kind of different.
I like this, Nancy! I can see these kids trying to find their “same kind of different.”
Interesting observation.
Tom-Tom Blues
You say “Stay Left”
I turn right
You say “Turn around
At the next light”
“Right turn ahead”
You declare to me
Wrong lane again
How can this be
This trip was only
Fifty miles long
I’ve driven eighty
Something’s wrong
Right is left
And left is right
Dyslexia is
Such a fright
A way with words
Speaking with you I am often
at a loss for it,
the quick flint strike of
cogitation never quite
catching until after the fact
has fled ‐
my spark burning down
the trees holding the nests
of your thoughts
and oh, how I long for those just
right conversations after you leave
and I am sitting alone in the dark
remembering
the almost eskimo kiss
of foreheads,
the buhdda-like
eye slit smiling
hands clutching navels
as if our laughter
might spill out too much
of whatever it is in there
that we came from.
Holy cow. THIS:
“as if our laughter
might spill out too much
of whatever it is in there
that we came from.”
Brilliant.
Best word for it!
I love this.
Mixed Up/Confused
need to repair pipe?
high tech connection system
sharkbite solution
instant push-fit bond
hydronic distribution
zero soldering
~ Randy Bell ~
The Quest
I seek the alchemist most skilled.
I’ve paid his price before.
On painful Monday mornings
when I crawled along the floor.
Many claim the knowledge
that I know my wizard owns,
mixing up that magic brew
that limbers up my bones
I will see him standing in the dark
with flasks held in his hands,
as magic liquids are dispersed
till here my potion stands.
It will glow a deep rose amber,
with a cherry for an eye,
with sweet vermouth and bitters,
and the finest pale brown rye.
Here will sit my fine Manhattan,
that the master made for me,
I only hope to stop at two,
or maybe even three.
I love this.
Hole Way
There is a hole in me that leaks, remains
disquiet, rockets down an empty hallway
like an ousted child jettisoned to principal
doors with promises to confide unacceptable
acts, thoughts that won’t perish when backs turn.
Still that hole shrinks when I watch all-night TV
what abides the rules, arranges flowers, mops up
the messy, sits quietly with nothing left to do.
Simple hand hold I a symbol.
Resting long without the is day it
Throbbing, warm hand in my
Arms sleeps sleeveless it my upon
You to I now offer and it
It take, it is yours.
No can longer symbol the I bear
shaking, shackled to me at me the foundation
into twisting me a recollection faint.
You smile, institution a burning,
from radiating face, your glorious face,
and I smile.
Easily these words come do not, but for me.
Sat alone have I in wonder upon your gracious thighs
supple bosom, apple cheeks
and flirtatious hands dancing in my taste.
Your name an everpresent warning on my lips.
And yet, I cannot bear to say it.
My love,
you are.
Well done!
She was a good-hearted old book but not very
dependable.
Her illuminated pages were imposed
sexagesimo but she went off on a journey:
tanning her own leather, sizing feather letters
with gold, making paper (and its predecessors,
skins and stones). Mastering the alchemy of ink,
she fell in with gatherer-farmers
and learned the seasons of pokeberrry
oak gall and woad and how to swim in springwater
mordanted with salt and vinegar,
to best preserve herself with poems of good times
(recto) and bad (notso).
Nearsighted as well as presbyopic she could
only read her forearms belly hands and thighs
[when she could find binoculars, the tops of her toes
could be seen to contain pages 5(^) and the
difficult-to-read-upside-down 42(v).]
By the time she found her way back,
from digression,
her creases had grown to contradict
the lines intended for folds, and she surrendered
into quarto pages, a piebald curiosity
of ups and downs and no apparent order.
The Neighbor
He yearned outside her kitchen window
He thought of his wife
Bent, maybe broken
The love of his life
But she, she wise and graceful
Soothing and easy
A baker of bread
Earthy, yeasty
The window glass steamed, yellow light
Go to her, taste
The bones of his marriage
Laid sadly to waste
Evening shadows gather coolness
Seeds left unsown
He turns, makes his
Long way back home
Almost makes me cry.
AT MILEPOST 33
A Memorial in Ten Parts
i.
I have driven hours now
down roads wending
through wood and field.
All slows to childhood:
endless red clay, the kudzu’s
slow creep, the pitch of pine,
the sky opening to sea.
ii.
Cormorants dive-bomb
skimming up blues and other
chum churned in the ferry’s wake
ahead the island
where we slept amidst sea oats
singing at higher pitch
than the gulls’ keen
iii.
The sun burns a hole
through blue sky,
waves churn grey-cold, a wintry coffin.
By the time we gather one mile
past the ramp, the sea mirrors
sky.
iv.
The wind lifts
sifts you fine between our fingers;
you want to leave.
With hands lent-like
we walk our paths
salt spray on our cheeks,
hearts to burst, we scatter
you, a final wish.
v.
But I cannot let go.
I have regrets.
I have memories.
vi.
I remember we walked into sky,
coral colored, sure of the night
and the next, and I wondered
while I crushed morphine tablets
with Ativans in the marble mortar
you gave me when I became a healer
whether you regretted going
the extra mile for science
vii.
If I had known
the trip to the hospital
was the last time
you would ever be outside
I would not have rushed
you through the rain.
viii.
We left milepost 33.
The sun burned holes again.
The light pained us
and pains us still
ix.
I am not sure why I favor
forgotten detritus from
God’s great tumbler: the cracked
scallop, the lusterless
oyster, the conch which
sounds a half-sea.
x.
But tonight the moon pounds
the ocean full and unabated,
the engine thrums
deep through my soles
constant with the sea,
your pulse, a memory ago.
***
This poem derives from 5 other poems, all written during past PADs and all concerning the slow death of my father from cancer and the aftermath. This month he would have been 75–he is in my mind and my heart these days. Peace, LindaS-W
A beautiful memorial to your dad. Thank you for sharing it. I love, love, love part seven. This image
will stay with me.
It’s truly wonderful.
Wonderful poem and tribute.
Mixed Flowers
A packet of mixed flower seeds
I spotted on the shelf.
“Grown your own wild flowers:
You can do it yourself!”
And the idea of those flowers
stayed with me all day
so I went and bought the packet
and went along my way.
It wasn’t til weeks later,
the packet I espied
languishing upon a shelf
so I took us both outside.
I looked at my poor flower bed,
it was such a sorry sight.
Unpruned roses, weeds and grass;
it needed to be put right.
And so I put the seeds aside
for another little while
and I began to weed and hoe
and rake and dig and pile.
And sooner than I thought I’d be
I found myself quite ready
to plant those seeds and water them,
the feeling was quite heady.
And scatter them, I did, my friends,
and soon they all took root.
And now you see my garden patch
is fair beyond dispute.
For though the flowers planted here
aren’t in lines and rows,
they’re lovely just the same for they’re
wild flowers that I chose.
Hummingbirds, bees and butterflies
find refuge in my bower.
And I find I quite agree with them,
I’m glad I planted flowers.
Diana Terrill Clark
loved it – left message on your site .
Thanks, Mosk!
Sweet.
The beginning of the end
Order to stand down received. STOP.
Possible problem. STOP.
Was I supposed to press red button? STOP.
Very sorry for inconvenience. STOP.
LOL!
Oh dear! (STOP does seem to be the right word.)
Maudlin as a mandolin
Brackish as a radish
Uxorious as euphoria
Obsequious as obnoxiousness
Egregious as an egret’s goose
Mesonoxian as Mesopotamia
Acersecomic as an acceleration
Calamistrate your calamari
And Pandiculate like you are immaculate
Perhaps I have circumnavigated my interpretations
All I am saying is that Adoxography is important,
This is as loquacious as a liquidation of lexotanil.
…but you already knew that, right?
______________
This has been “A POEM TO COMPLETELY MIX/MESS UP YOUR MIND”
Thank you for your coquettishness.
Outstanding! It pays to enrich your word power, as they used to say. I’m off to dust off my dictionary…
I love the way they got more and more elaborately preposterous.
Or do I mean preposterously elaborate?
Mixed-Up Mania
4/16/12
“Wife, fax these tax forms, pronto!”
I do as he asks.
Later I notice the accountant e-mails,
“We can’t open them. Please resend.”
I rescan, resend, and get the same reply.
I try another method. One goes through.
Not the other.
I try again. No deal.
Now I’ve lost the paper.
What did I do with it?
After fifteen minutes of searching,
I find them in the box marked “2012 Taxes.”
How did they get back in there?
Now I’m off to the UPS
to let them fax those pesky papers!
I’ll be glad when today’s over!
Why Good Usage Counts
He wrote with metaphors so mixed
that every editor said, “Nixed!”
He’d then write back and say things like,
“You twits! Go take a flying hike!”
As you might guess, this quite endeared
him to the folks whose pubs he smeared.
“They’re all moth-eared!” With barbs, he’d strike.
“You twits! Go take a flying hike!”
One editor said, to this twaddle,
“Sir, you’ve wind beneath your saddle!”
‘Mixed’ replied, “You’d bash Updike.
You’re twits! Go take a flying hike!”
‘Mixed’ never understood the ref.
He said, “I pen Romans a clef!
So what’s a fish without a bike?
You twits! Go take a flying hike!”
###
From My Corner
Energy flames through the place
a siren blares
a breath forgotten
a man in black
a wiener dog balloon
POP
while pucks are plucked
cliques of girls walk by
from braid to bun, their hair changes
faster than a chameleon.
Mixture
From up high, fuchsia flowed into the forsythia,
Laying its magnificent, magenta effusions
Over the yellow buds, bushed in lengths.
On the left, a jade plant of some age -
Pushed heartily, up from the brown, sandy loam.
Below, the tiny, creeping violets
And gangly, wild strawberries grew almost flat.
The iris and lilies pushed through the mat,
Making terse, white and violet verticals through pink.
The lemon tree, off to the side – seemed almost
Aloof in this multiple, spring espectaculo.
“fuchsia flowed into the forsythia” what a great turn of phrase
“The Mixed-Up Mind in the Morning” or “Where’s the Prompt?”
Wait, where’s the prompt? It should be here.
It’s usually posted early…I’m feeling quite stumped.
My schedule says, “Compose poem between 8 and 9,”
But how can I compose, when there is no prompt?
Does this mean I need to make up my own theme?
I don’t have time to think, my morning is swamped!
Just tell me what to write, give me some rules,
I can’t form a brainstorm without a good prompt!
Maybe there’s no poem today? No, that can’t be.
Things are all out of whack! My mind feels whomped!
Maybe Robert is sick? Is he hurt, an urgent emergency?
There must be a reason why there is no prompt!
…Oh, there it is. Phew.
A poem about feeling mixed up?
How am I supposed to write a poem about that?
Kind of how we all felt without a prompt.
You described it spot on.
mixed up describes my dreams
my father riding a horse
out of the orchard,
although he never rode.
strange, round black-robed people
dancing up and down
my dog, taking me along
on a flying carpet ride
being loved in impossible places
by the man of my dreams
I’m never running, never falling,
just crazy.
Sorrow is a necessary part of life,
it shadows us every day.
But if we look for blessings,
it turns another way.
Sadness can cause pain,
Woe can find us without hope.
A weary heart aches,
Depression can hide anger.
Forgiveness a curative.
We owe to friendship,
laughter and smiles
a debt that cannot be paid.
A daily dose will do us well
to keep sadness at bay.
(Emma’s note:
How this is a “mix” poem?
Stanza one has rhyming at the 2nd and 4th horrible lines.
Stanza two is a Terrible Tanka.
Stanza three is an awful ode.
Finally, it has a mix of truth and ever so sappy platitudes.
I can’t believe I wrote this!)
Fun, Emma! So clever!
How brave to be so bad!
BAC’s OF SUCCESS
Questions abound; queries that come around
whenever you push them from your thinking.
Every time you get that sinking feeling it happens.
Remember, you only live once, (even cool cats don’t get off
thinking they’re immune to this tune). So if
you want answers, you had better hope you
understand what it is that you want.
It isn’t asking much of you to
open your mind and
present yourself as a learned scholar.
Any self-respecting poet should know it.
Some feign it and explain it in terms any
dummy could grasp. But no matter what, it’s a
funny thing to bring your rhyme out and
give it the presentation it deserves.
Having said all you can, it remains
just what you’ve put on your page. So engage.
Keep your focus on the dreams you pursue in
lieu of wasting your talent meant to mystify the masses.
Zeniths are attainable;
Xanadu is a desired destination and
clearness of thought is the means to both ends.
Validate your verbiage,
bring your best for the rest to decide;
never hide your poetic pondering under a bushel basket.
Many will clamor for a taste of what you bring to the table.
**A mixed up Abecedarian
Nice use of keyboard!
Bits and Pieces of a mixed up life
that challenge the artist,
who sees it all as a crazy quilt
of experiences
spread out across the years.
Bits and pieces of a mixed up life
which challenge the artist
to understand the usefulness
of all the fibers and textures
of so many planned and
unplanned events.
Bits and pieces of a mixed up life
unknowingly touching the lives
of so many others
who in turn help to bind
each piece into a whole
that is seen only at a later date.
Bits and pieces of a mixed up life
put into the hands of the great
master artists – allowing him to work-
are brought together to produce
a life of beauty and usefulness.
while filling even the
empty places.
“Backpacking in the Mark Twain National Forest”
I thought it was love
at the trail when the katydids fell on our heads
like hail,
clawing down our shirts, between the clefts
of every secret body space that left us laughing
and grabbing and stripping to shake them off.
We stopped
for lunch under the persimmon tree, its fruit fresh
and gushy stabbing our eyes and my world was
hazed
in purple
flirty words that drizzled down our chins to the
soles of our feet.
I remember
you saved your dog’s hair in a bag so your grandma
could card the fur to knit a scarf and I thought that
was love
in every which way and I thought you proved it
when we slid into our sleeping bags, you even
sprinkled garlic in my hair to ward off the creatures
of the night
almost as if you had known that an animal disguised
as a man would speak with a knife in the wee
hours, stealing your tongue and robbing you of
your chivalry.
I thought when the visible scars faded, so would the
memory, but the invisible scars hurt even more.
You know, I think I finally figured out what I really
needed that night—
I needed you to cry for me.
Powerful poem!
Confetti
The day is warm and I am cool.
Not the cool cool,
but the cool that jives
letting me know I’m alive,
full of vinegar and spit.
Life’s in my control, so I think,
I’m at the top of my game
and ready for fame,
not hiding behind fear.
I’m looking for cheer
hoping someone knows I am here.
The confetti of life
jumbles my fate,
a little of this,
too much of that,
too afraid
to have courage
but doing it anyway.
I really like the concept of “confetti of life” – and your last stanza. Nice poem.
Nice one. I like, “the cool that jives”
Flax seed
The anethematic grain
Omega six, and three
All the way from Maine
Chop them up
Mix them fast
Create some dust
Give it a blast
Ice cubes
How cold
Shove them in the tube
Grind them uncontrolled
Enough cocoa
To kill a horse
Enough vanilla
To cause a divorce
Steal from the calf
Not as bad as it seems
A cup and a half
Of real whipping cream
Shake your mullet
Lock in the cup
Start the magic bullet
Fire it up!
Plant your stake
At the kitchen table
Drink your shake
While you’re still able!
CREEK
What’s more joyful
than running water? After days
of rain, our little creek
leaps and giggles, blows bubbles, chatters
over rocks whose moss opens
all its green mouths to sing
the river song. And the old
willow leans over the bank to see
his own reflection wrinkled and riffled
with moving, ageless water.
What’s more joyous?
A new puppy who’s never met
a natural creek – no dam, no viaduct,
no faucet, no hose, no pipes.
Just free water –
Raindrops gathered together
In a pack, a herd, a family, a tribe,
finding its own way from cloud to soil,
water mixing up with soil,
leaping to sky and down the hillside
on its great adventure
to sea.
What’s more joyous
than a puppy wading out
to wet her feet in that journey, splashing
as each droplet leaps
the falls; then dash back out
and shake
creekwater all over us
sparkling joyous in April sun.
What’s more delightful to read? I cant imagine!
Mixed Up Blues
Sadness
squeezes her heart
tears fall
she struggles to escape
the rising tide of pain.
The Mixed Up Life Of Colonel Kernel
When he was young
he told his nanny
he wanted to be a guerilla;
So she bought him
a gorilla suit.
In his teens
he took up fencing
and performed
amazing feats
with his quick
moving feet.
In his twenties
he felt out of synch,
so he joined the military
where it was swim or sink.
In his middle years
he decided to set forth
on his fourth
tour of duty.
When he woke up
And realized he was bald
he bawled
like a newborn baby.
When he could no longer
hear the crashing cymbols
in the military band,
he took it as a symbol
to retire.
He wasn’t afraid
of losing his mind,
he figured his brain
had already been mined
for everything worthwhile.
He was happy
to let his spirit soar,
his body was tired
and sore
from years of service.
Great use of homophones, Michelle.
Wow, this was really good.
NUCKIN’ FUTS
A muddle of mundane minutia is my mind,
for poetic forms once deemed precise I find,
have smashed their heads together
to sadly slip from sublime to an insane grind.
To reconstruct them would be brutal;
and all attempt to would be futile.
Together in mind
the truth we find is brutal;
a most futile grind.
For with poetic notions in mind,
We’re in this together to find,
That words bad and brutal
Leaves your style sounding futile,
A most horrid axe to grind.
So sticking together to find our way brings us closer,
a dubious mind in a futile grind of poemic thought.
We ought to allow our rhyme to heal; be less brutal.
Nothing is ever as it seems. I find this
Unnerving. Swerving into a mind of
Cacophonous sounds brings thoughts together like
Kinetic energy brings your pen to hand. An futile
Initiation of writing wile will render words brutal;
Not saying what your heart feels.
Feelings emerge to grind your passion to pulp,
Underlying the need to clear your head,
To offer a respite from the madness it espouses, and
Sharing our ranting with others so stricken.
** A confluence of Sestina, Haiku, Limerick, Sijo and Anagramatic Poetry
Awesome effort!
I have to say the title caught my eye. This is perfectly mixed up.
Excellent, Walt!
Echoes of Laughter
Winds change as does life
Carry me in your mind
Don’t leave my destiny aside
Don’t forget where you come from
You are apart of me
Waters may separate us
As may time
One day we will reunite
And share what we have done in life
To touch your face
To hug you to embrace you with my arms
To see you again
My lucky charm
I miss our chats
Our time that we once spent
If I only knew then
It was only lent
I would of done more
To make it matter
To understand all your chatter
What good is that now
When all that has happened
Your to far away
To see what has gone on
What we went through
What you must of too
If I had one wish
A hand with a token to say
Come back and see me
Come back I pray
Distance is between us
I will keep you in my mind
You’re the piece of the jigsaw puzzle
That has been left behind
When your back at home
With all who love you
I know that distance will be a thing of the past
I know you want this too
We will drink to the water that has past under the bridge
And to the future of our heritage
So for now it is goodbye
For someday we meet again
Until that day comes
Do not forget to lift your pen
North then South
times awaiting
appointment to keep
directions on map I read
landmarks first seen
guide
street I seek
lost, turn around
north then south
around turn, lost
seek I, street
guide
seen first landmarks
read I, map on directions
keep to appointment
awaiting times
Permission to Poem in Plaid
Let’s mix it up today.
Let’s play.
Let’s dangle part
-iciples
freely,
write to the moon
and pop a wheelie.
Let’s stir in
cinnamon, and sage,
sprinkle pink sugar on the page.
Let’s know a noun,
and verve a
verb,
let’s adjective something absurd.
Let’s adverb loosely, crazily.
Let’s our lines
let loop
l a z i l y.
Let’s proposition a preposition,
live through and of, in, over, above.
lets unpunctuate and buck tradition
Let’s fall in love.
Let’s befuddle, muddle, mix and mingle
Flummox, flim-flam, fling and sing, oh…
Let’s stick our words with bubble gum,
and write our poems with our thumbs.
Ahh, De. Just wonderful.
One of the most creative and enjoyable poems that I have read so far out of all the poems posted this month.
sounds like a widdershinners kind of day
Somewhere 7/8s of the way through the line “let’s fall in love” changes everything. Takes this to another level. Masterful.
Masterful, inDEed!
Oh Yes, Let’s Do!
Thank you all, so much, for the kind comments. And for braving the cranky “you are posting comments too quickly” robot. Goodness.
Perfectly delicious!
Delicious!
What fun!
It Makes No Sense to My Senses
Eighty degrees in Phoenix,
the desert landscape
decorated with pinks, yellows, purples
of queen’s wreath and bougainvillea,
their light fragrance stifled by traffic fumes.
Then up the hill through
fields of tall, thick saguaro
lifting their three to five or so arms
in salutation. And then
flashing signs on Arizona high country
warning motorists of winter weather.
Switching off the AC, careful on the black ice,
but my eyes lingering as long as possible
on snowy cover, tall pines with bright blue backdrop.
Then popping out on lower ground,
reddish orange earth
contrasting pale heavens
with whip cream clouds hovering low.
Then other worldly rock formations
gray monoliths, red, then sandy mesas.
Then back to where the mountains
meet the desert in Southwest Colorado,
the sky uncharacteristically gray,
with the smell of rain in the air.
This morning, I restart my life
where sunshine from the east
and clouds in the west
seem to dare each other.
I’ll See You Then
“Let’s get together.”
“Nine o’clock at the house?”…”Yes!”
Mix dough…brew coffee…
Munching biscuits: Where are you?
That night you call: “Where are you?”
CAKE ANYONE
At midnight during the movie marathon
we just had to have chocolate cake,
not cookies, not cupcakes, not brownies,
CHOCOALATE CAKE.
The stores were all closed
so there was nothing else to do but bake.
Four 3×5 cards pulled from my recipe box
lay on the counter.
Aunt Mary’s double double chocolate
Dad’s chocolate and raspberry
Nuts and chocolate delight
Moist Death by Chocolate
When you are low on blood sugar
and have several people waiting
to watch the movie and eat cake
it is hard to decide which to make
So it was time to compromise
to integrate and create.
Chocolate cake mix
chocolate pudding
were had in recipes all
chocolate chips from Mary
raspberry sauce from dad
nuts chopped for the top
chocolate chips & some yogurt
from moist death
a bit of caramel to sprinkle with the nuts
from me.
Each warm moist yummy piece
served with a wedge of snickers bar
and a cup of mocha coffee with
coconut cream and half and half
when we returned to the movies.
This morning I had a slice
with my cup of coffee.
Like pizza, chocolate cake
is also great for breakfast.
Best. Breakfast. Ever!! ^_^ And perhaps I’ll make some cake tonight!!
Wow, if that doesn’t make us all run for the Hersey’s bar and some cake, nothing will.
Thanks for the comment and if you had cake, hope it was yummy.
Domino, if you made cake tonight, what kind did you make and can I pop over and have a bite.
Domino, if you made cake tonight, what kind did you make and can I pop over and have a bite. Sorry, I think I posted your comment under J. Lynn by mistake,
it is late and I am a lot more tired than I thought. Forget cake for now,
crawl into bed.
Thanks for your comment
For the food whore in me, I loved it.
I totally need cake right now!!
Did you get some cake?
I myself have been craving chocolate and chocolate cake all day at work.
Now I have been home and just finished dinner awhile ago
and settled for dark chocolate covered pomegranate seeds.
Quite yummy but not CHOCOLATE CAKE.
Thanks so much for your comment.
Thanks Buddah,
I always appreciate your comments.
I think your statue may have had a few bites of cake too.
What a great mix-up!
back later… to read… to write … to mix it up…
Not so fast…
I rush with fingers on keys
playing not sweet sonatas
although as a child I dreamt
I would be
A head shaking passion
trembling with tumbling tempest
Each classic concerto and of
course my own originatas
I began my lessons
coming to them at
a mid-teen year
ready to pursue
as only girls can
commit to something
which rings true and to them dear
“if classical you to study”
“You vill not play a song”
“You vill play nutting that sounds
musically for at least ten years”
Said my Central Casting
Russian teacher perfectly
accented – the call to action
already music to my ears…
And so I set about it
climbing long stairs to
his studio a longish
walk away from my
own home
And set my double jointed
fingers on his keyboard
and trembled Hannon
to his merciless metronome
I practiced scales and
exercises hour upon end
and at the closing on just
six weeks I sat at lesson
and did my fingers begin to bend
“Schtop” said my Teacher
“Wait before you play”
He handed me a program
“You are to report here on this day”
And sitting there before me a
small program white and blue
where he had had my name
typed beside Brahmm lullabye
a recital … a recital … it was true!
I was too smitten with his charm
and with the music too
to correct him to my stated devotion
to have him remove me as my due
Appeared at the school auditorium on
that wintry day .. after practicing my
two lines of notes in order something
for me to play
I listened to a tiny girl with flouncy skirt just ahead of me
her tiny fingers running up and down the
keyboard – her chubby baby fingers playing effortlessly
And then it was time – this Gulliver sized first grader
student for me to play .. I lumbered across the stage
and sat down that dismal day
The notes had rotated on their side
they lied
Hopelessly I tried to right them
before my fingers tried
They stumbled and they stood
in a haphazard line
and when I thought that
I could do it
when I thought that I would
be fine
I struck the first line
injecting even a bit of
passion play
but as I rounded
the corner of the second
disaster crashed
and I stood, bowed
and left the stage
flooded tearfully
I never played again
with my shaggy Russian
mentor – myself as pianist was nixed
With a tiny child he had a woman’s surrendered heart
Catastrophically unwisely sadly mixed
Oh dear Pearl, I trembled with you!!
How tragic!
R=Ah and A=eR
Whey-a I grew up things wera
little mixed up
words endin’ in R were said with an Ah
Like cah and fah
words endin’ in A were said with an eR
like Linder and Pauler
It gets quite confusin’ with lettah’s
dropped heah and theyah
I asked if anyone wanted to go to the pahty
with me…they all looked confused.
“Why would I want someone
to go the potty with me?” they asked!
Wonderful! I giggled!! ^_^
Oopps! Not only was I late today, but I didn’t end it correctly…should be:
R=Ah and A=eR
Whey-a I grew up things wera
little mixed up
words endin’ in R were said with an Ah
Like cah and fah
words endin’ in A were said with an eR
like Linder and Pauler
It gets quite confusin’ with lettah’s
dropped heah and theyah
I asked if anyone wanted to go to the pahty
with me…they all looked confused.
“Why would you want someone
to go the potty with you?” they asked!
this was fun.
nice. not everyone speaks “hopelessly midwestern”
First is Last
Paradoxically speaking Joe should
have been John when he was born
for the two had fought furiously
over who would emerge first
Joe, John, John, Joe
Round and round and round they go
An enigma in the maternity ward
where mom struggled tirelessly
and staff waited breathlessly
as minutes accumulated
John, Joe, John, Joe
Who would be the one to crow
Inexplicably, momentarily
one head appeared
only to fade with the easing
of her contractions
Joe, Joe, John, John
Embroiled in battle, exhibiting brawn
Suddenly struggle ceased
A violent push
moved the closest down
the slippery slop to life
John, John, Joe, Joe
Mixed in womb, first to show
Sooo different and amusing! Well done!
Secret Service
I don’t know how I got in this fix,
or how that girl fits into the mix!
How could I know
that her I’d now owe?
“Secret Service” to her just meant tricks.
Enjoyed this one, Dan. Great visual of the mess down South.
Snowing marshmallows
I found my shoes in the fridge,
chilled and stiff, as it turns out
it will be 90 degrees today.
My dog had my keys in her
teeth, motioned for me to go
in the cage this time.
Something is not quite right.
The lunch I made the night before
was spotted in the clutches of the
rabbit that sits in the grass on the
side of my house. I think he’s
laughing at me, left me the carrots
I toss to him each day.
My hair looks purple, for some reason.
Is this someone’s idea of a joke?
My wife is running at me with a bat.
What the hell?! I run for the door.
Outside, it’s snowing marshmallows.
Hahahaha! This sounds kind of like a Wonderland dream, doesn’t it!
Happy Hurting
She wants to go
She wants to Stay
He keeps hurting her
But then always makes her feel that Way
The way that makes her heavy heart Sing
And every sound so happy Ring
She knows that he will hurt her Again
Leave her behind to be with his Friends
But the heart, it has a mind of it’s Own
Leaving all reason forgotten, Alone
So the hurt will continue
Because without him she would Hurt so much Worse
Emotions toss us as does the sea and this brings that reality up front for all to see.
I owe this one to Dr. Kendall, my Linguistics professor because I am always mixed up in her class.
Semantics
We are a minimal pair, close enough to be a set
But never a match made in perfect homonymy
Because the difference is in the middle.
Between the same and same is something else,
A no man’s land of tongues and broken phones
Glossed back and forth along the palette.
Every ugly stop tumbles smooth in your mouth
Until the only sounds left are digested words
That I would rather swallow whole.
Good one, Catherine. It evokes so much.
Thanks, Claudette!
Clever!
Very witty poem.
Process notes: I thought a cento borrowing lines from other poems would be good for this prompt, so I went to poets.org and typed in the first mixed-up-themed word that popped into my head, which was “hallucination”, which brought up 10 or so poems. I avoided the famous ones (“Howl”, for example), and clipped lines from the others for each stanza, then kept clicking the “Related Poems” links on the side, adding one line at a time until I hit a dead-end (at which point I worked on the next stanza). Punctuation and a few line breaks were shifted around. It was all pretty chaotic.
…
The Creakings and Noises, an Old Conversation
Once rich with meaning,
if my voice is not reaching you,
say, “give me an example.”
We’ve devised such intricate rules.
I’m not prepared to live on the bottom of
a river of lament, find a howl
itself, thin as a napkin, beside
a little green sea.
We maintain a critical distance:
and if you have the will,
you are dangerously close to falling.
(I disappeared. Owls are silent:
“no one wanders forever.”)
And without a word,
one can walk beneath
piecework of the quiet shade.
These two have a routine that goes way back:
“bring up only that which you and I
don’t share.”
You fear that you have been demanded into
this exhaustion, mutilated, to resemble
passion.
I like it, Joseph. It does have a kind of odd sensical meaning, even though disjointed. Perhaps it’s the disjointedness in spots that brings together the meaning of the jumble.
I like it too – and agree that is has an odd kind of sensical meaning. ^_^
I concur.
The New Home
I followed your directions,
Though there were missteps.
I’d begin once again,
Hoping to make no detours.
I left early but arrived on time
To your doorstep, a marvel sublime.
A picket fence greeted me,
Banking rivers of pansies,
Holding back a flood of color.
I didn’t think you’d remember
My favorite flowers and all.
You kept my swing company
Until I arrived to feel the peace,
Created for me by your side.
There, within your glory I’ll
Live for all eternity, a child
Learning To Be as one with thee.
© Claudette J. Young
Beautiful and heartfelt
Ah, thanks, Beth.
Claudsy – love the line about keeping the swing company. Such a heartfelt poem!
What beautiful imagery – and I love Pansies too!!
Ode to Marianv Mix Up
Oh Marian my dear
on this morning quickly moving
toward mid-day – a practice
make it to avoid the reading
of poetic predecessors lest
they silence me with their
sparkling best
yet as I scrolled along
to the bottom post aheaded
I could not help but notice
Oh my Marian prolific to
staggering length spilled
the length of the screen
as though from a tilted
Universal cup
and then read I the prompt
and smiled a sanguine
grin at dear Marian
the target of monumental
glitched HICCUP
Back to read later…
A glitched hiccup funny made me smile
Great little comeback, Pearl. You did hit that nail squarely on the head. Somehow, the whole worked, though. The subject, the continual flow, all of it.
“As if by Magic”
This time spent
digging in the dirt
has returned dividends
as I remove these weeds
(WEED: any piece of beauty
which is in a space
it is not supposed to occupy)
(“Supposed to” as defined
by the common laws
of suburban beautification)
(Priorities = Mixed up)
I find thoughts
under my fingernails
and memories
gathered in the creases
of my clothes
and new beauty
in the streaks of grime
which cascade
down my daughter’s cheeks.
These marks,
far more permanent
than the new abraisions
which appear on her knees
as if by magic.
This is definitely a keeper. So well expressed, and great use of definitions, Jerry. Bravo!
Oh, you have to frame this one for her when she gets older. She’ll love you even the more for it.
Your definition of weed is spot on!
Good stuff, as always, Chev.
April
That was when
1965
she wore
a yellow dress
he watered
the lawn
there is no sense
talking about it
anymore
on the driveway
there was
a broken cat
the sky was blue
the world turned
around
again, as if
for the first time
and the last time
in no time
the water
washed away
the sun.
Now that’s an interesting poem. Great visuals and oddly made sense of nonsense. Love it!
Thank you! I initially intended it to be more mixed-up than it is now, but then it developed a little narrative. I’m glad it still reads as a bit nonsensical!
Makes just enough sense to be all the more (maddeningly) intriguing.
Many strange and wondrous elements in this – well done.
Thank you!
If I did not know better….
if i did not know better
than i might certainly
believe that for this
mixed up prompt not
posting was a stroke
of poetic genius by our
“own” R-L-B
but do i true know better
could this not be truly so
between what is and what
could be – i will never absolutely
know
So true, Pearl, so true; for what do we know for certain, that can be proven beyond any shadows doubt, is that only something’s Creator knows its purpose, reality, and clout. We wonder a world within our illusion, taking solace in knowing some others see us and believe in our existence.
Hey, you ask the question. I’ve don’t my best to answer it.
Love ya, Pearl.
Haha! Yup!
Shaken, Not Stirred
Best of the Bonds
Connery comes across
and smoothly blended,
never up-ended or blurred.
His brogue could melt a lassie’s heart,
leaving her shaken AND stirred!
A curse we share (in my dreams!)
Smiling at that, Dyson!
Oh, this did me heart good, it did, Dyson. Love Connery in all things. Love the tribute. And you’re right. Smiled and nodded on this one.
Awe, Sean Connery. Shaken and stirred any day of the week is fine by me.
Shaken AND stirred!! LOL
Love this! Yet another that, if I closed my eyes (no, wait … that’s not what I mean), I’d hear Walt. Wait … is that what I meant to say?
My dad used to be mistaken for Sean Connery, btw.
McIllwain, you’re killing me Brother!
But if you have Marie fooled…?
That is a rather humorous twist on the famous Bond line. And Connery was surely the best Bond. And I agree with Marie. I really like my style… er, your style!
I absolutely agree with you. (Although Brosnan was all right.)
Yes, Brosnan was the second best Bond.
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them warm but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then.
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Try to stick it out a little longer.
Who will I be without you?
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
They must sneak away at night
When I’m asleep. Stashing their
Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
And out the ear. Some might take
The sinus route, being forcibly blown
Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
A bit messy, but I can understand why
They’d want to go. Working with a mind
Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
Keep them perculating, but no one
Paying attention and the working
Conditions continue to deteriorate.
I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
Blown leaves and their names creep back into
The anonymity of the phone book. Which
I am able to locate now and then. I
I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
Who will I be without you?
Can someone please help remove all the exra postings!!!!! I tried, but it
s not working HELP
I’m so glad I figured out what the problem was, but I have to say here that you could actually use this “error” to make this something even more special. Have you thought of taking the original, doing a repeat with selected bits missing? You know, show some of the deserters in the process of deserting–mayby only the four letters or the “o”s, or what-have-you.
I’m thinking that would make your point even more visible, even though I laughed all the way through the first segment as it was. Just a thought, although a fleeting one. Love this.
For the longest time I thought you meant it as a demonstration of the mixed-upness and the losing of brain cells (hence, of memory). I like what Claudsy and Buddah say. Do please think of developing it along those lines.
Problem or not, this was such a clever take on the prompt.
I really got a chuckle out of your poem. I have a theory that since my hair has been falling out so much lately, my brain cells leak out of the holes left by the missing hairs.
I chuckled..assuming an error had occurred but only after a huh??? I was thoroughly mixed up! Enjoyed your words and am glad to know I am not alone!
I thought it was perfect Dadaist art.
STIRRING IT UP
and a smell in the pillow in that strange bed
rousted me into a peaked-roof room where
somebody else had festooned the identity
they had settled upon onto every surface,
blown glass in a shadow box, a pin board
full of photos, perfumes on a shelf of that
fragrance she chose. It came back to me
I had not slept alone, and then gradually
that I was near Chicago, seven weeks into
a nomad phase, a quest under the banner
of wanting to see it all, when really I sought
an approximate oneness to call my own.
FangO
Oh! LIKE this one, Daniel! Well mixed!
Gotta agree with PSC on this one. Been there a few times and can relate.
Lovely. And I was particularly struck by, ‘the identity / they had settled upon’.
For this one I took a treatment of the subject in the content and format of my poem, mixing the rhyme scheme throughout. I humbly present
“The First Time My Son Gets Dressed On His Own”
Right foot is in left shoe
Left foot is the right
One sock’s red the other blue
The pants seem succesfully done
Except the sirt’s tucked into undewear
Ninja turtles on display
It’s also inside-out and backwards
The tag flag gives it away
But at the very top
Beneath an unruly mop
A smile a mile wide
And I glow with pride
Ahhh… so sweet! You had me smiling too, picturing the visual so clearly.
Fun, sweet, definitely visual. Very well done. Liked it a lot.
Well, it seems sensible to put the tag of the underwear on the outside, where it won’t itch! What a treasure this poem is!
Very sweet and funny. He’ll learn.
“Jinja turtles on display”
Heehee! Love the “unruly mop.” Adorable poem.
thanks for the love everyone…sorry for the typos in the poem
Obviously a proud and talented father.
Years hence a compendium of these kinds of poems will be an awesome legacy’
for such a lad
WELL DONE DAD
The memories you bring back!
I think you’ve just described my grandson.
See, you forget all the stuff we’d had to learn! Wonderful poem, Comp.
Reweave
every strand
of earth and sky
To create
things
anew
Isn’t that what poets do?
Wrap warp, short and long,
Weft within, a poet’s song.
Sorry, Lana, it just slipped out when I finished reading your piece aloud.
Don’t you just love poems that inspire more poetry?! ^_^ I like both!
^_^
Exactly! And thanks for your wonderful addition
So few words,
so much said.
I would love to use this as a Mantra
Oh cool, dextrousdigits. Be my guest!
I wrote this for Joseph’s Reverie in Danish, but here it is in English since it surprisingly fit this prompt, too. I simply renamed it.
Howling at the Moon
He carried Dick in his arms,
dead weight,
dead dog of twelve short years.
Midnight’s moon
mirrored black grief into his heart.
He buried his dog below a stone,
a shallow grave,
a viking dysse,
and he howled for Dick
at the glossy white face
that swam with a mirage of stars.
And the moon sang back down to him.
I like it, Misk. Having lost two of these more precious than expected, I know that feeling of the Howl. Good one, in English or Danish.
AAHH, you speak Danish??? I have been trying to translate some cards,etc.
from my grandmother’s relatives for my mom’s 80th birthday and pulling
my hair out. Can I connect with you via email or FB?
PS. really sad poem. gorgeous.
It’s not my first language but I can certainly try. My husband is Danish so he can help if I can’t manage it. Just tried to find your name on FB but couldn’t find it. What’s your name there?
I love this – it’s so beautiful, like a song.
Thank you, Ina, Dextro and Rosemary. Very kind comments, and I appreciate the support and encouragement.
From Title to the last line
touching, poignant,
a story I became part of,
and have played before.
Movingly Beautiful
This is lovely, even in its anguish.
I don’t know what the Reverie is all about, but I just love this poem, Misky.
“Conundrum”
Blogger
blamed his confused
twitter on Facebook page
then googled his egotism,
enraged.
Oh yeah. Definitely.
Love it!
Clever
the mumble and jumble
of emotion and thought
spar in my being…
to write: or not
misunderstanding
is a double-edged grief
forgiveness and mercy
offer relief
to the jumbling and mumbling
contorted descry
sucking the well
of inspiration dry
hind-sight with its clarity
and perfect vision
offers no sympathy
in my hour of indecision
Oh, Janet. I’ve been there too often to count. Well Said!
JanetRuth, you hit the nail on the head with your line about hindsight. It sure doesn’t offer any sympathy in the moment, does it? Nice poem!
Thank-you Claudsy and Beth:)
So, just decide! Choose something!
Nice.
I love the mumble and jumble
then jumbling and mumbling
You mean this happens in your head too?
In a few lines you have said so much.
It’s a terrible burden
Indecisiveness.
Shouldering the burden
Of uncertainty
At times when being sure of oneself
Is a necessary evil.
Past indiscretions have been hinged
On the wishy-washy nature of some
Causing undesirable outcomes to morph
Into insurmountable odds.
Protecting instincts
And preserving clarity
Will allow perseverance at times
When all seems lost
To the subtle inner workings of a mind
Gone foggy.
Yes…’To the subtle inner workings of a mind
Gone foggy.’ Powerful evocative poem, Beth.
Thanks, JanetRuth!
This so describes portions of lives spent in self-discovery, Beth.
“Past indiscretions have been hinged
On the wishy-washy nature of some
Causing undesirable outcomes to morph
Into insurmountable odds.”
This piece along was worth a read and a stop by the site. Very well expressed. Love it!
Thanks, Claudsy! I hate being indecisive, even though I often am. I guess I’m in self-discovery myself trying to get better about that
Well written, Beth.
WALKING INTO A QUANDRY
Don’t believe me if you want,
that’s all right,
too. It started as a mental exercise
when I became a part of a jigsaw puzzle, not
a real one, but inside my head
my eyes closed, sitting down
on a soft pillow, an invisible hand
watching over me, in a pile of wooden pieces,
a hillock on a glass table. It started uncomfortably
moving about involuntarily, pieces jutting
into my sides, patiently waiting my turn, soon
a bevy of fingers pushed and pulled, digits
playing at us, setting us aside. I would have felt
lying there patiently, contrasted
compared to all the other discombobulated pieces
of dysfunctional wood, looking for a home . . . Finally
I fit somewhere with something in a section
of a rectangle that has yet to become
meaningful. Connecting with others,
all the way to the side. Then to the top, faster than
I thought. Thank God for the Invisible Hand, so far
I have a neighborhood. I am part of a picture
well in. I belong somewhere, maybe,
once complete My Maker will take
the image that He has organized. There
you will see me in the right hand corner,
the fourth blue piece, five away from
the edge of the desert island.
Zev Davis
I love the image of the puzzle, Zev. It’s something I think we’ve all felt at some point or another – as if we fit but don’t yet have/know the meaning we want to convey.
This…is…GORGEOUS! WOW! :I fit somewhere with something in a section
of a rectangle that has yet to become
meaningful.: LOVE that!
Oh, yes, Zev! Love the images and the feeling of connection in this. Nice!
The idea, I think is to play with an image ad try to make a poem out of it, a description, or at least that’s the way I figure. Don’t know about anybody else. If it works for a reader, I am happy for the reader more than itdoesmorme. it makes harder for me the next time around, heh heh. have to find another “trick” to come up with another different poem.
Zev
My head isn’t working all that well yet this morning, Zev, so it took me a few lines to “get the picture,” but when I did, I loved it. I’ve never seen a life described quite this way before, yet it fits perfectly the process we all go through.
Wonderful! Thank you for sharing it.
Exactly, Clauds. It took me a second read-through as well. VERY cool stuff, this.
There once was a fellow from Sweden
Who spent more time writing than reading
When he wrote up a verse
You would oft hear him curse:
“This darn meter will still need some kneading!”
Anders, I love your use of the word “kneading” – it makes your last line so much more descriptive!
Thanks, Beth. It’s also my excuse for counting as a “mixed-up” poem
Love it, Anders. I recognize this complaint really well.
Pure awesomeness. What a great sense of humor you have.
Delightful.
a familiar feeling lol – love this!
Love that…been a long time since I read a limerick!