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My poem featured today at Katzenworld
June 9, 2022 at 9:55 pm (Creative arts, creative writing, Kitty Cat)
Tags: Katzenworld, Kitty cats, Otis the cat, Poetry, Purrsday Poetry, sock monkey
February 22, 2022 at 6:30 pm (creative writing)
Tags: creative writing, mood, non-rhyming, Poetry
Numb—
I plunge
chest deep
into a rippling pool
of wildflowers.
My shadow stains
what was once vibrant
with sun
with birdsong
with the joyful dance
of delicate wings.
No pain—
as I drown
in this fragrant lake
of milkweed
and thistle,
goldenrod and clover.
A ragged, mighty gasp
fills my lungs with
itchy
scratchy
squirmy things
that rend and devour
the tattered shreds
of my heart.
Numb—
Those serrated words
that curled from your lips
in a sinister tangle of shards
No pain—
as they pierced my skin
to release the last crystal drop
of my trust,
my innocence.
Empty—
I watch the drop as it descends,
its lustre now tarnished.
It vanishes into the soil
to become one
with other scattered, broken bits
of nature’s detritus,
long withered
and brown with decay.
Alone
January 22, 2021 at 6:04 pm (Creative arts, creative writing)
Tags: alone & lonely, creative prose, creative wordplay, Poetry
Immobile,
I stand watch
over my surroundings.
My eyes never close.
My stance never changes.
I am always aware.
I cannot speak, yet I can hear and see.
I cannot touch, yet I can feel.
I yearn to scream,
to reach out,
to be heard.
I yearn in vain,
for I will never be free of
the binds that confine me
to this fate.
I long to touch,
to trail a fingertip along
the surface of a leaf
on the plant that sits beside me.
So delicate in appearance, yet
such strength,
such tenacity in its growth.
I have memorized
the intricate web of veins
etched into each leaf,
the curling vines,
the blend of jade and olive
stippled with shadows and light.
I feel the powerful resonance of your music
as it seeps its way
into my being.
I want to move, to sway, to leap
with the vibrations.
I smell the enticing aromas
of your kitchen;
they drift and curl around me—
such agonizing wisps
of temptation.
I watch you partake.
My hunger
is my anguish.
So weary am I of observing,
of studying,
of longing.
How eager I am to live as you do,
to experience all
that I watch you take
for granted.
Yet, remain here I will,
for as long as you will have me;
standing still and silent
until the day you grow tired of me,
and throw me
to my final death.
Can you see the tears in my eyes?
Of course not,
for I cannot cry.
I am just an ornament—
a decorative figure to
embellish your mantle.
As you pause to study me,
to admire me,
I invite you to look a little closer.
Try to see the invisible tears
of one who lives
dormant and lonely.
The good and bad of being an old fart
March 8, 2018 at 9:31 pm (creative writing, slice of life)
Tags: aging gracefully, creative writing, funny, getting old, humor, old age, Poetry, rhyme, the good news and bad news
Ah, the joys of aging! With each birthday that passes, you climb one more rung on the ladder to old-fartdom.
Some of you still have a good distance to go, some are midway along, and some of you have stopped a moment to sit down on a rung near the top because the climb is killing your back.
Regardless of your current position on the ladder, the fact of the matter is that we all start climbing the day we are born.
As someone who’s done her fair share of climbing, I’ve got some good news and some bad news to share about what you can look forward to once you’re well past the halfway mark on your ladder:
First, the bad news…
“Remember when your knees could bend
without that cracking sound?
And the frown lines on your face were there
…ONLY when you frowned?
Remember when sensible shoes
were the style old grannies wore,
And you never imagined stairs
could be a mountain-climbing chore.
Remember when you’d drop your keys
and swoop to pick them up,
Without needing a hand from passersby
to help you stand back up?
Remember when you’d grease the wheels
by having another drink?
Now your grease is a tube of Voltaren
used to soothe a new neck kink.
Remember when the scent you trailed
was Chanel Number Five?
What you now save on chic perfumes
you spend on A535.
Remember when you could remember
what you’d been about to say?
When thoughts remained inside your brain
instead of drifting away?
Remember when missing “the pill”
could make your blood run cold?
Instead of nightmares filled with storks,
now it means your cholesterol’s up tenfold.
Remember when a “home” was
what you paid a mortgage on?
Now it’s where you’ll someday be dumped
by your scheming, evil spawn.”
And now, the good news…
“Remember when you used to give a crap
what other people thought?
And believed you had to practice
all the etiquette you were taught?
Remember your shocked concern
if you saw a hair turn grey?
And how you actually worried about your weight
after bingeing at a buffet?
Remember when you’d actually listen
if some young punk said you were wrong?
Now, you answer:
“Bite me, you knuckleheaded schlong!”
And all those senior discounts
couldn’t have come at a better time,
Since you’re sick of being reamed by shops
for every single dime.
Remember when you had to keep
a polished résumé?
Now who cares? You get to sleep in
every single day!
And isn’t it fitting that now the government
must pay your way?
Since they sure cleaned up when you worked full-time
by stealing half your pay.
Yep, growing old has its good days
along with some days we dread,
But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,
It’s better to be old than dead!”
A churchy kind of poem
March 28, 2017 at 5:08 pm (creative writing, slice of life)
Tags: children, church, creative writing, humor, Poetry, slice of life, spring
Spring is here… it’s the time of year when children begin to wind down the school year in preparation for summer vacation, and those in Catholic schools are getting ready to celebrate their First Communion or Confirmation.
My poem is for all the parents who’ve been there, done that,
and all of those who are about to.
Confirmation
Perched in church,
nephew’s confirmation,
swaddled in finery,
big family occasion.
Grandma on the aisle,
camera poised.
Grandpa hunched,
both eyes closed.
Cousins ahead,
aunties behind,
uncles a-twitch
in neckties that bind.
Impure thoughts,
flecked with guilt.
Long time since
confessions spilt.
Mind’s a-wandering,
what a sinner…
wondering what
we’ll have for dinner.
We sit. We stand.
We stand. We sit.
Unfold the bench
and kneel a bit.
We genuflect,
we sing a hymn,
we bow our heads
and pray to Him.
Ah, sermon’s over,
we’ve all been blessed.
Tumultuous minds
for now at rest.
We chatter, we shuffle,
our exit’s begun.
We burst through the doors.
Church is done.
For all those parents who have lost their baby boys
June 17, 2016 at 1:57 pm (creative writing)
Tags: baby boy, childhood, death of a child, growing up, motherhood, Poetry, senseless acts of violence, sons, terror, unconditional love
I wrote this poem years ago for a friend, pregnant, who learned she was carrying a son.
Today, I’d like to dedicate it to the parents who lost their baby boys to a senseless act of violence at Pulse in Orlando. And I’d like to go further and also dedicate it to every parent who has lost their precious child in such an unspeakable way: while at school, in a movie theatre, living in or visiting Paris and Brussels, travelling on airplanes, fighting in uniform overseas, and in so many other equally tragic events too numerous to list here.
My heart breaks for you. I really can’t begin to imagine.
My Baby Boy
You’re a butterfly, my baby boy,
The way you dance inside of me.
Soon you’ll emerge from your cocoon,
to be loved by us unconditionally.
Can you feel the joyful longing
that awaits you on that day?
I will count your toes and fingers
and rejoice that all is okay.
I’ll cradle you so gently
in the circle of my arms.
You’ll feel my fervent promise
to protect you from all harm.
I will marvel at your silken skin
and stroke your downy head,
Sing lullabies and rock you,
Keep you warm and dry and fed.
I’ll bandage knees when they’ve been skinned,
and wipe away your tears,
Teach you about rights and wrongs,
and help to ease your fears.
No matter what your mischief,
when I look into your eyes,
Love will blossom in my heart,
and turn my scolds to sighs.
School plays, long summer days,
High school will soon arrive,
Rebellion, hormones, hockey, girls,
and teaching you to drive.
As time whittles the years away,
I’ll need to set you free,
and have faith that I have raised you
to be the best that you can be.
With tears of pride and adoration,
I’ll then uncap my jar,
to free my precious butterfly—
proud of the fine young man you are.
There was actually a time when winter wasn’t so bad…
February 19, 2016 at 8:24 pm (creative writing)
Tags: best friends, childhood, children in the 60s, Poetry, winter, winter play
After dusting the cobwebs from my memories of winters in the past, this is what I found.
When This You Read, Remember Me
Remember when winters never seemed long?
Cold? What cold? We were young; we were strong.
With every new snowfall, remember the thrill
of tugging our sleds up the nearby hills?
Remember the outdoor skating rink,
with its indoor wood stove and hot cocoa to drink?
Remember our snow forts, and hiding inside
from those boys who threw snowballs at us from outside?
Remember plucking icicles from the balustrade,
and using them to decorate the snowmen we made?
Remember how we laughed, our breath frosting the air?
Ice balls on our mittens, our scarves…in our hair.
The winters, they were never so long back then,
when they were shared by the best of friends.
Here’s to you, Sue, my best friend then and always.
The Snowstorm
February 3, 2016 at 6:39 pm (creative writing)
Tags: babies, Poetry, snowstorms, snowy nights, through the eyes of a child, winter
You and I, we view every snowstorm as a major inconvenience: yanking on coats and boots and scarves and hats and gloves; treacherous roads, traffic snarls and fender benders; grey skies and Seasonal Affective Disorder…
But children, they see that same snowstorm through a completely different set of eyes.
The Snowstorm
Toasty little flannelled feet,
Tiptoe ‘cross the nursery rug,
Busy, dimpled starfish hands,
Give the drapery cords a tug.
The amber glow of streetlamp light,
Illuminates two widened eyes,
That dance, as icing-sugar spills
In silence, from the murky skies.
Cheeks a-bloom like scarlet roses,
Button nose pressed to the glass,
Watching God’s vanilla frosting
Spread to hide the crisp, brown grass.
A gleeful gasp of baby’s breath;
Behold the wondrous sight below!
God has closed his doors above,
And scattered stars upon the snow.
As the sun begins its rise above
The dips and peaks of whipping cream,
Nanny finds, upon the sill,
Her charge, curled ‘round a winter dream.
A Redneck Christmas Poem
December 4, 2015 at 4:56 pm (creative writing)
Tags: creative writing, humour, Poetry, redneck christmas, rhyme, santa
I’ve been negligent with my posts in recent weeks. I was in Cuba with my daughter for a week, and we spent some wonderful, quality time together. I’ll post some pictures in a future post. Work has been busy. Life has been busy. It’s a busy time of year, yada yada.
With all this busyness consuming my life, my brain has been going through a dry spell with any creative writing too. Not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but I moderate a community writers’ group that meets the first Wednesday of every month, and we’re expected to bring something to read aloud at meetings. Of course I had nothing prepared for our December meeting.
To make a long story short, I wanted to write a quick poem during my lunch hour and hadn’t been able to think of anything to write about all morning, when suddenly, an image of a redneck who’s pissed off Santa popped into my mind (only God would know why…and maybe a psychiatrist). You can read the result of my brain fart below.
A Redneck Christmas Poem
Santa don’t come down
muh chimney no more,
He don’t even come through
a window or door.
No more presents for me,
‘cuz I think he bin told,
‘bout the six-pack-o Bud
an’ the smokes I done stole.
An’ how I drunk moonshine
straight from the still;
Spent two days in a whorehouse, smashed to the gills.
Borrowed Clyde Dooley’s truck to cross the town border,
An’ pick up the ten pounds of weed I done ordered.
Hid the weed in Clyde’s barn, where I thought I could trust it,
Sheriff got wind, an’ poor Clyde, he got busted.
Next day, I beat a ho with a hickory switch,
‘cause she gave me somethin’ that made muh balls itch.
Dancin’ and scratchin’, I dug out muh 12-gauge,
An’ blew more than a gasket in muh boy-gone-wild rage.
Now, there’s a mess of buckshot in the whorehouse walls,
An’ no more glass windows in the ol’ town hall.
Sheriff’s car? Well it done look like swiss cheese,
spoutin’ with fountains of green anti-freeze.
Needless to say, it weren’t a good year,
I don’t give a damn ‘bout no peace an’ good cheer.
Christmas ain’t comin’ for me anytime soon,
Just the sheriff and his jailhouse posse o’ goons.
There ain’t no frickin chimneys in the county jail,
for Santa to come down and pay for my bail.
Feel free to come knockin’, ‘cause my trailer ain’t be rockin’,
I know I’m getting’ coal instead’a crack in muh stockin’.
‘fraid I won’t be gittin’ no presents no mo’,
No mo’ boobies and butt under the mistletoe.
Yep—Santa—he don’t love me no mo’.
‘cause this year, I bin a baaaad, baaaad bo’.
Nursery rhymes for serial killers and other frightening types
November 4, 2015 at 4:00 pm (creative writing)
Tags: adult nursery rhymes, creative writing, halloween humor, humor, Poetry, serial killers
I’ve been negligent with my posts lately because I’ve been so busy with work, work and more work. Ugh. Well, there is some light at the end of my tunnel because I’m off next week on a much-needed vacation to the beaches of Cayo Coco in Cuba.
For now, I’d like to offer a belated salute to Halloween with these scary scary nursery rhymes that are NOT meant to be shared with children (unless said children share all the characteristics listed on the FBI’s behavioural science checklist, warning signs that you may have a budding serial killer on your hands. If that’s the case, these nursery rhymes are the least of your problems.)
Little Bo Peep
Little Bo Peep’s
In trouble deep,
And isn’t sure where she should turn.
She stuck the mister
With her sewing scissors,
Last time her affections were spurned.
In a panic, Bo Peep
Fell sound asleep,
And dreamt that she heard him bleating,
But when she awoke,
There lay the bloke,
Messing her rug with his bleeding.
So up she took
Her silver crook,
Determined to haul him outside,
It took more than a sec,
With the hook ‘round his neck,
To drag him to shore by high tide.
As he bobbed out to sea,
Bo felt wistful, indeed,
For life’s lonely at times with just sheep.
If he’d only behaved,
Her rug could have been saved,
And he’d not now be down in the deep.
Bo Peep heaved a sigh,
Wiped a tear from her eye,
And back over the hillocks she went.
Once again, sought her sheep,
Not a one was a creep,
They were far more endearing than men.
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With Harold’s eyes,
And Robert’s thighs,
And Ray’s ribs buried all in a row.
O Where, O Where Has My Manager Gone?
O where, O where has my manager gone?
O where, O where can he be?
With his ears in the freezer,
His tongue down the drain,
There’ll be no more demands made of me.
The Queen Of Hearts’ Son, Jack
He cut out the hearts,
Of the neighborhood tarts,
‘twas a signature of Jack’s.
Fortified with gin,
He absolved them of sins,
Tied their hands up with cord at their backs.
Jack’s mission began,
When he punished his mam,
The biggest tart of them all.
She and her feller,
Are laid out in Jack’s cellar,
Tucked up in a funeral pall.
Sing A Song Of Sixpence
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of lye,
Four and twenty digits,
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened
By the county coroner,
He quickly then determined
That a murder had occurred.
A hand was in the suspect’s house,
Stiffened ‘round some money,
An ankle in the parlour
‘tween sliced bread and honey.
A torso in the back yard,
Hung among the clothes,
And a scarecrow in the garden
Wore the victim’s severed nose!
There Was A Little Girl
There was a little girl,
Had a gun inlaid with pearl,
Aimed right at the middle
Of his forehead.
When she was broke,
She was very, very broke,
And when she was broke,
She went robbin’.
Photographs compliments of gratisography.com and pixabay.com
Create-a-holic Writer 