At Breakfast

 

at breakfast

your smile

made me want to smash it

as bravely fragile things

sometimes do.

at lunch

I called you

like climbing Everest

because it is there

and like a metronome

because it always has.

At dinner

I made something nice

that our son wouldn't eat.

I said,

starve then.

you said,

what would you like instead?

At midnight

you wanted it

but I

kissed the dog,

told him I love him

and rolled away from you

like a pearl

from a broken strand.

______

shared with WGO? open link

Gobble Day

"Sunday Visitors" by George Hughes

 Everybody's back for the holiday;

Daddy's got his football on and he's 

instructing them in the way they should go.

No! No! Up the middle every time!

Flag? What for, refs? Open your eyes!

Today's game brought to you by Target,

Chevy trucks, Placebonol, and Applebee's.

Big brother is blundering around,

chasing the dog with his squeaky.

He steps on little sis's foot--she says, Sorry!

Older sis is opining to cousin Lisa

about her and Kyle's new house and she's

fixing it up just the way it should be.

So these workers doing the tile,

they're hopeless! Mexican or something,

I might as well do it all myself!

Uncle's eyes are more glazed

than last year's ham. Bottoms up!

Mommy's in the kitchen stuffing the kids

and dressing the turkey. She's got spices

on the counter and gin in the cupboard.

No dear, thanks, I don't need any help

unless...could you set the table on the dishes?

Use the good salt and pooper shakers.

Daddy's really angry now, his blood pressure

high and his blood sugar low. Idiots! Dumbbells!

Lisa looks lobotomized. Older sis is still talking. 

Everybody's back for the holiday.

The dog drops his toy in the gravy boat;

Rough seas, Cap'n! shouts older bro

as the two of them high-tail it upstairs.

Mommy has basted the kids and taped

the potatoes to the fridge. 

I think that looks nice, don't you dear?

We always used to.... do something or...

Daddy shouts, Where's that bird?

Mommy collapses in a kitchen chair, crying.

Big bro and the dog come thundering downstairs.

Lisa has left, Uncle is face-down in the cranberries.

Oh, Kyle, it is chaos here, just chaos.

Are those workers doing the sun room today?

Well why not? Oh, right, I suppose.

Daddy shouts, What's wrong, Lillian? 

Mommy falls out of her kitchen chair laughing.

Granny screams, Merry Christmas!  

It's Gobble Day, Gramma. Mwah!

------------------

For What's Going On? "Feast"

Movement In Four Parts

 

Shot-Through-The-Guts had been shot through the guts.

"Tsk tsk," said Portly Pantaloons, packing his pipe. 

"Serves him right!" growled Razormouth, having done it. 

"Might...die..." gasped Shot-Through-The-Guts.

"Tsk tsk," scolded Portly Pantaloons, with his habitual air of mild disapproval.

"He woulda stole my teeth with a monkey wrench!" complained Razormouth, who hated the dentist's smock that Shot-Through-The-Guts liked to wear. 

"It's worn ironically," groaned Shot-Through-The Guts, as a crimson stain spread across his dentist's smock.

"I think it's vulgar!" cried Mrs. Portly Pantaloons indignantly.

Razormouth said nothing, but clicked his teeth together menacingly.

"Where will you go," inquired Portly Pantaloons, gesturing with his pipe, "if you, eh, pass on, as it were?"

"Straight to hell!" interjected Razormouth, dancing from foot to foot.

At that moment, a host of beautiful angels wearing pure white dentist's smocks floated down and tenderly collected Shot-Through-The-Guts, then returned to the clouds.

"Not from this neighborhood I daresay," complained Portly Pantaloons, stamping his cane importantly. "Probably came in on the bus line."

"Dentist's smocks!" bellowed Razormouth, his little eyes widening. "I shoulda plugged 'em! I shoulda....I..."

"There there," cooed Mrs. Portly Pantaloons distractedly. Turning to her husband, she asked, "What bus line, dear? They seemed to appear out of the sky." 

Portly Pantaloons, grunted, mumbled something that seemed very definite in his sonorous baritone, and pretended great interest in a bird across the way. Mrs. Portly Pantaloons was still talking, and Razormouth was still blubbering, but by then, Portly Pantaloons' mind was far away, calculating ways to manufacture more monkey wrenches, more dentist's smocks, and more shooters-through-the-guts, at the least cost, with the widest distribution, and at the highest profit. 

The bird, whose name was Captain Poopybird, lifted its tail feathers, pooped, and sang.

___________

for Sunday Muse #156. 

In Case Of Typhoon

"Lion Afternoon" by Jacek Yerka

In the event of typhoon, 
hurricane,
sandstorm
or other natural upheaval,

the gathering of certain objects and creatures is advised.
Clocks, for their numerical appeal and sense of order;
flowers in vases whose delicacy illustrates contrast;
and lions, generally useful in all situations.

When traveling by public transport, always be sure
that you have fed your lion beforehand. 
Consult with drivers before installing fountains, saplings,
or other decorative additions.

When hosting relatives, serve ham w/ pineapple;
if a lover, light cakes or honey tea.
When arriving as a guest, be sure to bring your own seating and lion,
as your hosts may lack these essentials.

Finally, treat typhoons, tornadoes, landslides and such as equals--
talking down to them or shouting does no good.
Invite lions into your home.
Serve hors d'oeuvres made from antelope or cape buffalo.

Follow these simple instructions and avoid high winds,
use bus and train systems without worry,
and assure yourself of being welcome in the best venues
in tandem with a lion who neither owns you nor is owned.
________

for Sunday Muse #69. Carrie kindly stepped in for me with this fantastic image, because, like a blithering fool, I simply forgot I was supposed to do the post today!

In The Year Of

In the year of the pestilence,
in the time of the puppet government,
we fell in love.

We held hands, and gamboled 
as others doubled over and died.

In the year of the pogrom,
in the hour of the public noose,
we were giddy,

and grateful for our milky corneas
our couplings, and our luck.
________ 

another starry-eyed love poem for flash 55.

Michigan Apple Pie

This morning, there was
a cup and a quarter of flour, with its nubbly surface reminding me
of the old-fashioned patterned white bedspread in our room.

There were
ten tablespoons of cold butter, such a sweet yellow,
like November sun above the newly bare trees outside our kitchen.

Funny how a twelve-inch circle of dough
can fit into a nine inch pie pan, by rolling and unfurling it
with the pin. Did you know how your smile captivated me, and still does?

I like a lattice top--
there is an art to weaving the strips one over the other,
inviting and concealing, both. I say "I love you" every day, then hold my peace.

Right now, I can smell the apples
in the oven, and some still in the green bowl I always use,
sliced and ready, but too many. Still, I'm in no hurry to put them away.

Tonight, there will be pie--
you will have seconds, then smile and say how full you are.
That is your favorite moment, but as I rinse dishes before coming to bed,

I'll be thinking of morning, and how the kitchen was clean, quiet and ready.
_______

For Play It Again Toads #23. I used Bjorn's "Time Travel" challenge, which asks for a poem using past, present and future tenses. 

Dumb Beasts

There was mud--
but that was far from the worst of it.
Hooves sank, jerked up, sank again--
flanks heaved, nostrils flared and burned like the air itself.

There was blood--
but that was not the worst of it.
Each time a shell exploded, limbs, ears, nerves, souls came apart,
ragged, absurd, destroyed, haunted forever.
The horse tried again but was held back,
leaving knots of red flesh on the barbs of the wire.

Horses, like men, find themselves where they find themselves,
but that is still not the worst of it.
This horse, caught in the wire, a round in its ribs, frothing, struggling,
could as easily have been cantering around a track in Kentucky
or pulling up clover in an Irish field.
Great men lighting cigars in gilded rooms saw to it being otherwise.

But listen to me.
That animal has rotted to white bone, along with its rider.
Any sunrise they ached to see has long since come and gone without them.
So here I am, standing in front of the house I grew up in--
I left bloody wads of myself caught on the twists of love and hate,
hope and despair that existed here,
but that is not the worst of it, either.

The worst of it is what I brought to my own child
in my panic, and in my pain.
I hope that armistice came soon enough.
God forgive me for carrying on traditions like these on the innocent,
and God bless the dumb beasts
who live only in the moment for their simple needs
and by doing so, prove their masters fools beyond all telling.
______

for Mama Zen's "Dear Past, Dear Future" challenge at Real Toads