Mary Lou stood waiting for me at the Library! entrance. We launched into a neat conversation about children, careers, writing in any political landscape, believing each act makes a small difference, and keeping band-aids on hand. She had co-written two books: Beginning with Babies and Tangling with Toddlers—both of which I wished I had known about a few years earlier.
The Stranger: Mary Lou
The Word: Whimsical
The poem I wrote:
Beneath all the tussling action
in the spider monkey cage at the zoo: She.
Solid and unguilty and working.
Those babies ran off again and
tussled and tussled. The tired dad sits
picking his nose on a stump. Babies
fling above his head. He doesn’t
look up. Mama mammal never
rests. Every verb the babies make
taunts her. They are completely hers,
this whimsical duty. No wonder she
is skinny beneath her milk and
the others fat and sumptuous.
Her eyes fling all over the cage,
trusting nothing, never wondering
what if, tracking each infant move,
jacketing it all in her animal heart.
The Challenge: Do you have a poem in you on this word? Write one here.
October 24, 2018 at 3:17 pm
Wock on the Wacky Side
Take your vorpal sword in hand.
The Jabberwock awaits!
Take your stand in the sand.
Lost is he who hesitates .
When the Jabberwock astounds you,
Lunge, riposte, and snicker-snack!
Wield your sword around you,
Do not relent. Attack! Attack!
Catch the beast within your whirl.
Destroy the carnaptious carnivore
Whiffle your sabre, beamish girl!
Become your people’s savior.
Gyre and gimble in the wabe.
Beware the snatching, snapping maw!
Give as good as he has gave.
Avoid the poisoned, taloned claw!
Extended neck, most serpentine,
Then with a mighty slash
Summon strength with all your means.
Across its throat a nasty gash.
The manxome foe lies dead.
Its story written as ill-fated,
For it is one has lost its head,
It has been decapitated!
Deep within the Borogoves,
You rest beneath a Tumtum tree
The Wocky head a treasured trove,
An Uffish of your Victory.
Time to go galumphing back.
“O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
Cries from the triumphing pack.
Honor, homage… your prize and pay.
Alas, the mome raths still outgrabe:
Two slithy toves still mimsy.
From the Jubjub bird we must be saved
And the Bandersnatch’s whimsy.
You journey through the tulgey wood.
You are searching for the twain.
Against brillig evil stands the good.
The frumious must still be slain.
Make sense of this whimsical nonsense? Impossible! But you may wish to browse for JABBERWOCKY by Lewis Carroll. Couldn’t hurt much.
October 25, 2018 at 10:44 am
Frozen
in whimsically constructed
Elsa sparkles
Eva twirls
and twirls
and twirls
and twirls (some more)
with amusing personality
blue, green and aquamarine
glitter playfully
flies through the air
before softly landing
(as does an Eva)
on the beige carpet
October 27, 2018 at 8:14 am
Some Halloween whimsy for y’all originally from
PFS- Gangrening- April 2013 and revised and reposted October 2018
Carrion- Love is Calling
You shambled into my life-
Infected me with your contagion.
Now I want you as my wife-
Don’t ever go away again.
I heard you scream for “brains!”
You got a piece of my mind.
I endured your feeding pains,
Now, I’m a Zombie in love- I find.
Please don’t ever leave me
As just an animate cadaver.
Please, I don’t ever want to be
The one who cannot have her.
With your halo of flies,
Pretty Miasma, you are my sweet.
My heart yearns, will never die
Just my legs, my hands, my feet.
Your exuviating tissue,
Molting the necrotic,
I find it’s not an issue.
To me it’s most erotic.
Your pallor is gangrening
While you sphacelate,
Our deaths will have more meaning
So, please, don’t hesitate.
And we can have our wedding kiss,
Say “yes” as I propose we wed,
A chance we will not want to miss,
Before our lips are mostly shed.
Parting out is sweet sorrow-
We are falling all to pieces.
We’ll only have our tomorrow
For as long as the Reaper pleases.
I will give you my hand.
Don’t give me just a finger.
I’ll give you golden wedding band
So ere our love will linger.
Let us have a wedding feast,
Dispense with all the “maybes,”
Consummate with the beast.
We could have some babies-
A girl for you, a boy for me…
They’re young, so sweet and tender-
And so easy to catch, you see-
Tiny limbs to render.
Miasma, help me keep it real-
In after-death be mine.
I most truly hope and feel
Zombie Love is something fine.
Shamble hand in hand with me
Into dawn, the day, and night,
Living Dead for all to see
With a love that is so right.
We may not have tomorrow.
We may only have today.
It would be a crime and sorrow
To let our love decay.
November 5, 2018 at 7:17 am
Sharing a Closet
It’s how he lives here,
in my closet,
claiming the best wood hanger.
A soft and dense
tan wool overcoat
Knee-length
Full breasted
Hand-stitched
Leather pockets
This was no whimsical choice.
There was a tailor search,
an interview, riddled with New York talk.
Measurements, button choosing,
thread color.
He liked to think he was a Manhattanite
singing jazz
late tonight, with the coat in sight
of the mic.
I like to think I make it so,
when I open the closet, crank the stereo…
Mel Torme’ swinging to beat the band,
somewhere,
my mothers’ hand
in his.
“one for my baby,
one more,
for the road.”