Two Alleys

photo by Penny K. Sherman courtesy Bluebell Books

Life is good on Ego Alley*

Lazy days of heat and haze

Sipping margaritas topside

From the Captain's lounge chair

Watching the tourists

Watching you

In your cleverly named boat

While in another alley 

Just a few blocks away

The tourists avert their gaze

While a small boy plays

With a beer can and a stick.

In a puddle of rainwater and piss

He guides his boat around cigarette butts

And a used tampon applicator

Until his mother yells for him to quit.

*"Ego Alley" is a small, narrow waterway that leads to the heart of the city of Annapolis, MD.  It got it's name from the endless parade of boats and yachts that traverse this dead end canal, usually only to see and be seen.

submitted for Thursday Short Story Slam, Bluebell Books

Francis Takes a Vacation

image source

Francis has a bad case of the burn-out

He's real tired of this sainting gig

So he figures he'll take himself a little vacation

Do some much needed meditation.

"What you should do is some trout fishing," suggests Neot.

Francis shakes his head and says, "Nah, I wouldn't feel right about that."

"There's great skiing in the Alps this time of year!" says Bernard. "I'll lend you my skis, man."

"What about a nice Caribbean cruise? Work on your tan?" Erasmus taunts.

Francis just sighs.

"Can you picture me in a Speedo, really?"

John, the Baptist, says, "Paterson, NJ is really nice!"

There is silence.

"Sorry," John explains. "I'm the official patron. I'm required to say it."

Francis settles on a quaint little villa in Tuscany

With a vineyard, olive trees, and lots of quiet.

Before he leaves, Dymphna scurries over to him, biting her nails, and stammers,

"What about the animals, Francis? Who will take care of them while you're away?"

Natch. 

Leave it to Dymphna to harsh his mellow.

Francis replies, "Let Darwin take over for a while. Survival of the fittest and all that rot."

And with that, he's off.

Well, I've been marking the calendar since his departure

And I have to tell you that I hope he comes back soon

Because I was driving down the road this morning 

And it looks like a war zone

And the animals are losing bad.
I don't believe the drivers are the ones needing the protection, Chris.

Squashed squirrels litter the street 

Deceased deer on the sidelines like they passed out drunk

And despite my calling on Jude for that turtle

Trying to cross to the greenery on the far side of the median,

I strongly suspect it will become asphalt soup.

How about one more glass of Chianti, Francis?

And then please get back to work.

submitted for Poetry Potluck, 41, Saints, Monks, and Meditation

Hush A Bye

Our instructions for Poetry Jam this week were to write a poem inspired by or using a line from a song. My song was "Hush A Bye," a traditional lullaby which was heard at our home sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary. My parents often sung it to me as a good night song, with my father strumming his acoustic guitar. You can hear the song here:

image source

Hush a bye

Don't you cry

My daddy sang to me

The guitar he strummed

As mama hummed

My childhood melody

When I would weep

Or fight with sleep

They'd sing hush a bye

Was like a drug

A soft, warm hug

A deep, musical sigh

Now you have me

And I sing off key

And I can't play a note

But I hope I'm not wrong

That you find love in my song

 And in all the words that I wrote

When you are grown

And on your own

Will you think of me?

And will you hear

My song in your ear

Wherever you may be?

Hush a bye

Don't you cry

You are mama's star

I'll wrap you in love

As snug as a glove

No matter where you are.

submitted for Poetry Jam, Moving To the Music

Fly

photo courtesy of Magpie Tales

Baby Girl wear her butterfly wings for Halloween

She soar 'round the house pretending to fly

Baby Girl say, "I'ma fly for real one day!"

Baby Girl's Daddy laugh real loud. Say,

"You too precious to fly, Sugar

You Daddy's little doll
Fly too high,
you break
like a fine
china
plate."

Baby Girl
 pout her lips
and scrunch up her face

Baby Girl go tell her Mama
"I'ma fly for real one day, Mama!"

Mama grin but look like she smell somethin' off
She say, "Don't be talking crazy. You too fat to fly
even if you had wings. Imagine, a butterball like you!"
Mama's words stung like steppin' ona nest a yella jackets

Baby Girl blink her eyes buncha times then but she don't cry

She be thinking'

She be schemin'

Baby Girl go 'bout her business but she always on the lookout

She be collectin' what she need for her potion:

first mornin' dewdrops

hurricane winds and

dragonfly wings

angel trumpet blooms

tears from a broken hearted girl and

stardust

silk from a spider's web

a sigh from the laziest afternoon in June

and in a glass cannin' jar, 'stead of pole beans,

the perfect note

from the love song

of a white throated sparra'

Take Baby Girl long time to collect everthing
But Baby Girl, she long on patience 'cause
You got to fix a potion jus' right and

 Baby Girl, she wanna be jus' right

Then one clear summer night
when the moon be bright
and the sky be dark
as molasses

Baby Girl
know.

Next
morning
she be gone

Her Daddy don't say
nothin' but make tight fists
with his big hands. Her Mama
cry and cry. Say, "How could she
leave like this?" Slip a paper on Baby Girl's
pillow.  It read, "You don't need wings to fly."

submitted for Magpie Tales, 70

Pillow Talk

image courtesy of Theme Thursday

I'm here for you at the end of each day
On my soft breast you wearily lay
I cradle you gently as you drift to sleep
You whisper your secrets that I vow to keep.

When you are lonely, I mop up your tears
When ghosts come to haunt you, I hold back the fears
When you are angry and punch with your fist
I just absorb what I cannot resist.

I'm soft at my hardest, down right to my core
I know only to yield and can give you no more.

submitted for Thursday Think Tank #55 at  Poets United
and for Theme Thursday, Soft

Sonnet For a Friend

photo source: Gordon Haslett

How do I say goodbye to you, my friend?
I wish on stars but see a waning moon
And though I want to be there til the end
I fear that I may pull away too soon

How to protect a heart from pain I know
There is no anodyne able to heal
The scars I'll wear within me when you go
And grief from sorrow's reach I'm loathe to feel

But who among us has the strength to dare
Consider Death may swing her scythe's blade too
Toward any of us, living unaware
Perhaps, my friend, I'll lead the way for you

And so I'll give you all I have to give
For whatever time that you have left to live.

submitted for Poetry Potluck, Void, Loneliness, and Sorrow, at Jingle Poetry

$1.99

image courtesy of Magpie Tales

Welcome to the estate sale!

Come on in and look around

See anything you like?

Oh yes, it's all yours, isn't it?

Or rather, it was.

Now it's fodder 

For the Saturday morning junk hunters.

Table and chairs--$100

Floor lamp--$25

Potted plant--$2.50

Like you, it's not alive.

The sofa with its arm covers

Barely even used

The cut glass chandelier

Still casts a harsh glare

Also like you

But it's never felt so warm here

Now that you're cold.

And look! Here's your photo!

In a lovely gilded frame

Million dollar smile?

Yours, $1.99.

submitted for Magpie Tales 70

Icarus Also Flew

photo courtesy of Chris Galford

Paint cans in hand

We rule the night.

Urban fireflies we burn

Bright. We buzz

We hum. We leave

Our mark against the sky.

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

The day is not so kind.

Hot sun burns our skin.

Hot words spit in faces

Burn our spirits to ash

Black as the streets where

We escape.

See our words erased

Our images whitewashed.

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

Sundown comes.

Night calls us like a pheromone.

Paint cans in hand

We stretch our wings, aching to fly.

Some day they'll see us.

Some day we'll reach the sun.

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

Love Song of the Sea

image source

The summer sun sets our bodies to glisten

Sounds of the waves make us stop and listen

Of love and lust the sea whispers discreetly

Lovers can hear it and obey completely

The warm water washes away our past sin

Like Venus we're birthed from the sea to begin

And so like her subjects obey her command

Embrace and make love in the soft ocean sand

submitted for Poetry Jam, Summer Chillin'
and Thursday Think Tank, The Beach/Ocean, at Poets United
and for Thursday Poets Rally, Week 46

Thanks, Jingle and Poets Rally!
I nominate K. Shawn Edgar for the Perfect Poet Award

Best Served Cold

photo by Melissa R. Bickel

"...severe thunderstorms in the listening area with damaging winds and flooding. As of 3:00 Eastern Standard Time, a hurricane has formed off the coast and is approaching land at approximately 40 miles per hour. Listeners are advised to stay off of the roadways and to seek shelter indoors..."

Shannan pressed down on the accelerator pedal and cursed as her Civic hydroplaned in response. She wanted to get home before her ice cream melted and her reduced price hamburger grew a new life form.

"No wonder the grocery store was such a zoo!" she thought. "Leave it to me to run out of toilet paper when they're predicting a hurricane!"

Shannan squinted through the car window, trying to stay in her lane. The rain streaming down and the static of her car radio combined to form one incomprehensible din in her ears. Route 39 was eerily empty. Did everyone actually listen to the warning to stay off the roads?

Up ahead Shannan saw what appeared to be a person by the side of the road. She slowed her car as she approached to see what other unfortunate soul was stuck out in this mess.

"Holy crap!" Pacing in the downpour with her cell phone in one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other at an obviously flat tire on her Lexus, was Shannan's mother-in-law. Even with the rain blurring her view, Shannan could see that she was looking even more put-out than usual. Shannan reflexively slowed her car even more and put her finger on the door button to unlock it. Then, she didn't. She removed her hand from the door lock, put her pinky finger to her mouth, and chewed on her nail. Then she smiled. And she drove away, whispering, "Good luck." Her mother-in-law never even saw her.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. It's also pretty good wet.


submitted for Thursday Short Story Slam at Bluebell Books

Tyrant

image source

All day long you fret, complain
All the night long too
Loving you is such a strain
The things you make me do!

I cook your food just to your taste
You stare at it with dread
It's not enough it goes to waste
You throw it at my head!

I choose your clothes with love and care
You'd rather look a mess
But then you go and make me wear
Your lunch upon my dress!

You whine, you cry, your selfish deeds
Why love someone like you?
You only think about your needs
Can't wait 'til you're not two!

submitted for Poetry Potluck at Jingle Poetry

The Shell Collector II

photo courtesy of Magpie Tales

 Empty of meat

You say you are a shell

No life within

But I see your fragile beauty

I know you are leaving

I see you grow smaller each day

You long to return to the sea 

When you are gone

What will I have of you?

Memories 

     are slippery things

Silvery minnows 

     that dart away

When you try to hold them in your hands

If a shell is all that you leave behind

Then I will treasure the shell

The Shell Collector

photo courtesy of Magpie Tales

Empty of meat

Back on the street

But, oh, it was sweet

That little morsel of you

You noticed my greed

Mistook it for need

Allowed me to feed

On your fragrant, ripe fruit

Now I've had my fill

And you're feeling ill

The creeping, bleak chill

Of dissection

Your will has grown weak

And your voice has grown meek

But I'm not one to seek

For protection

I swallowed your heart

Was your gift and my art

It's all just a part 

I play very well

Your spirit is dust

It might be unjust

You're only a husk

But, oh, what a beautiful shell.

submitted for Magpie Tales, 69

Please Leave a Message

photo courtesy of Rob Hanson

She dials the number

Ring, ring, click

Hello. You have reached...

Closes her eyes and listens to his voice

We are not able to take your call right now...

The kids say it's morbid, like hearing a ghost

But to her, his voice is like

a warm blanket 

and her bed is so cold

Please leave a message after the tone...

I miss you, she tells him.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

Pigeon in a Henhouse

cartoon from savagechickens.com

I had a dream last night

I was a pigeon

     stuck in a henhouse.

I looked at all the chickens around me

     and thought "What the cluck am I doing here?"

Then some fat hen

     waddled up to me

     and smug as you can be

     said, "I just love your colorful feathers."

"Thanks," I answered,

     but thought to myself

     "You're one to talk.

     Your breasts are probably shot up full of artificial hormones

     to make them plump,

     you stupid bird."

I asked a hen in the last coop on the left

     what they did for fun around this house.

She just clucked at me disapprovingly and said,

     "Why we lay eggs, of course."

I asked if she wanted to go hang around at a park or

     visit a statue or 

     just stretch her wings a bit.

I must have ruffled her feathers because she waddled off

     clucking even louder.

I could hear her telling the others about me.

What a foul fowl she was!

Suddenly I had a craving for street food

     french fries, bread crumbs, anything really

     but all I could see was chicken feed

     and the hens happily pecking away.

     "It makes us feel secure to know 

     that the food will always taste the same," they said.

Bird brains! No imagination.

Then there was a commotion in the henhouse. 

     Squawking, feathers flying, running about, chaos.

     "He's here, he's here!" the insipid chickens cried with glee.

     "Who's here?" I asked.

     They stared at me as if I had arms instead of wings. 

"The rooster, natch. 

     Though you needn't worry.

     I don't think he fancies foreign girls."

Next thing I knew, some cocky old rooster was staring me up and down.

     "You're not from around here, are you, my little chick-a-dee?"

Before I could cold cock the guy, I woke up. 

I was breathing heavily but 

     all else seemed normal. 

Except for the feather on my pillow.

submitted for Thursday Think Tank 52, Animals, at Poets United

The Writing On the Wall

image source

My 'hood is my canvas
I paint what I feel
Some day I'll be famous                                      
My art is for real

Don't bother no churches
I got more respect
Do more than just taggin'
Ain't what you suspect

You can't buy my art
I do it for me
It don't have a price tag
Don't mean that it's free

My work is raw
It's a force you can't tame
But don't think it ain't art
Cuz it ain't in a frame

These walls are my body
They are most forgiving
They wear my blood proudly
My graff shows I'm living

submitted for One Stop Poetry and the Arts, Graffiti, at One Stop Poetry

Shades of Summer Red

photo courtesy of Poetry Jam

Fizzy cold Cherry Splash soda

if we are really lucky or

Sugary sweet red Kool Aid

bright enough to stain our lips

if it's for us

Watered down to a paler vintage
to sell for 3 cents a Dixie Cup
from the Radio Flyer wagon

Come evening the booty is exchanged 
for cherry popsicles 
from the Good Humor man

We never have the patience to save up

for the Strawberry Shortcake bars 
we really covet

Skinned knees and scraped elbows

from falling off our bikes

or from playing maul ball 
with the older kids

On occasion, a loose tooth knocked clean out

leaving a bloody hole and bragging rights

The stench of rotting crab apples

squishing under bare feet 

running across the lawn

through the sprinklers

watering  the fire red azaleas

and the bricks on the house fronts

Someone's mom pokes out her head and calls

we scatter

Like gnats being shooed away

Until we gather again

submitted for Poetry Jam

One Shot Wednesday, Week 49,  at One Stop Poetry

Poetry Pantry 52 at Poets United

Liz

I drank Janis's rage and sadness with my Kool-Aid

Sang of Bobby McGee while other kids sang their ABCs.

I daydreamed about clouds with Joni

And was schooled about men

who wear women on their arms like expensive watches from Carly.

I longed to fall under the spell of a Magic Man

as I inhaled the earthy, herbal smokiness of the concert hall air.

But the next morning I was still myself

Their world would never be my world.

And as much as I wanted to be like her, Tori was fairytale beautiful
 And I was too old to be either a Cornflake or a Raisin girl.

Then along came Liz.

We all knew Liz. We were Liz.

She was the girl next door who swore like a sailor.

She was the seductress who got screwed.

She was the cynic who just wanted a boyfriend.

When she sang of a Flower

it was an O'Keefe painting come to life.

Liz was a storm.

She thundered onto the scene screaming like a girl

And we heard her

Because she was one of us.
 We were in Exile too.

She spoke our language.

Used words that we had been told nice girls don't say

But she knew we had been thinking all along.

Her world was my world.

Her words were my words.

She helped me find my voice.

submitted for Poetry Potluck, Inspired by a Song, at Jingle Poetry

The Bootmaker

photo courtesy of Rob Hanson

Who will fill his shoes when he is gone?

His dye stained hands are leathery as the hide

The hammering fills the hours from dusk til dawn

He has no one with whom to share his pride.

His daughter left his home in rage and tears

He never even knew that she was wed

Never met his grandson of three years

She tells the kid his grandfather is dead.

The older sons both went to fancy schools

Now they shun the work he does by hand

They have no use for all his simple tools

He does his best to try to understand.

His youngest son is practically a ghost

He's heard some folks refer to him as trash

But he's the one who favors her the most

So when he asks, he always gives him cash.

Who will fill his shoes when he is gone?

Who will tan the leather, cut the size?

The bootmaker keeps working on and on

No one to replace him when he dies.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

Time Out

"Time-Out" by Ella Wilson

I hope this bench is here when we are old

We'll rest when we grow tired from our walk

We'll reminisce of all the times we've strolled

These very streets as we watched life unfold

Or maybe we'll just hold hands and not talk.

submitted for Thursday Think Tank at Poets United

Come On In, The Water's Fine

Photo courtesy of Matthew Saindon

Let's take a swim

In the waters of sin

Dip a toe in

That's how we'll begin

But then we'll submerge

Give in to each urge

As our bodies converge

In a heavenly surge

I'll pull you under

Head pounding like thunder

Ripping asunder

All that you wonder

And all that you knew

And did misconstrue

How you need to subdue

A love wicked and true

So come, let's get wet

And never forget

We need not abet

Any saints as of yet

submitted for Poetry Jam, Swim, Swam, Swum

and for Photograph Prose
 and for One Shot Wednesday, Week 48 at One Stop Poetry