blogging · creativity · Humour · poetry · writing

Cracked Eggs

I have eggs,
she cooed,
here in my basket –
care to have a peek?

Considered his response
carefully, not wanting to
count this chicken, even as
the plot was hatching.

Hesitation,
she scolded,
only ever loses.

Yes, he concurred,
but if I act too early
all you’ll get is a worm.

(Twisted Adages is the theme for Tuesday night poetics at dVerse.  Thanks to our host Jilly for the inspiration.)

aging · health · Humour · poetry · writing

Conspiracy Theory

The floorboards,
imagining themselves waves,
undulate,
throw my balance
off kilter…

The lemonade,
ignoring my thirst,
refuses to open –
holds fast to top
rendering me weak

Even the frying pan
fights my efforts,
twisting my wrist as if
arm wrestling,
rather than cooking,
is the game called for here.

Surrendering, I sit,
and with propped up legs
pull out the laptop,
certain that perusing
blog posts will meet
with less upheaval,

but the keyboard
is a trickster,
misreads my commands
and windows open and close
without reason, and
frustrated I push it aside.

This house is conspiring
turning a perfectly capable
human being, into a fumbling,
doddery old fool.

(Written for V.J.’s Weekly Challenge: personification)

Image from personal collection.

blogging · creativity · Humour · life · poetry · writing

Laundry Day

Not much of a gardener,
but seems I’m adept
at growing dirty clothes –
the shirt I planted
Monday, having now
sprouted many offshoots,
the fruit heavy and pungent
overflowing the hamper,
begging to be picked.

Nothing golden
about this skill however,
more melancholy than
rewarding, the hours
dedicated to folding
and putting away
akin to self-castigation –
only temporarily satisfying.

Suppose I can’t complain;
a day’s toil has merit
and even if the harvest
reaps no foodstuffs
nor the fragrance
of fresh cut flowers,
I am at very least
assured to be presentable
should going out be an option.
(Inspired by this day’s chore and the daily prompts of Fandango:  melancholy, Ragtag Community: gold, and Daily Addictions: dedicate.  Thanks for dropping by.)

aging · blogging · creativity · dreams · Humour · Love · ME/ CFS · poetry · writing

Love, Like Shoes

If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.

My preference is for earthy,
unassuming: plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.

If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,

settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.

No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,

discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.

(This poem, inspired by a dream, was penned when I was still bed bound, two years ago.  Hope it made you smile.  If you found yourself on the hunt for love, what would you look for?

p.s. my husband fits the criteria still, lol.)

Family · Humour · poetry · writing

A One-and-Only Picnic

Picnicking with mother
happened only once –

The summer’s day
a perfect pitch of bright,
the breeze a welcome companion

Laid our cloth atop rickety table,
perched in anticipation
of waxy wrapped sandwiches
and homemade bread and butter pickles
and the certainty of some fresh-baked treat

Hadn’t taken so much as a single bite
before the buzzing started –
bees inviting themselves to our repast
lured by the sweetness of our fare –

sent mother screaming
commanding us to pack up at once

Never again did we venture
further than our back yard,
reserved the park for drive by visits,
and, if lucky, the occasional
opportunity for a swing or a slide,
as long the bees stayed out of sight.

blogging · creativity · culture · Humour · poetry · travel · writing

Oh, Canada!

Welcome to my country,
there’s so much to explore.
We really are a friendly bunch
but there’s a few things we abhor

So, we’ve written specific rules
for our visitors to keep in mind –
above and beyond the expected
these oddities are considered crime.

Please refrain from removing
a band-aid while in a public place,
and it’s more than just offensive
to fart when in another’s space.

Should you happen to encounter
our most coveted royal, the Queen,
avoid startling or scaring her, or
your arrest will cause a scene.

Driving a sleigh down the highway
may seem a ludicrous thing to do,
however; it’s actually acceptable if
your horse sports bells more than two.

Taking your feet off bicycle pedals,
is illegal in Ottawa, our capital town,
and riding through Sudbury with a siren
will elicit more than just a frown.

While sightseeing with your mother
in Toronto – our largest city by far –
no matter how much she provokes you,
save any expletives for inside the car.

Climbing trees, tying laces, and even
painting wooden ladders, all have laws
you’ll need to abide, so next time you’re
in Canada, before you act, give pause.

And for goodness sake, be sure to
visit our beauteous province of B.C. –
but leave your gun at home, for
killing a Sasquatch is illegal, you see.

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(The final prompt invites a little humour – to write about strange historical facts or laws.  These little known Canadian laws are courtesy of narcity.com)

adversity · aging · creativity · Humour · life · poetry · writing

On Snakes in Drawers

Moving on – it’s top priority,
sorting through the collected,
the unused, the forgotten –
ready to let it all go, but…

there’s a snake in the drawer
and the temptation is real –

to do the irrational, flee
in a panic, shoot the beast,
or set the house on fire –
I’m overcome with anxiety

there’s a snake in the drawer
and it sure is getting to me.

Practicality says this isn’t helping,
hasn’t got time for the drama, says
let it go, re-prioritize, focus on
what’s important, making progress

there’ a snake in the drawer,
and if it got in, it can get out

I’m terrified now, my skin crawling
with the certainty of confrontation –
the cold-bloodedness of a reptile
immobilizes me, and I’m certain

there’s a snake in the drawer,
and it will be the end of me.

Common sense directs me back
to the task at hand, uses distraction
to dissuade panic, promises to deal
with it tomorrow, tucks me in, but

there’s a snake in the drawer,
and I won’t sleep a wink, only…

I do, and in the morning light
it’s clear the snake didn’t make it
a lifeless body, coiled in death
revealing a harmless garter –

there’s a snake in the drawer,
dead now by my own negligence

an unfortunate serpent, lost
and afraid, misinterpreted
by a woman desperately trying
to move on, apparently still afraid.

(Day six of NaPoWriMo focuses on line breaks.  It’s not to late to join in
for National Poetry month.

Humour · life · ME/ CFS · poetry

Up In Smoke

Should have known when
the first light passed
without a sound,
morning half gone
before consciousness
pried my eyelids open.

Should have known when
my Ninja pushed back
refused to blend
breakfast smoothie
forcing me to sip sludge
through straw

and when the line
on my browser
failed to budge
past the quarter mark
leaving me frustrated
I should have known then

but I ignored it all,
pushed beyond the signs
reached for that infallibility
gene (that never existed)
and almost set the house
on fire – element left on

and that’s when I knew
reflexes not kicking in
exhaustion claiming brain
emotions revved in overdrive
that today was not my day
and I should have stayed in bed.

culture · Humour · media · poetry · Rants

Social Media Blues

LinkedIn wants me to connect
with former colleagues, ignores
the fact that they haven’t opted
to reach out to me, fails to
recognize the state of my disability
sets me on the margins of society

Facebook likes to remind me
of things I did in the past, drags
up conversations, or outings
no longer valid, refuses to
honour the value of letting go –
that moving on is moving up.

twitter wakes me up at night
when I’ve forgotten to mute
the phone, announces likes
and new follows of people
I do not know, rubbing salt
in the wounds of isolation

instagram has shut me out
seems I constantly forget
my password, but they never
fail to send me updates of
the picture perfect events
of those whose minds work.

I sometimes visit snapchat,
whose messages make me laugh
and I know that there are others
more hip to possess, but just
the thought of sign ups has me
reeling with new-found anxiety

Please don’t misunderstand me,
of social media, I’m a fan; it’s just
that I don’t need further indications
of my compromised state, and in the
flesh interactions are a preference,
so technology needs to step down.

(The Daily Post prompt today is fact.)