Mad Kane's Humor Blog Limerick-Off Monday

I just discovered the blog of the lovely Madeleine Kane, who creates a Limerick challenge every Monday for open participation.View details via link above. Basically, she writes the first line of a Limerick and anyone is free to submit their own continuation of the verse.

This week's opening line was: "A man who was known for his flash". I highly recommend clicking over to her blog and reading some of the highly entertaining entries!

Here's mine:

A man who was known for his flash
was too quick for the coppers to stash;
garbed only in skin,
his big, toothy grin,
and below a revolting mustache.

Recovery of Sorts

Revised 8/12/2012:

Thunder splits a cumulonimbus mash;

denying light

refusing sun

deflecting clarity on every plane.

A river of words evaporates through a

cauliflower of mud sludge:

blocking, blockading.

A beggared man,
squeegee in hand,

clears the murky panes

nothing to give—

fleeting memory fading fast.

It is there to be had…

capture it, set in stone

the truth recovered once again

again and again

for the last time

for now.

The Visit

She came with the sunset

and left at its rise,

day and night

day and night

day and night

in between;

undulate

panging of

disappointment

washed away

with explosions of joy

Helpless Relaxation*

Best demonstrated by
vagabonds in cafe window seats,
dinner dreamed or imagined:
lost to life;

or a young one
brinking sleep and waking,
bobbing from mundane to divine:
the quintessence of innocence.

*Word combo planted in my brain by Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

Untitled

Once a whirling dervish without restraint,

here and there a dance on wind

as spiders toiled in vain to hook

a wisp of leg or arm;

the will of this one a stone

plopped through woven webbing

left a  gaping hole of unpaired threads

fluttering like severed strings

on cut-off jeans.

The Golden Haired Harpist

The golden haired harpist,

to have her symphony,

exchanges her instrument of tranquility

for one of urgency –

Bleating disturbance in the healing halls

as trumpet only can:

Harp harp harp

for bleat bleat bleat –

in her manicured hands

there is little difference between them.

Harpist, harper or,

as trumpet is her choice, trumpet she now blows,

Trumpetress may have the priceless notes -

Her lengthy rote sounding or resounding

near and far, all around;

whirling cacophony in a dwindling prairie,

once a place of peace where, now,

grass, reeds and dust dirtily mingle

in a composition of destruction.

She plucks, strums, or blows

her notes of haughty righteousness,

absolving her own acts,

molesting passersby,

or mere moles in holes

that come out to blink just twice

for light

before scampering back underground,

fearing being trodden,  stamped and mangled

beneath the deadly stiletto heels

propping up her femininity –

Away she goes,

Jezebellian priestess,

Jester of Hippocrates,

Conjurer of explosive discord;

leaving the simmerings of strife in a cymbal,

salted and peppered to perfection.

Mia prima donna,

you play not for me,

for I am no child of Apollo;

but swerve not from your symphony:

Your notes, my offering.


This piece was shared on Poets United in Poetry Pantry #108