Sunday, July 29, 2012

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.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

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;
panging of
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.


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