millions of voices screaming
mine is but one more
This week's words are
empty
highway
ignored
Z is for Zeta who has yet to die
04/29/2008 - National Poetry Month post #34, last of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
If one thing angered Zeta, it was always being last.
In the phone book and in homeroom, he felt like an outcast.
So he walked around all Marrow Moor in a manner quite downcast,
and he glared at every other person as he was walking past.
But really he just wanted to be normal like the rest,
and when Teacher Molly thought that he was acting quite distressed
she asked him what the matter was and quickly he confessed
that his jolly, gleeful nature was unnaturally repressed.
So she told him he should spend a day in sunny Marrow Park
and he followed her advice, and he went there on a lark
and he had such gleeful fun that he stayed way after dark
until he was discovered by a teenage boy named Clark.
Clark had lived in Marrow Moor for forever and a day,
and he always seemed morose, and he never joined in play
and he kept off by himself, and he mostly stayed away
and he never dressed in anything but black or charcoal gray.
Clark walked right up to Zeta, and he stared, unblinking hard,
and his darkened, long, black trenchcoat made him look quite avant-garde
and his brooding, glum expression made his face look scarred and charred
as he led young Zeta down along the empty boulevard.
Zeta wanted to go home, but he could not resist
as Clark led him through the avenues gray-shrouded in a mist
to a dead-end, brick-walled alley where Clark grabbed him with a fist
and spun him round and bit his neck in an ironic twist.
And in that dreadful instant, Zeta knew what had been done
and from that cold moment forward he could never see the sun
and what Clark had done to him could never, ever be undone
though a smallish part inside of him thought, "Gee, it might be fun."
Through Zeta's veins his blood burned like a raging, wild fire,
and he stumbled through the alleys, and he thought he heard a choir,
so he looked above and saw the pointy part of a church spire
and he realized with a shock that he'd been made a real vampire.
And a hundred years then passed and then another hundred more,
and everyone that Zeta knew had died in Marrow Moor
but undying and unliving Zeta was forevermore,
the eternal curse of being last was such and awful bore.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
Y is Yolanda who fell from the sky
04/28/2008 - National Poetry Month post #33, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Yolanda had never before been to France
when her parents decided to give her the chance
and packed her off on a plane to her aunt's,
just for a break from her petulant rants.
When she first heard the news, she squealed out with glee
then ran to her brother, kicked him in the knee,
and dumped orange juice on her mother's new brie.
She was a true brat of the highest degree.
Mischevious, hyper--Yolanda would shake
every thing in a store even though it might break
and she'd push every button and pull up each stake
and throw other kids' toys into Marrow Moor Lake.
Yolanda would pull any lever she saw
and tug on each rope with her small, dirty paw
without any regard for breaking the law
which her parents said was her one little flaw.
She'd turn any knob just because it was there
and she screeched her delight when alarms would blare.
She didn't need anyone to give her a dare,
she simply did all these things without care.
On the plane she was an unaccompanied minor
and she sat right between a young man and a Shriner
and the stewardess said not to be such a whiner
so Yolanda hauled off and gave her a shiner.
But the stewardess smiled and just kept her cool
and tried to remember the golden rule
and set up Yolanda in back on a stool
not realizing the girl was an impulsive fool.
Yolanda poured soda all over the floor,
gouged holes in the wall where there were none before,
and ripped open snack boxes as an encore,
then suddenly spied the handle on the door.
A big "Don't you dare!" sign was loudly adorning
or some other silly, dismissable warning,
the kind that Yolanda was constantly scoring,
especially on such a beautiful morning.
So she pushed on the handle and gleefully laughed
as the door hissed and opened, creating a draft
that sucked her right out of the speeding aircraft,
so she met her demise through her own handicraft.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
X is for Xena stabbed in the eyelids
04/27/2008 - National Poetry Month post #32, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
From the day she turned nine, young Xena decided
she didn't like looking so normal and sweet.
She thought all her schoolmates were being misguided
and shouldn't be living a life incomplete.
Her big sister's friends had tattoos and earrings
and one had a mohawk all spiky and tall,
but Xena adored her long hair and feared shearings
and up until then had looked just like a doll.
She'd worn dresses and skirts and blouses with ruffles
and all kinds of feminine, girly-girl things,
and she ate little bon-bons and chocolaty truffles
and did up her hair with ribbons and rings.
But when she turned nine, her attitude changed,
and the frilly, bourgoise things she now did abhor.
Her parents and friends thought she'd gone quite deranged
for she stopped liking things she used to adore.
Instead, she began to wear black leather belts
with big, metal studs and even some spikes
and she started some scarring and showed up with welts
while her friends put on helmets and rode off on bikes.
She found in the alley behind the mechanic
a guy who would do her tattoos on the cheap,
and young Xena got piercings without any panic
and though they hurt lots, she said nary a peep.
She pierced both her ears and her belly button
and also some other less visible parts.
For tattoos and piercings she turned quite a glutton;
the metal within her had gone off the charts.
She dropped sewing class and also home ec;
how many piercings she had, nobody knew.
Eyebrows and shoulders, the back of her neck,
her ankles and eyelids and bottom lip, too.
One day on the platform at Marrow Moor Station
while waiting with friends for the subway to come,
she jumped to the tracks just for some titillation
which turned out to be quite remarkably dumb.
Though the train was not due to arrive for some time,
young Xena forgot one tiny detail
amid all the trash and the dirt and the grime
lurked the powerful, deadly, electric third rail.
Her body was so full of metal debris
that it acted just like a wee lighting rod,
and the arc that zapped out from the rail to her knee
cooked her all the way through like a small piece of cod.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
W is for Wendy assaulted by kids
04/27/2008 - National Poetry Month post #31, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
It took just one look for Wendy to hate
the seventeen kids in the family McTate
and she grumbled and cursed her own horrible fate
just as soon as their parents were out of the gate.
For Wendy had taken the job as their sitter
before the enormity of the job hit her
and she got a good look at the huge McTate litter
and the littlest one-year-old kicked, hit, and bit her.
The McTates were well known throughout Marrow Moor,
from the richest of rich to the poorest of poor
for their seventeen kids were three less than a score--
four sets of triplets, four twins, and one more.
Not a one of them was a day more than eight
and their parents were due to stay out very late
while Wendy missed out on her very first date,
and four bucks an hour was a most awful rate.
But her friends had come up with a wonderful plan
to keep control over that monstrous clan.
She took them outside and there they all ran
a forced exercise like the march to Bataan.
But they wouldn't behave, and they made such a mess
that it caused the poor Wendy enormous distress,
and how she could tame them, she never could guess,
til she lost her control when they set fire to her dress.
So she took them inside and had them all eat
an arsenic and oleander specialty treat,
then made them move heavy, big chunks of concrete
and forced them to sniff each other's stinky feet.
In the nine baby bottles, Tabasco she poured
and the older ones whined they were feeling quite bored
so she tied them all up with electrical cord
and she super-glued one to the ironing board.
She locked two in a cupboard and threw out the key
and she tried to mail one to Schenectady,
and she shut up another in the old rookery
and she thought of decaptitating two or three.
But the kids put fire crackers in Wendy's left shoe
and they flushed Wendy's earrings down the upstairs loo
and they shoved her coat up the chimney flue
and replaced her toothpaste with a tube of white glue.
For Wendy, the war had only begun
for the parents were not due to come home til one
and she wondered if Mister McTate had a gun,
or maybe she'd run off and become a nun.
As Wendy tried to usher them all up to bed,
the four that she'd locked outside in the shed
knocked her down and she fell down the stairs on her head,
and that's where the McTate parents found her, quite dead.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
V is Veronica struck dead while golfin'
04/25/2008 - National Poetry Month post #30, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Veronica's father often would mutter
while leaning aggressively over his putter
and then he would tap and in anger he'd sputter
while little Veronica ate peanut butter.
She sat in the cart every Saturday morn,
for six solid years since the day she was born
through warm baby bottles and gushy strained corn
even though Daddy's buddies looked on them with scorn.
It wasn't that Daddy was such a good dad.
It had more to do with Mom being mad.
When she realized this golf thing was not just a fad,
she made Dad agree to a deal, iron-clad.
If he was to golf with his Saturday friends
and suck all the quality time from weekends,
he must take his daughter to make some amends;
on that, she told him, their marriage depends.
So he golfed, rain or shine, for six solid years,
and their lives carried on, though laughter and tears,
and his buddies and he slugged down too many beers,
while little Veronica played with the gears.
While the guys were all putting, it started to rain,
a righteous storm like a thunderous train
and the wind whipped the trees like a raw hurricane
while Veronica watched and did not complain.
But the rain caused a putt to go wide of the hole,
and her dad got so mad that he lost all control
and he raised his club up to the sky black as coal
and he roared with the strength of his entire soul.
Then he did something bad, he spun round and flung
that big, metal putter which twisted and sung
as it flew through the rain where it struck and it stung
poor little Veronica, who died much too young.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
U is for Unis who swam with a dolphin
04/24/2008 - National Poetry Month post #27, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
The parents of Unis von Nike McPhage
read every new book on the shelf named "new age"
and they made lots of notes and they dog-eared each page
to make themselves wise, sagacious, and sage.
They tried crystal healing and and also Feng Shui
and took yoga classes almost every day
and had their palms read and by a monk in Bombay
and bought a remote mountain shack getaway.
They went to a class for serene meditation,
refused to see doctors or take medication,
and held a brief seance to revive a relation,
and read Tarot cards to attempt divination.
They thought that the stars could tell them their fate,
and magnets might make their aches disintegrate,
and they looked to the Buddha to illuminate
the vast universe that seemed just too great.
And poor, little Unis was carried along
to each family field trip, for right or for wrong,
and she had to sing every ridiculous song
in the hopes that her spirit would grow mighty strong.
When Unis was three, she was brought to a school
where her parents thought it unbelievably cool
that Unis could swim with dolphins in a pool
to help her soul shine like a most precious jewel.
And Unis, she loved it so much that they bought
a little stuffed dolphin she cared for a lot
and she slept with it, held it, and named it Dot,
and she never cared if it got covered with snot.
When Unis was five they all went on a ship
with vacation in mind--they all needed a trip,
and the cruise ship sailed on at a glorious clip
while alongside, the dolphins jumped up with a flip.
While Unis watched from the deck's metal rails,
her mom was inside having work on her nails,
with Dad at the bar slugging down lots of ales.
Dot fell from her hand and she let out loud wails.
The dolphins leapt out of the water in glee
and Unis was sure that among them she'd see
her little Dot playing and asking that she
jump in there and join them immediately.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
I am, once again, dubbed Poet Lariat for a day over at the big EE blogiversary party. That means we have two poetry contests that run all day long. I am the judge.
The first contest is to write a poem in some way idolizing Evil Editor. Idolatry does not need to be limited to fawning adulation. It can include vicious attacks, inside jokes, and out-and-out roasting.
The prize: Heather Wardell will create a custom murder mystery game just for you!
The second contest is to write a poem in some way about writing.
The prize: Ello has donated a $20 gift certificate as the prize.
And when you're done, hop over to EE's blog, which is what we're celebrating, after all.
T is for Timmy, his mouth stuffed with socks
04/23/2008 - National Poetry Month post #26, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Each Saturday morning with parents asleep,
down to the TV room Timmy would creep,
so quietly careful without one small peep
with chocolate puff sugar bombs poured in a heap.
He laughed at Bullwinkle and all of his tricks
and Wile E. Coyote blasting dynamite sticks
and Josie and all of her pussycat chicks
with Yogi and Boo Boo thrown into the mix.
Tom chasing Jerry, Fudd and Smurfette,
Musky and Deputy Dawg on the set,
and Tweety evading Sylvester's quick net
and Johnny Quest flying his special Quest Jet.
He tuned in Fat Albert when nothing was on
and loved Savoire Faire up in the Yukon
and Polly Purebred he had a crush on
and even liked Lucky Charms' wee leprechaun.
Tim watched every show from five until noon
and lamented that it was all over too soon,
and his mom said that he would become a buffoon
but still he wished his life was a cartoon.
But he watched and he slurped and he wiped at his nose
and transitioned from cartoons to afternoon shows
and his eyes, they stopped blinking, and his mind simply froze
and his munchies ran out so he nibbled his toes.
He drooled, catatonic, at the idiot box
while he turned dumber than a box full of rocks,
and he even went numb to electronic shocks,
and he sucked on his toes and he choked on his socks.
It took them four days to realize that he'd died
with his feet in his mouth and his eyes open wide
on the floor flapped some leaves of an old TV Guide,
with his empty cereal box at his side.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
This week's words are
stop
reflected
picture
Evil Editor began blogging two years ago, and there's a party going on. I had only just begun reading Miss Snark's blog when she pointed over to EE. I clicked the link and found a world of evil hilarity. Along the way, among the many laughs, I learned a few things, too. Such as:
S is Samantha found under some rocks
04/22/2008 - National Poetry Month post #25, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Samantha Dupree had insatiable greed,
though her parents were rich as could be.
They gave her far more than she ever could need
but she acted like some refugee.
She had a whole room just to hold all her shoes,
another to hold all her socks.
She had eighty-four soaps and a hundred shampoos,
and seventeen diamond rimmed clocks.
Two first editions of Oliver Twist
graced the nightstand beside her bed,
and four diamond bracelets she wore on each wrist,
a tiara on top of her head.
But she never believed she had enough stuff
and would have driven her parents to ruin,
until both of them said, "Enough is enough!
your greed will be our undoin'!"
At first she set up a lemonade stand
and her friends thought it terribly funny;
she got fourteen callouses on her right hand
and ended up losing her money.
So she went out walking one day by the stream
to come up with better ideas,
when she saw something glint with a gold-orange gleam,
the mother of all panaceas!
It was gold! And she'd found a cavern and cave
where surely was more to be found.
So she climbed in and never a single thought gave
to how deep she would delve underground.
She found one small nugget and quickly began
to feverishly dig for more,
without any food, or flashlight, or plan,
just greed driving hard from her core.
She dug dug dug dug and kept right on going
til the daylight was totally gone.
She kept picking chips and carelessly throwing
them down, not waiting for dawn.
But she didn't realize, as she dug away,
she'd made a pile so massive
it tumbled upon her, and there did she lay,
the gold all around her impassive.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
Precie tagged me with this "six random things" meme. (Meme, by the way, is a word I find overused by bloggers. I'm not even sure they're using it correctly. Be that as it may, I am flattered that anyone would take the time to do such a thing to me.)
The rules:
a. Link to the person who tagged you.
b. Post the rules on your blog.
c. Write six random things about yourself.
d. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
e. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment at their blog.
f. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.
So, here are my six random things:
1. Back in high school, I lettered in four different field sports. I was among the tops on our track team in long jump, triple, jump, pole vault, and javelin. All this despite being among the shorter kids in my class.
2. My favorite candy is sour patch kids, though anything sweet, sour, and chewy will do. I also love the regular old jelly beans and spice drops. yum.
3. I have never broken a bone. My eight-year-old has already broken his arm and been to the ER for three different things. The worst I've done is slice my finger on a sharp knife, requiring three stitches, while washing dishes once.
4. I appeared on television in 1997 demonstrating the revolutionary Nokia 9000 smart phone, the first phone that incorporated a PDA and a cell phone in one brick (I mean, unit). While working as a consultant for Nokia, I was invited to Finland to meet the team. One of them invited me to "the lake" to meet his family, where I had the pleasure of a genuine Finnish sauna and a corresponding naked swim in the lake.
5. In college, I was a reporter, anchor, engineer, and producer for KALX radio news. One morning no one else showed up, and I did the entire show myself, including running out to People's Park to do an interview with a homeless guy about some sort of controversy, and then using that story and the sound from the interview in the morning newscast.
6. I came >this< close to switching my major from Electrical Engineering to English in my junior year of college. I didn't, but I still got to take a creative writing class from Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky. No idea if he'd be proud of my Unlucky 26 or not. I suspect not.
Now, the people I'll be tagging:
maria
ch@ndy
j@na
JaneyV
tumblewords
sarah
I will be notifying these unlucky winners in short order.
R is for Rob, by a bus was he pinned
04/21/2008 - National Poetry Month post #24, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
At Marrow Moor Middle the wrestling team
had won every meet because of Rob Beam,
whose strength on the mat was far more than supreme;
his opponents all gave him the highest esteem.
But Rob, only twelve, felt a twinge of frustration.
He thought with more fame he'd earn more adulation
but he'd already beat the best foes in the nation;
he needed to wrestle the rest of creation.
He challenged a senior at Marrow Moor High.
Rob beat him so badly he started to cry,
so Rob said he'd wrestle two girls and a guy,
but in all Marrow Moor not a soul would apply.
So he wrestled three pit bulls to keep in good shape,
six convicts in prison who couldn't escape,
and he had to go down to the zoo on the Cape
to wrestle a tiger, a bear, and an ape.
But it wasn't enough for young Rob, who loved fame.
He decided he needed to wrestle big game.
Serengeti was where he would find true acclaim!
So the largest of beasts he set out to tame.
The gators and crocs took no time at all,
and it took just one minute for the lion to fall,
and the match with the rhino turned into a brawl,
and the bull elephant disobeyed protocol.
Rob started home happy, having made quite a mark,
but before he got on his flight through Denmark
he had the bus driver pull over and park
so he could warm down with a huge tiger shark.
While Rob dried off and was taking a break,
the driver forgot the emergency brake.
The bus rolled quite fast due to his great mistake,
and it flattened Rob Beam just like a pancake.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
Q is for Quincy blown off in the wind
04/20/2008 - National Poetry Month post #23, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Quincy McTatter was a kid so unlucky
you'd think that his life was just terribly sucky.
But little Quince thought that his life was just ducky,
and everyone called him a little too plucky.
Quince broke his arm when he'd barely turned three,
when he fell from a branch while climbing a tree,
and while he was healing he broke his left knee
when he slipped in the bathroom while taking a pee.
Walking to kindergarten one day in May
young Quince was attacked by a crazy blue jay
outside Marrow Moore's most prestigious cafe
and he broke his right hand while running away.
In first grade young Quince slipped on ice in December,
hitting his head so he couldn't remember
the first little thing since the third of September,
and he burned himself later on a fireplace ember.
The second grade took a trip to the city
where Quincy thought all of the buildings were pretty.
He walked along, looking up, humming a ditty
and broke seven toes tripping over a kitty.
On Quncy's eighth birthday they had a big party
and all his friends came--Alf, Rod, Greg, even Marty;
they had a huge cake and a dinner so hearty
that all of the kids got to feeling quite farty.
And after the dinner he got out his kite
and sent it up soaring to all their delight
right up to the clouds, to a new record height
all the way into orbit, a new satellite!
And then, from the east, there came a huge twister
and Quincy was grabbed round the waist by his sister
but he held to his kite and would only resist her;
he told her good-bye and then, quick, he kissed her.
And the dust swirled around as he watched his kite fly
and his feet left the ground and a rock hit his eye
and he thought, "Very likely I'm going to die,"
as he followed his kite straight up into the sky.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
P is for Peter who drowned in the bath
04/19/2008 - National Poetry Month post #22, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
With the ground far below, Peter held on real tight
for he'd never before been sky diving at night
but he let loose and grinned as he jumped out in flight
and he plummeted Earthward without any fright.
He zoomed through the clouds as he fell through the air
bugs squished in his teeth and he just didn't care
and he screeched his delight as the wind whipped his hair
and the only place he wanted to be was right there.
With the skydiving done, Peter went to the shore
and surfed on the mavericks he'd not surfed before
and the sharks swarmed around, at least ten, maybe more,
and he crashed in a wave with the mightiest roar.
But the surfing was tame, so he went to the river
where he jumped in a kayak that he had Mom deliver;
as he shot down the rapids, a wink he did give her
and the water was icy, but he did not shiver.
He trekked through the Panama jungle while ill,
climbed Everest twice just for the raw thrill,
and all his friends called him a dumb imbecile
when he dove from the Amazon falls in Brazil.
He rolled in a fire ant nest soaked in honey
and walked through Los Angeles, hands stuffed with money
and crossed the Sahara in weather most sunny
and showed up at school dressed up as a cute Bunny.
But when he got tired, he he went home to rest
and went to the bathroom and got all undressed
and climbed in the bath and thought he might test
how shocking the hair dryer was--quite, he guessed.
Before he could try it, the water's warm heat
soaked up to his chin and made him feel beat
and he fell right to sleep and he sank down complete
and that was the end of the thrill-seeking Pete.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
O is Ophelia who took the wrong path
04/18/2008 - National Poetry Month post #21, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Ophelia would hike on the Marrow Moor trail,
or ride her black horse with the fine-braided tail,
or sit still for hours just watching a snail
and pay close attention to every detail.
She loved nature so, all the kids thought it strange
when Ophelia would sing "A Home On the Range"
or care for a gross dog all covered with mange
or fall in the mud and not bother to change.
She'd feed all the squirrels from the palm of her hand
and climb Marrow Mountain just to see the whole land
and come in to school all golden-brown tanned
and simply thought life an adventure most grand.
Her parents preferred she stay in and do chores
while Dad lazed all day knocking back cans of Coors
and Mom spent the afternoon cleaning her pores
but Ophelia just couldn't be stuck home indoors.
She'd wash up the dishes and scrub clean the bath
and do all her homework, including the math,
and cook all the meals to escape her mom's wrath
before she could go out to hike on the path.
Ophelia would never go out on a date
and walked her line's life so narrow and straight
and always got home by a quarter past eight,
and so earned the respect of the town's magistrate.
But her parents got meaner with each passing year
and her dad got more angry with each ice cold beer
and her mom got more ugly, unhappy, severe,
til Ophelia's life grew devoid of all cheer.
Then one day with all of her energy sapped,
she looked at her life and found she was trapped.
Then Dad called her lazy and then she just snapped
and got out his gun and her parents she capped.
The neighbors heard gunshots and called the police
who found poor Ophelia had earned her release.
She'd given her parents ten bullets apiece
and then shot herself, may she now rest in peace.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
Quick: Where was the largest earthquake ever recorded in the Lower Forty-Eight? San Francisco? Nope. Los Angeles? Wrong again. Seattle? Well... no.
According to the USGS web site, of the 20 largest earthquakes ever recorded in the United States, twelve took place in Alaska. With one in Hawaii and another in the 
Cascadia subduction zone, that leaves just six for the Lower Forty-Eight. California is tied with another state with three of these large quakes. What's the other state? Washington? Oregon? Arizona? Nevada?
Missouri.
Go figure.
The New Madrid Seismic Zone is home to the two largest earthquakes ever recorded in the 48 contiguous US states. It's in an area where several states meet: Missouri, Tennessee, Kentucky, Illinois, and Arkansas (and Indiana's not that far off). Not one of these states comes to mind when you think "the big one" (at least in terms of earthquakes; maybe in terms of eating contests). Yet in 1811, New Madrid was home to an 8.1 magnitude earthquake, and a year later another 8+. San Francisco's 7.8 quake in 1906 pales in comparison.
This all comes up because this morning, the New Madrid zone was home to a 5.2 magnitude quake (it actually was a little less than 200 miles from New Madrid).
N is for Nate who got stuck in a pulley
04/17/2008 - National Poetry Month post #20, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Nathaniel William Hawthorne Tate
was sent to Liverpool
because his parents grew to hate
how much he was a fool.
And so when he was old enough
he said, "No way," and they said, "Tough!"
and packed him up with all his stuff
off to a boarding school.
Now, Nate was quite a stupid lad
and never went to class,
and even though he could not add
the teachers let him pass.
They praised him for the sports he played
and brought him cups of lemonade
because his father always paid--
the privelege of class.
Nate tried his hand out on the links
and on the cricket ground
but everybody yelled, "He stinks!"
His failure was reknowned.
Then he tried boxing--got beat up;
tried fencing but he got cut up;
Then he took water polo up
but all his horses drowned.
But then one day he took a boat
out on the sea to sail it;
it almost didn't even float
and so he had to bail it.
He sailed it through a day and night
til he was so far out of sight
he thought a letter he might write
but nowhere could he mail it.
When in a storm a line went slack,
Nate found a winch was bent.
The night was cold and wet and black;
the storm would not relent.
so in the dark Nate tried to grope,
but round his neck was wound the rope.
The wind whipped up and took all hope
as up the mast he went.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
M is for Morris done in by a bully
04/16/2008 - National Poetry Month post #19, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Nasty Cary O'Grady was mean.
Dastardly, terribly, cowardly mean.
A meaner eleven year old never was seen.
Besides which he smelled bad from being unclean.
His father had taught him all that he knew
from sealing cats' eyes shut with super-strong glue
to boiling frogs on their old barbecue
and nailing a squirrel to a tree with a screw.
In school he made kids eat crickets and snails
and scratched til they bled with his long fingernails
and dunked their heads into sewage-filled pails
and chopped off the little girls' cute ponytails.
He once put a worm in the teacher's hot tea
and poured motor oil on the priest's rosary
and rubbed chewing gum in the mailman's goatee
and made little Cynthia swallow a bee.
On Thursday he thought he'd have some new fun
so he loaded and brought in his dad's old handgun
and waved it around to impress everyone
and all the kids knew it was no use to run.
And out on the playground he picked one poor kid,
a boy small and frail like some pale invalid
and spotty and squirmy (they all called him "Squid").
Most of the others had gone off and hid.
Then Cary made Squid stand alone in the cold
and gave him a target that he had to hold.
And then just to show he could be twice as bold,
Cary O'Grady put on a blindfold.
He raised up the gun and he held it out straight
and he snuck just one peek at his scrawny classmate
whose eyes filled with terror and anger and hate...
and he fingered the trigger and trusted to fate.
The gun gave a mighty explosion of sound,
and Squid was still standing, just looking around.
Then Morris, behind him, fell to the ground.
In the side of his head was a hole, black and round.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
A momentary respite from The Unlucky Twenty-Six, a saga of twenty-six unlucky children that is being composed piece by piece throughout National Poetry Month. Today's episode will feature Morris.This week's words are
touching
visible
stage
L is for Lenny with one day too few
04/15/2008 - National Poetry Month post #17, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Lenny was hiding in Marrow Moor Drug,
back in the storeroom, under the rug,
avoiding Big Vinnie, the loan-making thug
who wanted to squish little Len like a bug.
Big Vinnie's patience had all worn away
when Lenny revealed he again could not pay
so if Vinnie would only allow a delay,
he'd have the whole debt paid in full by today.
But Len had a problem--a sickness, a curse.
It made him steal money from his mom's purse.
And lately it seemed to be getting lots worse,
and now it might make him end up in a hearse.
It caused him to shiver, to shake and to sweat,
at night he'd wake up with his bedsheets all wet,
and it made him feel just like a marionette,
if his gummy bears he was unable to get.
But his gummy bear habit had put him in debt,
and he tried to get back on his feet through roulette
but it landed on red when on black he had bet,
and he wondered if he could escape to Tibet.
But he heard Vinnie's voice and he started to fret
then the doorway was blackened by Vin's silhouette
and his foolishness Lenny began to regret
and he wondered if he'd get a last cigarette.
"Vinnie!" squeaked Lenny, "Please give me more time!
I'd give you the money, but I ain't got a dime.
I'll get me a job! I'll work overtime!
And I'll pay you a point and a half above prime!"
But Big Vinnie grimaced and said, "Punk you lose.
I ain't got no time for your gummy bear blues.
I got you a nice pair of new cement shoes,
and tonight with the fishes are you gonna snooze."
And that's how young Lenny met up with his fate,
when a loan-sharking fifth grader turned him to bait.
It's really too bad Vinnie just couldn't wait,
for Lenny's allowance came one day too late.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
K is for Karla who drank the wrong brew
04/14/2008 - National Poetry Month post #16, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Fastidious Karla Delilah DeLeen
kept the house spotlessly, spotlessly clean,
It made her feel calm and sublimely serene
with everything polished a high, glossy sheen.
Her parents and friends thought she might be insane
dusting chandelier chains and each windowpane,
and the cover atop the emergency drain
and the tip of the copper antique weathervane.
She wiped every book in the library's case,
the leaves on each plant, and every clock face,
and hand washed and dried every boot and shoelace,
removed every ash from the old fireplace.
She cleaned under cushions and under each chair
polished each apple, banana, and pear
and picked the lint out of each underwear pair
and saw her reflection in the silverware.
Her parents were not really sure what to do.
They bought her a pet kangaroo from the zoo
and offered a trip to Kalamazoo
and hosted her friends at a big barbecue.
They tuned the TV to the New Zoo Revue
and bought two new oars and a brand new canoe
and a hand-made titanium-nickel kazoo
and promised that she could get a tattoo.
It got to the point where she wouldn't eat lunch
unless they would just bring her something to munch
like some crackers and grapes clustered up in a bunch
and some chips and a big glass of strawberry punch.
But she cleaned so intensely she never let up.
When they brought her the food on which she would sup,
she mumbled her thanks but she never looked up,
and when she got thirsty, she grabbed the wrong cup.
It tasted so bad that she wanted to cry,
and she stopped all her cleaning, and saw with a sigh
that she'd drunk a solution of chlorine and lye,
and she curled in a ball and she lay down to die.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
J is for Jim who had too many cuts
04/14/2008 - National Poetry Month post #15, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Jimmy McKimmy was orphaned at five
when his dad, fighting fires, just didn't survive
and Mom got so sad
while missing his dad
she simply gave up on being alive.
So Jim went to live in the Orphanage Marrow
and five years he grew under Mistress von Sparrow
who loved him and raised him
and frequently praised him
and kept him on track, as straight as an arrow.
Jim watched the little ones just like a brother
and kept them from fighting and hurting each other.
Though he was just ten,
he was "mother hen,"
for he knew their deep sadness in having no mother.
Then one day a six-year-old, Kevin McSnatch,
snuck into the kitchen and stole just one match.
He wouldn't admit it
but secretly lit it
alone on his bed, which proceeded to catch.
The fire turned into a raging hot blaze
and Jim jumped to action through smoke-blackened haze
and just like his father
the flames didn't bother
young Jim as he ran through the infernal maze.
He ushered the little ones out of the place
as all through the glass and stone building he'd race.
They were all out but two
when he went for them, too,
and he never quailed feeling the heat on his face.
As the two babies screamed, nestled tight in his arm
and he rushed out of there in the blaring alarm,
from behind came a boom
throwing them from the room
and Jim's only thought was, keep them both safe from harm.
The explosion had blasted a huge windowpane
and sent the shards flying like fire-glass rain
which shredded Jim's back,
but he never looked back--
he just kept running on, ignoring the pain.
When he got to the exit, the cheering was brief
for he fell to the ground like a dead autumn leaf.
He had bled far to much
and was hot to the touch,
and Mistress von Sparrow cried out in her grief.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
I is for Iris allergic to nuts
04/13/2008 - National Poetry Month post #14, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Iris spent the week at camp
along Lake Marrow-witsqueehauken
in the cabins dark and damp
that were in dire need of caulkin'.
She got so bored within an hour
she amused herself by stealing
all the shampoo from the shower
and anything she thought appealing.
She found some whiskey in the cab
of a worker's pickup truck.
She also took his can of Tab
and from his ashtray took a buck.
She took some candy from a boy
and stole another's comic books
and took a baby's wooden toy,
and went through several pocketbooks.
From Joe she took some cigarettes.
From Harry she stole aftershave,
and from the pantry took baguettes
and stole the doctor's autoclave.
When she was done she had a stash
so big her suitcase wouldn't shut,
so she removed all of the trash
and sat on it with her big butt.
But even then it wouldn't close!
She looked inside and saw some snacks.
She looked and lingered, finally chose
some candy bars and Cracker Jacks.
She snarfed them down in half a second
and every bite just made her iller,
but one thing Iris never reckoned:
her allergy to nuts would kill her.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
H is for Hattie with hands round her throat
04/11/2008 - National Poetry Month post #13, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
The Friday movie feature
down at Marrow cineplex
was about a grade school teacher
who put ropes around kids' necks
in a manner that was shocking
when they wouldn't stop their talking--
it was billed a scary screecher
and the plot was not complex.
A red-haired girl named Hattie
who had just joined our fifth grade
and who always dressed real natty
and wore jewelry, pearls, and jade,
sat with us in perfume scented
and I wish the place was vented
and I don't want to sound catty
but she smelled a bit like Raid.
When the movie started playing,
it was something quite perverse
cuz it started with a slaying
but it quickly got much worse.
Hattie said, "This film's a bore,"
and she leaned down to the floor,
and I watched her, my nerves fraying,
pull a cell phone from her purse.
First she called up Cincinnati
where her friend was on vacation
and who knew she was so chatty
causing endless irritation
folks were shifting in their chairs
throwing deadly evil glares
it was driving us all batty,
her incessant, rude oration.
But I fixed my concentration
and ignored her pointless chatter
for the movie situation
was increasing in its splatter
til I noticed something creepy--
Hattie looked a little sleepy--
seeming under some sedation,
so I asked her, "What's the matter?"
When the movie credits rolled,
Hatties's side I gently poked,
but her body had gone cold
and it seemed like she had croaked
and I saw some gory bruises
from some fingers, not from nooses,
so I told the friend she had on hold
that Hattie had been choked.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
G is for Gus who fell into a moat
04/10/2008 - National Poetry Month post #12, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Young Gus and his parents from southern Missouri
shoved their way out of the bus in a hurry.
The tour guide had said there was no need to worry,
but they tumbled out just like cockroaches scurry.
Gus was just seven but weighed one-oh-two,
and his mouth was ringed round with old lollipop goo,
and his hands were all thick with dried chocolate fondue,
and his shirt was stained through with a pink residue.
His parents behind him were nearly as bad.
His mom in a circus tent seemed to be clad,
and she filled out completely its barf-colored plaid.
But she looked quite petite when placed next to his dad.
They'd been on this tour now for nearly a week,
seeing castles and churches both grand and antique.
His mother had wanted to see Martinique,
but young Gus got his way when he started to shriek.
Today's castle was the old Keep on the Moor,
and they jostled and jiggled their way through the door,
and his mother took only one photo before
little Gus started screeching about the gift store.
So they bought him a snack just to shut up the brat,
and a little toy cannon, a woolen knit hat,
and a bright yellow "Marrow Moor Castle" cravat.
He gorged on his candy, and then that was that.
And that left them plenty of time to explore,
to see suits of armor and weapons of war,
and to spill Diet Pepsi all over the floor,
until Gus complained it was all just a bore.
The tour guide said they should go stand on the wall,
like the archers of old fighting off Duke Cornwall,
for the battlements rose so exceedingly tall,
on a clear day, they said, you could see Montreal.
So they sweat and they snorted up six flights of stair
til they exited into the afternoon's glare.
Gus's dad, between wheezes, simply had to declare
how decidedly awful it was to be there.
Then Gus, who was what you might call somewhat dim,
decided (as he always did) on a whim
to hoist himself up to the parapet's rim,
and nobody bothered to try to stop him.
And what happened next was all sort of a jumble:
Gus stood on the edge, and they heard a low rumble,
and the stonework beneath his feet started to crumble,
and down from the wall he proceeded to tumble.
He fell six full floors and splashed into the moat,
and there for a moment he bobbed up to float,
but the Marrow Moor Castle had no rescue boat,
so he sank to the bottom, and that's all she wrote.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
F is for Farrah left out in the rain
04/09/2008 - National Poetry Month post #10, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Farrah was a girl renowned
whose parents lived in Hollywood.
She often followed them around
exactly as a collie would.
Her lovely yellow floaty hair
made her a fave for magazines;
her deep blue eyes made others stare
and landed her some movie scenes.
She was but only eight years old
when given her first starring role,
a movie called "The Lie Foretold,"
about a girl who lost her soul.
A scary movie, to be sure,
too violent and filled with gore,
but mom could not resist the lure
of riches, wanting only more.
They used their little Farrah dear,
exploiting her for every cent,
and covered her in thick veneer
of makeup, spray, and custom scent.
They dressed her up in evening gowns,
paraded her in lingerie,
through glitzy cities, tiny towns,
collecting fortunes on the way.
In Marrow Moor, in weather foul,
they dressed her up in pageant wear
and made her up using a trowel--
gunk was getting everywhere.
Blush, mascara, cream, foundation,
everything Lancome might make,
it was a total transformation
until she was completely fake.
They went outside, got in the shuttle
as the rain came pouring down,
but when she stepped into a puddle,
little Farrah slipped, fell down.
Her mommy watched the makeup melt
and daddy had nothing to say.
Remorse and grief were all they felt
as Farrah slowly washed away.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
E is for Elgin thrown under a train
04/09/2008 - National Poetry Month post #9, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Elgin was a hurricane
with vigor one could not contain
who spent his summers out in Maine
and sometimes on the coast of Spain
his mom and dad were quite urbane
and made quite clear their raw disdain
for everything plain or profane
like low-carb beer and cheap chow mein
they liked to read from Thomas Paine
and study old king Charlemagne
but Elgin just saw them as vain
and gave them both a big migraine
and when he started to complain
to listen they would never deign
so he turned sweet as sugar cane
so they would take him on a plane
and go to Sweden to see Jane
and then Rhode Island for Elaine
instead they said he was inane
so he left in the pouring rain
to the old station down the lane
near Marrow Moor, out on the plain
and while he waited for the train
he saw a hobo, quite insane
and found that he could entertain
himself by causing this guy pain
so he began his mean campaign
of doing things quite inhumane
like spilling things to cause a stain
and yanking on the old guy's mane
and draping him with heavy chain
and pulling on them like a rein
while there behind the window pane
the station agent did remain
and never offered to restrain
young Elgin in the pouring rain
until arrival of the train
when Elgin left the guy to drain
the last few drops of his champagne
while Elgin waited for the train
the hobo whacked him on the brain
and Elgin howled out in pain
as he fell with an ankle sprain
onto the tracks and so was slain.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
A momentary respite from The Unlucky Twenty-Six, a saga of twenty-six unlucky children that is being composed piece by piece throughout National Poetry Month. Today's episode will feature Elgin. Previous episodes included Annie, Bart, Charlie, and Donna.This week's words are
funny
remember
theater
D is for Donna who bit through a wire
04/08/2008 - National Poetry Month post #8, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
When Donna Donata was left on her own,
her mom told her, "Don't you dare answer the phone!
And lock all the doors, and keep out of sight.
You never know who might be lurking at night."
She left Donna dinner of chili and pone
and also dessert of one ice cream cone,
and when Donna finished, she got quite a fright--
the power went out, and out when the light.
There wasn't a storm, the wind didn't moan,
the reason for blackout was truly unknown,
so Donna decided to set things aright
and ventured outside with her little flashlight.
To the fuse box she went and the light on it shone;
it was clear that the fuse to the house had not blown.
So it must have been Marrow Moor Power & Light,
some glitch in their wires, some system-wide blight.
When she got back inside, she was not all alone;
something grabbed on and held by her left anklebone,
and she tripped thinking "Well, that sure wasn't polite!"
It never occurred she should put up a fight.
To a room she was dragged, on a bed was she thrown,
and a voice in her ear sang in cool undertone,
"Now just be a good girl and go nighty-night,"
and a cord round her body was wound super tight.
"I'm a thief," said the voice in a deep baritone,
"and I'm not here to hurt you, but I won't postpone
my work which I came to accomplish tonight."
To Donna, he sounded quite sad and contrite.
When he left, Donna gave only one little groan
as she lay on the bed, tied in wires and prone.
Then she struggled and wriggled with all of her might
til one of the cords she was able to bite.
At that moment, far off, a big switch was thrown
and poor Donna got zapped in a burst of ozone
as the power came on and lit up every light
including the one she had happened to bite.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
C is for Charlie whose hair caught on fire
04/07/2008 - National Poetry Month post #7, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
In the garage at Marrow Manor,
between the two Bentleys and off near the Porsche,
Charlie had set up his big, paper banner
announcing his band's name, "The New Kings of Borscht."
He painted it up in hot pink and umber
and hung it with string from the rafters above,
but he didn't realize that he couldn't look dumber
while dancing around in that one sequined glove.
The glove made it hard, he had to admit,
to play the right chords during "Stairway to Heaven,"
but he knew his new image would be a big hit
even though he was just about to turn eleven.
He'd put up his flyers around the whole town,
and all the young girls had promised to come,
so he planned a huge show that would bring the house down
and bought a sound system to make them all numb.
He practiced and practiced and practiced some more
until the blood seeped from his raw fingertips,
and he jumped and he wailed all around the whole floor
with the piece-de-resistance his triple blackflips.
But the thing that would have them in wild emotions
and throwing their training bras down at his feet
was the loud pyrotechnics and pounding explosions
he set up to coincide with each beat.
When the concert time came and his band was set up,
and all of the priceless autos removed,
Charlie emerged in his silly getup,
but nobody cared as the band jived and grooved.
Spectacular, awesome--they were gnarly and rad,
and seismologists measured it at four-point-six,
but then a mistake made the whole thing go bad,
when out of the drummer's hands slipped both his sticks.
They dropped to the floor and set off a reaction
that caused all the fireworks to go up in flames,
and the drummer dissolved in a brief liquefaction
while Charlie kept strumming at "Sweet Baby James."
Then the sparks caught the banner, and down it all fell
and it set Charlie's hair a spectacular blaze
and he thought maybe he'd used too much hair gel
as the room disappeared in a smoke-blackened haze.
Then the fans all bought tee shirts and wandered away,
and the firemen came and hosed down the whole place
and shooed off the groupies that wanted to stay,
with pepper spray, tear gas, and even some mace.
And when it all cleared, the two things remaining
were that dumb sequined glove and a singed guitar pick,
but not one single fan had left there complaining
'cuz that quick-fingered Charlie could sure play a lick.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
B is for Bart who got locked in a fridge
04/06/2008 - National Poetry Month post #6, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Little Bart was sent to stay
at Marrow Manner with his kin
when both his parents "went away"
(they actually were done in
by a tractor trailer runaway
whose driver had been soaked in gin.)
Bart arrived late in the day
and Uncle Vlad, who was within,
refused to let him go and play
but made him practice violin--
he was a lonely divorcee
whose jaw-line was quite masculine
and spent each moment of the day
debating on man's origin.
His house was quite in disarray
for lack of woman's discipline.
For dinner they ate gooped puree
of onion spiced with glycerin.
Bart gagged but choked down his entree
and then asked for an aspirin.
He went to bed without delay
and waited til the night was thin
then later, seeking a parfait
he went down to the dark kitchen
and found the fridge's big doorway
(it was a giant, old walk-in).
He knew he should not disobey
but hunger made him walk right in.
And Vlad was well stocked anyway,
so taking food would be no sin.
The door slammed tight to his dismay
and in the dark he bumped his shin,
and he could find no other way--
oh, such a foolish boy he'd been!
The freezing cold began to weigh
and made him feel like a penguin,
and when they found him break-of-day,
he'd frozen like a mannequin.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
A is for Annie who jumped off a bridge
04/05/2008 - National Poetry Month post #5, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six
Annie Ballou had nothing to do.
Her mother said, "Go to the store.
I need some potatoes and also tomatoes
and carrots--you'd better get four."
She gave Ann a twenty and said it was plenty
and shooed Annie right out the door.
So Ann trudged along and thought it was wrong
to force her to do such a chore,
and wasn't it funny--the day had been sunny,
but just then it started to pour.
As darkness beset her, she thought of the letter
that told of the monsters of yore
that spent their lives stalking all those that went walking
in rainstorms across Marrow Moor.
Ann saw, far off blinking, the city lights winking,
and tried not to think of the gore
that she might become if she didn't run
and get to their safety before
the monsters had caught her or monster-foes shot her,
so off through the raindrops she tore.
she crested the ridge and was nearing the bridge
where old Myrtle was whacked with an oar,
when out from behind her--oh, how did they find her?--
she heard a great crack and a roar
and she prayed, "Lord, deliver!" and leapt to the river
all terrified right to her core.
But what she was thinking as she started sinking,
dragged down by the sweater she wore,
was, "It was so frightning, but was it just lighnting?"
until she was thinking no more.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
The Unlucky Twenty-Six
04/04/2008 - National Poetry Month post #4
I remember seeing my brother's Gashlycrumb Tinies poster when I was a kid and being utterly fascinated with it. To this day, I think it's had a strong influence on my sense of humor and my approach to verse. And, with 26 posts remaining in National Poetry [Writing] Month, I had the epiphany of coming up with my own knock-off of the Gashleycrumb Tinies, and then writing one poem for each of them for the rest of the month. I hope you enjoy them. And I hope Mr. Gorey, from the Great Beyond, understands that I am simply engaging in the Sincerest Form of Flattery.
A is for Annie who jumped off a bridge
B is for Bart who got locked in a fridge
C is for Charlie whose hair caught on fire
D is for Donna who bit through a wire
E is for Elgin thrown under a train
F is for Farrah left out in the rain
G is for Gus who fell into a moat
H is for Hattie with hands round her throat
I is for Iris, allergic to nuts
J is for Jim who had too many cuts
K is for Karla who drank the wrong brew
L is for Lenny with one day too few
M is for Morris, done in by a bully
N is for Nate who got caught in a pully
O is Ophelia who took the wrong path
P is for Peter who drowned in the bath
Q is for Quincy blown off in the wind
R is for Rob, by a bus was he pinned
S is Samantha found under some rocks
T is for Timmy, his mouth stuffed with socks
U is for Unis who swam with a dolphin
V is Veronica, struck dead while golfin'
W is for Wendy, assaulted by kids
X is for Xena stabbed in the eyelids
Y is Yolanda who fell from the sky
Z is for Zeta who has yet to die.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
limerick for beth
04/04/2008 - National Poetry Month post #3.5
This limerick was created for dear friend Beth who was worried she might eat a whole box of girl scout cookies all by herself.
There once was a girl with a cookie
she bought from a girl scout named Snookie
she feared the sweet treat
would go straight to her seat
and keep her from getting some nookie.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
tragedy at mcfee manor
04/03/2008 - National Poetry Month post #3
Remember now the tragedy
of Little Carol Anne McFee,
a girl so filled with villainy,
no one would write her eulogy.
It was a winter blustery
when Carol Anne in secrecy
stole silent from the nursery
amid the family's revelry
"'Twas only to escape," thought she,
"the bitterness of dull ennui."
In truth it was hostility
towards all God's creatures running free.
The cat first tasted her cruelty--
she tied it to the Christmas tree
and set it fire just to see
if it would wail like a banshee.
She wanted to test gravity
so coaxed the puppy to floor three
and through the curtains billowy
she threw it to its injury.
She found a little mouse so wee
she put it in a cup of tea
so boiling hot the thing went "squeee!"
She mailed it off to Tennessee.
She thought she'd test her mastery
and got the bow for archery,
but with the shaft's delivery
she skewered sister's goose named Dee.
She spent her morning filled with glee
but in her own debauchery
she got to feeling quite carefree
and wandered past the boundary.
She walked along the scenery
and squished a lonely bumblebee
and laid waste an ant colony
while thinking it was comedy.
It got so dark she couldn't see.
Into a deep, dark hole fell she,
and lay there with a twisted knee
alone in her captivity.
A storm blew in ferociously
and in its raw brutality
it snowed all night til half past three
and covered Carol Anne McFee.
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
morning at the gym
04/02/2008 - National Poetry Month post #2
the biggest guy I ever smelled
just dropped his dumbells to the floor
he grunted, gnashed, and moaned and yelled
and did a thousand reps or more
his raw brute strength unparalleled
more mighty than the ox or boar
and every fibrous muscle swelled
as sweat beads popped from every pore
across the room two ladies strained,
one stepping stairs, the other rowing,
by both was I quite entertained
by what their spandex tights were showing
the perfect glutes one had obtained
her sleek, lithe body fairly glowing
the other--all her weight retained--
out in a field she could be lowing
oh, it's not nice for me to mock her,
only trying to get slim
I brave the crowd to find my locker,
past hairy-butted cherubim
with small equipment--I'm no gawker--
I wish they'd keep the lights more dim
and sure, today ain't any shocker
just one more morning at the gym
One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.
This week's words are
parallel
bounce
mysterious
note: national poetry month is April; this is my first post of the month
I only wish there had been more entrants, but I had fun writing my entry for Aerin's recent contest. Apparently Precie and Aerin both liked it because it was selected as the winner.
You can read the winning entry on Aerin's blog, In Search of Giants. In fact, please do. Then read the other two entries from Ello and Jane.
I've seen on Writer Beware various attempts at launching reality shows involving authors. But these all never got legs for two reasons:
First, no one wants to watch amateur writers working on novels. I mean, who really wants to watch a bunch of people doing laundry, blogging funny-only-to-them photos of their cats, and playing solitaire or tetris when they should be writing? By this I mean to say, the concept was flawed.
Second, the people trying to launch these are wannabes who have no clout in TV.
Now the producers of American Idol have come up with a concept that might have some merit and which could help improve the creative writing skills of American children in the process. It's called American Poet, and it involves contestants writing and reciting that poetry. Contestants will be judged not only on their recital performance but on the literary quality of their poems, the appropriateness to each week's theme, and appeal to a "young adult" audience (no specifics on what that means yet, exactly).
Another twist is that in this YouTube era, rather than have contestants line up in stadiums, auditions will be via home video submitted to the judging panel. The actual finals (top six, each week one poet voted off by phone-in votes) will be televised on Fox, but the audition shows will be only on line through YouTube.
Anyone who knows me already knows that I'm hooked on American Idol. I'm not sure I'll go for this show, but I'll at least give it a shot when the first shows air. They're putting it on in September in a back-to-school atmosphere, and they'll be doing a tour of selected top high schools to profile along the way.
The winner gets two prizes: A publishing contract to publish a book of their poetry, and a $50,000 donation to the school of their choice.
What do you think? Will you give it a look when it comes on in September?
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