Posts Tagged ‘play


sounds the same

They say seafood is an acquired taste but
By the time I turned thirteen I knew I loved muscles.
Some folks like to stick with local producers.
Provenance is no impediment to me-
Imported? Domestic? Artificially stimulated?
Hell, they all look good.
I’ve heard that you should stay away
From oysters in months whose names lack an “R”.
This rule does not apply to muscles
Because summer is when they’re at their best.
Squeeze on a dollop of oil, heat then add salt to taste.
I’ll eat ’em up with a spoon.
Damn. My mouth is watering already and
It’s cloudy and still early June.


Ten-Minute Spill (work in progress)

“A bird in the hand can get lonely,”
Mother’s robotic voice whirs.
“If all the other kids jump off a cliff-”
But why should I listen to her?
She raised us with licks and no promise,
Spat out like watermelon seeds.
We’re floating downstream with no future;
Baby Moses in our leaky beds of reeds.
You can’t practice if there’s no preaching.
Little birds don’t fall far from the tree.

This results from a writing exercise by Rita Dove in the book “The Practice of Poetry.” The goal was ten lines in ten minutes beginning with an adage that is changed in some way. Not bad for a first effort I think and I’ll come back over time to revise it.



to fall for a guy
who has cauliflower ears
is cheesy I know.

you sit your mount well;
please, ease up on how freely
you’re using the crop.


Little Boys/Little Girls

Little Boys
they’re not supposed to
wear Mom’s make-up so how come
girls can shoot toy guns

Little Girls
go on. play doctor
but when you grow up people
will still yell “hey, nurse!”


To A Brownish Tabby

Canny acrobat with a kitten’s face
Her tricks owe more to luck than grace.
Balancing on three feet, one in the air
Making flawless toes, grooming hair.
Performs some sleight of hand with catnip mice
Then leaps- Eliza crossing ice-
Up toward the armoire, showing off once more;
Target missed she slips to the floor.
Wee cat, when you’re chasing piggies or curled snug on the bed
Who could recall it seeming you’ve not a brain in your head?

(Because tomorrow is Robert Burns’ birthday, I attempted this homage.)



Birch trees extend their bare tan limbs
To catch the last rays of warmth thrown by the winter sun.

[In case you hadn’t guessed, this poem is titled “150” because it is the 150th poem posted to this blog. I’m open to other titles for it though; Drop me a comment and make a suggestion.]



The gray and tan striped cat lies under the wooden chair.
She’s hoping to grab my father’s chubby toes
Should he dare to pass
Through the hallway from the bedroom
In order to go to the bathroom.
Usually she gets distracted
By a bit of wax in one ear or
By the fur at the end of her tail that’s standing up and needs a lick;
Involved in her grooming, her mission forgotten, she allows my father safe passage.
But now and again- just often enough to keep it interesting- she remembers her goal.
Haunches slightly swaying,
Their inner springs coiled and ready,
Tail held low and straight for balance,
Then she launches herself up and out through the rungs of the chair.
Spying her in mid-flight, my father tries to walk faster.
“Hi, baby,” he coos but it’s too late.
Playfully, the striped cat plunges her claws into his pudgy white foot.
She pulls them back quickly for another swipe,
Drawing out blood and a satisfying shriek.