I cut up a lemon and ate it.
The peel I did wash and then grate it;
Added it to hors d’oeuvres.
But it got on my nerves:
I was still puckered up four hours later.
So my hubby said, “Let’s do some kissin’,
‘Cause, for sure, some of that I’ve been missin.”
So we smooched ’til he said,
“I feel like newlyweds!”
Now, hubby more lemons is fixin.’
(This is the kind of stuff we poets write when we’re straining to find anything else to do in order to keep from doing the work we’re supposed to be doing.)
I just seem to be in the mood for Cinquain this week. And I guess maybe I’m in the mood for love as well. So it seemed only fitting that I use one to talk about the other.
A smile … a breath … a sigh.
At last his arms enfold me close;
LOVE CINQUAIN # 2
But still excitement builds.
We meet; we talk; we laugh; we know:
LOVE CINQUAIN # 3
Hard to believe:
I thought we had it all,
But now I find I loved alone.
LOVE CINQUAIN # 4
I walk the aisle
And give to my best friend
My hand and heart for all my life;
♥ ♥ ♥
This little limerick is to make up for my more depressing 100-word story earlier today. Whew! Glad I’m out of that mood.
LORAINE IN LOVE
Now, the guys who drove trains all agreed
That Loraine was no prize; no indeed;
So precautions they’d take,
Each to make his escape
When Loraine for a date came to plead.
Then a young engineer came to town
Who was clueless when she came around.
He became so beguiled
When right at him she smiled,
That right then on one knee he went down.
Oh the wedding was really a beut.
On a honeymoon now they’re enroute.
As they sit side by side
Engineer and his bride.
Down the tracks, at full throttle, they scoot.
There’s a moral to this little tale:
That a woman in love never fails.
If she’s made up her mind
And she’s true to her kind,
It’s the end for those poor, helpless males.
Nothing’s impossible, right? The folks over at NaPoWriMo believe that because today they have asked us to write a Love poem without using the word “love” or any of the hearts, flowers, or cliches that generally go along with that word. (Deep breath) Okey-dokey. I’ll give it a try. To join in the fun, follow the link to the home site for easy instructions.
I know is this old world, it’s sad, but true:
Emotional relationships so often fail.
And marriages, though formerly until death,
Now change as fast as color on the nails.
But I’m convinced our troth will still endure.
I’m sure of you as you are sure of me.
I know because we’re comfortable together
When on the same footstool we prop our feet.
What better test of faithfulness and trust,
Than doffing shoes and bravely baring toes.
Our feet look comfy, happy, and complete,
And for commitment’s sake we hold our nose.
Today’s Prompt: Drawer.
Assignment. Write an ode based on this prompt, using the technique of apostrophe.
Ode To Grandmother’s Engagement Ring
Delicate band of gold,
Crested with a tiny crown of diamond,
Snuggled safely ‘neath sweet-scented hankies,
In the top drawer of my Grandmom’s chest.
Though your jewel is tiny,
It sparkles with a fire that doesn’t fade.
Decades have come and gone since you were given,
And decades more since you were laid to rest.
That day so long ago,
When Grandpop slipped you onto Grandmom’s hand,
Betrothing each to each in awesome love,
Their journey thus begun, they gave their best.
And from their love
Two generations more have now been giv’n
Those seeds of love, watered with their examples,
And generations more will soon be blessed.
Delicate band of gold,
Crested with your tiny crown of diamond,
I’ll hold you dear and treasure you my whole life,
The symbol of a love that passed the test.
Are you ready to grin, giggle, or just feel good? That’s what this little challenge is all about. We share posts that are happy, light-hearted, funny, or downright hilarious. Make it prose, poetry, picture, graphic art, a joke, a song, a video ……. Whatever your heart desires. Post on your own blog and hop over here and paste your link into the “Comments” box so we can visit your site and grin, giggle, and feel good with you. Just please remember the site is for general audiences.
Here’s my contribution this week. I sneaked into Life Is Worth Living by Vera Faye Wallace (my mom) and snatched this little ditty.
I really thought the thing to do
Was to teach my wife in driving.
But, on second thought, I’m asking you;
I know you love skydiving!
Okay, it’s Tuesday again, folks, and time for “Tickle Me Tuesday.” If you want to play along, just post a funny, light-hearted, or downright hilarious story, poem, picture, joke, or non-fiction piece on your own blog. Hop over here and paste the link to your own post in the “Comments” section on this post (any time this week). Then we’ll come over and enjoy yours as well. Remember my site is for general audiences, but that’s the only rule you have to follow.
Here’s my cute (I hope) little story told in a series of limericks.
THE WAY TO A WOMAN’S HEART
But Miss Fry was too shy to say “yes.”
So that still left poor Henry a mess.
But he baked some eclairs
To show how much he cared
And delivered them to her address.
For some reason — and I have no idea what that reason is — my mind has been grappling this morning with a bemusing question.
So let me get this straight: A bachelor is a man who has never married, and by the use of the word “never” one understands that he is well along in years and has passed the “usual” time of marrying. A spinster is a woman who has done the same. Yet the term bachelor carries absolutely no negative connotations with it — and in fact, some people even consider it a mark of distinction. Yet the term spinster — at least here in the U.S. — carries a very decidedly negative connotation. In fact most dictionaries give the term “old maid” as a synonym for the word spinster.
Now for the question: WHY THE DIFFERENCE???
Anyway, while cogitating on this bemusing question, I also got to thinking about a poem that was written by a great friend of mine, Lila Colloton. Lila is now a perky little lady of 82, a widow, a mother, a grandmother, and still an active poet and reporter for a local newspaper. She wrote the following poem when she was 16. I’ve shared it once before on this site, but not for a very long time. Thought you might enjoy it today.
AN OLD MAID
Being an old maid would be fun I guess:
No diapers to wash or children to dress;
You may go shopping whenever you can;
Don’t have to sit home and wait for your man.
Yes, being an old maid would be fun I suppose:
Just one person’s dishes and your very own clothes.
But just stop to think before you continue:
Don’t you feel sort of funny within you?
Kind of an empty feeling I bet.
Just suppose Mom and Dad hadn’t met.
Where would you be?
Probably just part of the breeze that blows.
So stop debating before it’s too late;
When he calls up, don’t break that date!
© Lila Colloton
(By the way, if anyone can answer my question, be sure to let me know.)
I’ve been forgetting to try the 5-Sentence Fiction challenge the last couple of weeks. And I’m almost too late this time around. The page says I have only about 3 hours left. The prompt this week is “Marriage,” and since I’m watching the clock, I ran to my poetry file because I remembered a poem I wrote about a year ago that had just about enough material for five sentences. The only problem was that I didn’t use sentences at all in that poem. So I borrowed the material (from my own work) and added the necessary subjects and verbs to give me five complete sentences. Whew! It’s been almost as hectic as actually getting married. My “story” is below the picture.
Coming and going, to-ing and fro-ing, thoughts in a dither, stomach a quiver, I’m scared.
Scurrying, worrying, phoning, conversing, weighing last doubts, I still could bow out if I dared.
Checking all pockets, fastening lockets, sniffing the bouquets – fragrant sublime haze – I’m okay.
Guests in their places, smiles on their faces, music at high tide, “Here Comes the Bride”: IT’S MY WEDDING DAY!
The prompt for this week’s Friday Fictioneers 100-Word Story is the photo below: Copyright: Erin Leary. Hop over to Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ site and learn how to get involved and share your own story. My story’s below the picture.
THE FORK IN THE ROAD
Kelsey drove along the fence, ignoring it, his thoughts battling. He’d be at the fork in the road soon. The south branch would take him to Barclay; he could hop a bus to the other side of the country.
The north branch would take him home, with his invalid wife to take care of. The neighbor tended her when Kelsey worked. And work was his only freedom.
It was hard to love a woman who couldn’t be a real wife anymore.
But he’d promised: “… for better or for worse …” And she’d trusted him.
He took the north branch.
I feel as if I’ve been darting in and out of Friday Fictioneers lately, but it’s such fun that I don’t want to miss unless I have to. This week I managed to cook up a little something, so you’ll find my story below Adam Ickes’ interesting picture.
Jump over to Rochelle’s blog to check out the details if you’d like to offer your own 100-word story.
My marriage to an anthropologist was educational – and short. Herman insisted we honeymoon on an island he’d studied for years – certain he could convince the cannibalistic natives to help him with his research. I acquiesced.
The ship captain called us fools as he left us on the shore, but Herman insisted he had everything under control.
When the tribe captured us, they bound Herman and carried me to a huge throne. Seems my blond hair was their sign that their goddess had arrived. I’m to be worshiped and given every heart’s desire forever.
Of course, they feasted in celebration of my arrival.
I’ll miss Herman.
Photo by Sarah Hall
The estate still boasted its artistic iron fence and stone posts, although the grasses were encroaching. Trevor smiled. How the old lady would chastise that gardener.
Feisty, courageous old girl! Living alone in the home Albert had built her. Married here on a Sunday, by Tuesday, she’d kissed her soldier husband goodbye.
Next year, a scruffy teen hired to paint the fence, Trevor had won her heart – and she’d won his. He’d been there (the son she’d never have) to hold her hand as she’d read the black-edged telegram and cried. She’d refused to live in mourning, but seventy years she never loved but one man.
Today, at last, she was with Albert.
To join in and write your own 100-word story inspired by this picture, visit Rochelle’s site for the ‘how-to’ details.
I changed computer systems not long ago, and I realized recently that my system counts ellipses marks and quotation marks as words, so now I have to count my words by hand. Good thing we have a low limit. (Anybody else out there old enough to remember the old days of journalism when every five letters or spaces counted as a word? And there were no typewriters with built-in “word count.” A writer’s life was hard back then.) This week, though, I’ve evidently used only 97, so if any of the rest of you need three more, feel free to take them with my blessing.
This week’s prompt comes from a photo by Kent Bonham. All of the stories I’ve read so far find great beauty and genius in this structure. But I have to be true to myself and write what the building calls forth from me.
BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
“Okay, you can open your eyes ….
“Well … what do you think?”
“What do you mean, what do I think?”
“This … this … MONSTROSITY!!??”
“It’s a famous landmark!”
“You mean you invested ALL our money in THIS?
“It will make a grand hotel; you’ll see.”
“No … I won’t see! I’m going home!”
“But … I thought you knew …”
His heartbeat doubled; sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled between his shoulder blades.
“Well ….” He licked his lips to relieve his mouth that felt like cotton. “Well … of course … I had … to … sell —”
He stopped talking and ran.
Join in the fun at this link: