The Muse unused
marched into my dream last night
Standing there in leotard and tight
Lit up and fully boozed
The Muse pulled out a kite
I snoozed enthused
The Muse released the kite to flight
And held the string so very tight
No blood therein could be diffused
Its knuckles turned to lily white
I perused bemused
Its fist was like a candle light
I couldn’t sleep (it was too bright)
With this, the Muse was quite amused
(I blew it up with dynamite)
Until next time . . . I love you
Until next time . . . I love you
Tary not dear Gwendolyn
O’er ice cream, cake or pie
Your stomach never proves to be
Much smaller than your eye
Tary not dear Gwendolyn
When heaping full your platter
A garden salad? Or french fries?
(You know you’ll choose the latter!)
Tary not dear Gwendolyn
With pralines in the pantry
Sweets like these although they please
Make waists turn vigilante
Tary not dear Gwendolyn
On scents of roast beef gravy
Such nourishment will only serve
To make your waddle wavy
Until next time . . . I love you
Polly Petunia Penelope Peck
Had a heck of a time with her tubular neck
When through the town’s center she’d venture to walk
People whipped on their glasses in order to gawk
Her head bobbled and wobbled and tilted unsteady
(Which is par for the course when your neck’s like spaghetti)
And when desert winds blew from the south (Santa Anas)
Her neck! It would bow like Chiquita Bananas!
Twas in such a state that she met her man, Nate
(He’s a sucker for woman whose necks oscillate)
And married got they — on the fourth of July
Polly wore shorts and a turtleneck (high)
And happy they lived all their lives ever after
With Nate’s head in the clouds and hers in the rafter
* * *
Until next time . . . I love you
Welcome Dear Readers! What do 4,966,661 WordPress bloggers have in common?
Everyday bloggers just like you and me — except that they all have different names and different faces and probably aren’t the same height — are participating in a little thing called the WordPress Daily Prompt. Here’s today’s prompt:
Life is a series of beginnings and endings. We leave one job to start another; we quit cities, countries, or continents for a fresh start; we leave lovers and begin new relationships. What was the last thing you contemplated leaving? What were the pros and cons? Have you made up your mind? What will you choose?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us CROSSROADS.
I loved you, Duck, through pain and strife
Twas really hard to leave you
At the crossroads of your life
(I didn’t mean to peeve you)
You were my confidant, dear
Duck
For no one else I turned to
I seared you in that pan (for luck!)
I didn’t mean to burn you
The pros and cons of eating you
Were too numerous to list
l’orange? With honey? In a stew?
(I’m sure you get the gist)
Oh little duck, my feathery friend
You have no counterpart
But truth is friend (I can’t pretend)
My stomach won my heart
Until next time . . . I love you
Helen Magellen McNaulty- McSqueeze
Has a problem with being too long in the knees
Her back is too short and her elbows are fat
And when she stands up
She leans over like that →
Helen Magellen McNualty McSqueeze
Had to give up her love of the flying trapeze
For it’s hard to do tricks when you’re shaped like an S
Cuz your acrobats always end up in a mess
But the thing to look out for with Mrs. McSqueeze
Is not to be anywhere near should she sneeze!
She’d fall to the ground like the Tower of Pisa
Pushed by Atlas and Samson and Mother Teresa
Until next time . . . I love you
* * *
P.S. If your stuck somewhere with nothing to read check out my guest post for Retirement and Good Living here.
I have a Loch Ness monster who follows me around
He slaps his feet and quacks his beak but I don’t hear a sound
(I keep a roll of cotton in my ears to tone it down)
My little Loch Ness Monster is hardly ever sick
Oh sure, he’ll fake a stomach ache — but that is just his shtick
And that time he ate my neighbor? It was just a nervous tic
Oh my little Loch Ness Monster, I ride him everywhere
Except for under bridges so he doesn’t mess his hair
And we stay away from bumpy roads—just too much wear and tear
My little Loch Ness Monster, he loves People Magazine
He eats those little cards he finds on pages in-between
(I think he does this mostly cause it’s healthy for his spleen)
My little Loch Ness Monster is fat and round and blue
He’d tie his own shoe laces but he cannot find his shoe
Just like Marlon Brando, Orson Welles and Mister Depardieu
Until next time . . . I love you
Welcome to Wednesday (again)! It ‘s time for Friday Fictioneers.
Penelope Snoots was the talk of the town
When she married a man from the circus (a clown)
Who thought himself clever at messing around
With oil paints, charcoals and color crans (brown)
His pockets were empty – he was really quite vain
(Though his face was Picasso on drugs when it rained)
Yet Penelope loved him in ways unexplained
Cause her wine limit was . . . shall we say . . . unconstrained?
One day he took fruit and chopped it up nicely
Combined strawberries, wine and cantaloupes thricely
He killed her and placed her on ice cubes concisely
Then he painted Penelope’s portrait precisely
Of course Wednesday means it’s time for 100-words of fun hosted every week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple. Pop over and join us. The more the merrier!
Until next time . . . I love you
Welcome Dear Readers! While I was climbing to the top of Wednesday, I accidentally slipped and fell into Thursday. I coudn’t reach my computer as it was still in Wednesday! My computer finally caught up with me this morning! Just in time for Friday Fictioneers on Thursday. Yay! A round of calendars for everyone — on me!
Thank you to Rochelle at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple who’s hard work makes it possible for us to have so much 100-word writing fun!
This week’s picture is brought to us by Claire Fuller. Visit Claire Fuller and read about her fantastic novel publishing success!
Constanza Credenza had horrible eyes
She saw splotches and blotches (they weren’t organized)
She’d grope around blindly while trying to fake
Like she knew that the pie she was eating was cake
Constanza Credenza had horrible feet
Whenever she put on her Keds they’d preheat
So that placing a piece of white bread on her shoe
Would cause it to toast to a golden brown hue
Constanza Credenza was horribly rude
Plus when she sat down her pancreas moo-ed!
The poor dear, she drank and was often besotted
(But to list all her faults takes more words than allotted)
* * *
Until next time . . . I love you
Pa Pa Riddle Rumper ol’ man Chew
He don’t chew tabaccy and he don’t chew stew
And he don’t chew stew
And he don’t like you!
Pa Pa Riddle Rumper ol’ man Chew
Pa Pa Riddle Rumper ol’ man Chaw
He don’t know nothin’ and he hates his ma
And he hates his ma
And he pesters his pa!
Pa Pa Riddle Rumper ol’ man Chaw
Pa Pa Riddle Rumper Flack Jack Flea
He don’t know nothin’ cuz he just can’t see
Cuz he just can’t see
Cuz he drank beef tea!
Pa Pa Riddle Rumper Flack Jack Flea
Pa Pa Riddle Rumper Nickerbocker Nug
I’ll take a sip from your crummy ol’ jug
From your crummy ol’ jug
That you always do lug!
Pa Pa Riddle Rumper Nickerbocker Nug
* * *
Until next time . . . I love you
Tary not Dear Gwendolyn
In TJ Max or Sears
Your bank account’s in shambles
And your bills are in arrears
Tary not Dear Gwendolyn
On stationery (lined)
That credit card you just ran through?
It’s sure to be declined.
Tary not Dear Gwendolyn
Over bobbles do not fuss
It would serve you well to keep in mind
You can’t afford the bus
* * *
Until next time . . . I love you
Carmen Matilda Manila’s chinchilla
Was as big as a very small mountain gorilla
When they’d go for a walk, townsfolk scattered and screamed
The mayor declared, “It should be guillotined!”
The preacher he thought the mayor too drastic
The butcher stepped forward to wrap it in plastic
Then Carmen Matilda Manila’s chinchilla
Ran away to the hills to write a novella
It starred all the townsfolk and how they should die
And included instructions for Hemlock Cream pie
After that it was merely a matter of time
Til the townsfolk were found in positions supine
Now Carmen Matilda Manila’s chinchilla
Is writing a sequel, it’s called, “Salmonella”
* * *
Until next time . . . I love you
Beatrice Crumb she was into her rum
And tequila and chocolate spumoni
Beatrice Crumb fell in love with a bum
On her way to Morocco with Tony
They drug him along, he regaled them with song
And smoked all their Kent cigarettes
He wore Tony’s pants (they were those of his aunt’s)
And ran up a mountain of debts
Beatrice Crumb, well she murdered the bum
On the road to Istanbul Turkey
Then Tony and her they both did concur
To sink him in waters quite murky
They went to the sea with explicit decree
To shove him to regions uncharted
But police waiting there — they arrested the pair
Before evidence could be discarded
Now Beatrice Crumb is foregoing her rum
And tequila and chocolate spumoni
Because in her venue, it’s not on the menu
It seems prison’s plumb full o’ baloney
* * *
Until next time . . . I love you
Carlotta Loretta Tostada was queen
Of swirling and twirling her way in between
The People who waited in line at the bank
Some thought she was silly, but most thought she drank
Carlotta Loretta Tostada was weird
She would often forget to shave off her beard
The people who waited in line at the bank
Would see her and think that her beard really stank
Carlotta Loretta Tostada was shifty
Her distractions they’d yield her two hundred and fifty
From people who waited in line at the bank
They thought she was harmless (let’s just be frank)
Carlotta Loretta Tostada was terse
When security stopped her and opened her purse
The people who waited in line at the bank
Saw checks with their names on them—all of them blank
Carlotta Loretta Tostada was jailed
On multiple counts of grand larceny nailed
The people who waited in line at the bank
Think Carlotta Loretta Tostada’s a skank
Until next time . . . I love you
The Pensive Potato, he knows not what
He’s so worried about, what’s the scuttlebutt?
Does he think about war?
Does he think about ruin?
Does he think about becoming a Boston Bruin?
The Pensive Potato, he doesn’t know how
He is able to worry or furrow his brow
Does he think about sin?
Does he think about death?
When pulled out of the ground does he take a deep breath?
The Pensive Potato, when he looks around
He sees skillet and burner in butter he’s drowned
Does he know he exists?
Well, he probably doesn’t
In fact, he’s quite sure that he probably wasn’t
* * *
Until next time . . . I love you
