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Archive for the ‘Lucy’ Category

 

Morning Edna

Accordion shrieks across their articulated beach.
Today he plays to bid poor Edna away.
Read lightly, his sigh bleats sky with wave’s bluster.
Washed tones met with scents of pinkish you.

Muffled forfeitures of past business stays
call out — Edna!  Won’t you think of your
disciples rife?  Your duties?  Your life brayed,
with squeezebox, on stage, to play?

Clouds of swirly coughed mist melt torrents,
shiver his muffler, striped with flower currents
whipped ’round without luster, grayed to dye.

Today Accordion speaks out-with merit morning
paper thought crinkling, set loose to sea on dry dock,
to wander about his missing Edna who
flits between the waves, skips under bottomless
scorns of ocean floor, de-pressing her sleeves.

Free Edna, alone and wondering for freedom
from Accordion — who with gentle squeeze wished no work
but to play, thought nothing of that Concertina,
who lived to learn and explore, forlorn.

She looks back at mental instrumate, torn
forward, fallen Accordion, sagging grim-shocked
hollow, belting dirges reeded, mourning Edna to swim on.

 


A special thanks to Kate Chopin and Lucy’s clouds of swirly coffee mist for this piece.

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To Spell Skate

An astute speller tumbles

I thaut it ownlee fare to give a knod this mourning to thoze hoo feer thee addmonishmeant of grate spellers on the prowl, just iching to looke down there knozes at the poorlee spellt.

Boulderdash! Non-cents! Et set era.

To the contrary:

Miss Spells Skate

Spills a spell, oh spelling tells.
She’ll like to spel it straight.
Striktly struk, looks rong.  Right?
It’s a writ, our so sung sawng.
Rites passing to know more…moar.

Take skate, simplee spellt out.
Not scat or skat, but a skate.
Skate?  No, no, nevur moar sew.
I think it skeight, prefer to
rite it rawng.  Try scaite on for
size.  Stretched lawng sckaight looks it now.
Well wut if smalld sew short, scait?
Bee itt rite nough? Smells fishy
scait, scant tell if itt’s rite, sew
letz spel itt roling alawng
underfoot, sew az knot to
have Mai noze tern on Hue tooo!

A revised mix, slowed tricks for
Language bees, she sees in hand
Pictures skate plight, but no need
for flight, ‘rite’ or ‘rawng’ works right.
Just found, fair ground: Words as Sound.

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Lucy’s Revenge

A few images from the past week, whirlwind that it was, and I suppose this is a bit of an honorarium, a dedication to whom it may concern —

 

A ghastly grin often denotes candor.

Shellacked, a perfect till-drunk:
A laminated mistake.
Past revenge, trained hostile joke:
A polished veneer trickster.

“It’s Canada’s Florida,”
he said. A small size sauna
bath to lap up bittersweet.
His sweat, flesh grudge flooded grand.

Spun out sanded ‘neath a ditch.
She landed him fast disposed.
Flit his eyes glossed never-roar.
Her revenge, tossed, from a pit, into a core.

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