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.
Posted in Coffee, Kate Chopin, Literature, Lucy, Poetry, Seasons | 2 Comments »
Doggerel seldom finds a home in dogma. But on – we are assured – rare occasions the free market slips its seal and in floods calamitous drivel.
On laundry days like today, one gets to wash away some of the detritus, clean clear the pulp. And canon is best formed when clean.
The aftermath of missed clothiers.
The downside of up thoughts contain
a bit of rigor doing laundry figures.
In dirty powder traced thinkings
of frocks, I stick a finger’s landing,
and realize the reality of my room.
For laundry landings are no tomb.
I think last of clocks and back to what
fell between cloaks and bonnets past.
Punches and flicks, eyebrow ticks tocking.
A furrow sorrowed, tailored cuckold tales told.
Stepping boots in the muck. All things smelled small.
Salted wine tasting sailors bristled among
mistletoe greased plates. Machined wheels in perfect
forms rolling out like piping pies, and stories warred.
A history of fingers grinning, standing roared.
Tracing past steps sprung animate fast —
my laundry room door. Possible pills and pull,
uphill tells, poker cards, ash fireplace shards.
All things telled drawl, banking stores now filled
this room with old reality. A history of sinners
fingering my mind from afar clockwise.
And once burst forth from this mist of lies,
I turn riled and cry, “Where’s my socks?!”
Posted in Laundry, Literature, Musing, Poetry | 1 Comment »
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.
Posted in Lucy, Musing, Poetry, Spelling | Leave a Comment »
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.
Posted in Fools, Lucy, Poetry, Vengeance | Leave a Comment »
Some prose-aic counterbalance from Canada is on the way, but for tonight, here’s one from the Great North:
Hold onto your bowlers! A coffee's brewin!
Callous South’s caffeine bustle
quaking at border quarrel.
Marred by memory once more —
North crossed; confused accusal
with azimuth from compliment.
Turgid, frozen epistle,
beckoned by a befuddled
dismissal. This denial a —
Duel card house composed of fools,
a greased market appraisal
slicked quick by beverage, hot and
small. Roiled in tumult, soiled by
Filial material —
Sewn where South went North again
to mend soft strewn mistrust. Gave
boldly coiffed tea, not coffee.
Not sweet, but politely.
Posted in Canada, Coffee, Fools, Musing, Poetry, Whimsy | Leave a Comment »
Stings sung, flat cap, some, like fierce cats
who styled comedic, a gunstock blowback.
Frame job, tick tock, tell tale bra strap —
stuck home, stung-safe, knife in his back.
Jostled chase, winded marm, a downwind jig —
maimed for waiting. Arms held, her razed
alley-way charms, till pistol breaks,
pivots with silence, finality taming.
Posted in Crime, Film, Poetry | 1 Comment »
Feather-baby steps out, whether or not.
Shifting hips, slips puddled, piled high in shape.
There weighted, a strappy girl to wallow straight,
shifting gait, and dipped headfirst by a paintbrush.
Such fickle hue found in ewe, a strumpet
callowed in paisley. Rippled avowéd strut,
lets vows no rut — to ponder, consider —
pines for divorce ‘fore handed a daisy.
Posted in Musing, Poetry | Leave a Comment »