Perspectives
Impressionism in art
and
Lack of communication
between people
Are two different ways
of interpreting the world
Patchwork Prose and Verse
Spoonerism Pantoum
taking a family Thanksgiving walk
on the Johnson Funny Farm
holes everywhere in the tufted ground
“What are they? They’re everywhere!”
on the Johnson Funny Farm
pine straw sticking up like golf divots
“What are they? They’re everywhere!”
Briar confessed: “We have aardvarks”
pine straw sticking up like golf divots
like a foursome gone club-crazy
Briar confessed: “We have aardvarks”
he mixes up his words sometimes
like a foursome gone club-crazy
holes everywhere in the tufted ground
he confused aardvarks with armadillos
taking a family Thanksgiving walk
Thanksgiving Feast
Our resident fox squirrel
is savoring his Thanksgiving feast
one day late ~
–
exactly 48 miles due south of Atlanta,
114 miles southeast of Dahlonega,
159 miles southwest of Hiawassee.
222 miles northwest of Savannah,
279 miles northeast of Seaside, and
287 miles northwest of St. Simons
–
~ right around the corner from the critter’s Christmas-treat-laden tree in the front yard at the top of a railroad tie in the sunshine on the Johnson Funny Farm
….and we are smiling from the kitchen window, where he has now abandoned his half-eaten apple at the top of the post and would have left us scratching our heads at that apple had we not seen the feast take place!
Peaceful, Easy Groove
No big production
Picked up pre-cooked pig and bird
Whipping up fixings
Laid-back Thanksgiving
Foregoing the flusterings
Keeping it simpler
Peaceful, easy groove
More time spent with each other
Less fussing with food
Jigsaw puzzle out
For quiet moment seekers
Introvert’s delight
Front porch loveseats spiffed
Coffee tables ready for
folks to sit and chat
This is how Sundays
Used to be in the old days
Families gathered
Big-table dinner
Then they branched off to play cards
Gossip over tea
No conversations
About hot-button issues
That dampen spirits
So light up the tree
“Hey, Google! Play some music.”
Pour a glass of wine
Let the dogs outside
Play fetch and take a short walk
Eat buttermilk pie
Happy Thanksgiving
From the Johnson Funny Farm
May your days be blessed!
Come On Home Down Country Roads
Go past the historic red brick courthouse on the city square where men fight against development and complain there’s no internet
Go left at the Hallmark Christmas tree,
fragrant balsam standing tall,
winking love to all, a gift each year from a tree farmer in our rural Georgia country farmland
Go on through the hometown sidewalks bustling with fresh holly-filled evergreen wreaths on every door – the Mortons, the Sawyers, the Demarcos, and all the other names in the church directories for miles on end, people smiling and waving from restored front porches
Go straight down to the dirt road, and turn the window down a crack to hear the crunch of gravel under the pickup truck tires, as every outside farm dog comes running to the road’s edge to take a good hard look with a warning greeting
Go past the cinnamon-roll haybales standing on their sides, scattered across the rolling hill pastures like manna fallen from heaven, acres and acres outlined in rustic wood-rail fences
Go past the old tobacco barn now home to tractors and balers and machinery that makes it all easier for the great great grandsons of the first generation farmers
Go right at the fishing ponds where the cat-tails sway and the frogs trill songs of praise for the day and the steam rises like slow-mo ballet dancers on cold mornings
Go real slow at the roadside stand, the honor system produce market where the farmer leaves a money bucket for the good folks of Pike County to pay for their collards and pumpkins – and tip your hat, if you’re wearin’ one and see somebody
Go on up to the holy cows, the ones who run together in a big herd toward the cross on the hill every evening at five o’clock sharp when they’re called home
Go past the old dilapidated cannery, where the women of this town in war-time all worked to preserve the food grown here to feed the nation
Go over the railroad tracks – the ones that brought all the folks before us out to line the streets as President Franklin D. Roosevelt in his casket rode through the small towns from his home over in Warm Springs all the way back to D.C.
Go on down past the fire tower and Gregg’s peach orchard, past the old cemetery with its moss-covered headstones, over the creek and through the piney woods to the Johnson Funny Farm and
Come on in, greet the dogs in their full-body wags and sit down and have a glass of sweet tea with a mint sprig in a mason jar with me!
Linda Mitchell challenged me to a Tricube today! A Tricube is a 9 syllable poem of 3 lines, each comprised of 3 syllables, and commonly written in 3 stanzas for a total of 27 syllables.
River Tricube
when writing,
ride river
word rapids!
droughts will come
so will rains ~
levels change
when words flow
grab your pen:
listen in!
I Might Be
I might be the hero
in another dimension’s
Christmas horror movie
I might be
because I have just
torched a baby girl demon
wrapped in Christmas lights
and flung her to the
depths of Hell over a cliff
by the sea and prayed
to the Holy Ghost for forgiveness
in case I did the wrong thing
but I burned every shred of
evil and cast down the devil’s
Christmas elf in my nightmare
then woke up completely
peaceful and relaxed,
not out of breath
or heart all pumping
behind a tight-skinned face
or screaming in terror
despite all the threats
from the little fiend that
she would return
for more tricks tonight
I might be
the movie star celebrity
of a Stephen King realm
that exists in the dark universe
somewhere in a movie theater city
where the sun never rises
and no one ever sleeps or laughs,
they all just eat popcorn
and watch flicks 24/7
like that’s all there is to do
Yeah. Me.
I just killed an evil baby princess
in a vivid little coastal town
probably somewhere
near Bangor, Maine
scaled a second floor
sun balcony patio
with a single jump
to trap her in a stairwell,
wrestled this female
pint-sized Chucky
lit her on fire
with an Aim-‘n-Flame
then hurled her over the edge
~ fully engulfed ~
I, the victor in avenging
this little demon
on a power trip
to destroy the world
only there’ll be no limo
no red carpet runway
In a glittery gown
straight past swooning fans
to a Golden Globe for me
~ just a Little Debbie
Christmas Tree Cake
shared with 3
adorable schnoodles
in the privacy
of my own living room
where I am only their hero
in our rural Georgia
Funny Farm dimension
and all of this
left me wondering
if this little bitch I killed
is the one
who brings hot flashes
and plagues my nights and
whether I just saved
all of womankind
from the depths of despair
with my dream-powered
cunning stunts
clever moves
fearless determination
to overcome the enemy
so if the hot flashes
of the world
suddenly cease and
women across
the world are healed and
have kept the cool side
of the pillow
for nights on end
without sweat or explanation
and start appearing on
The Today Show and
Good Morning America and
places like that
giving testimonials
attributing it to some new
mineral they’ve discovered
or find that they’re dog mamas
of all the same breed?
there’s no need to buy
the infomercial miracle sprinkles
or the puppy
because that’s not why
they’re hot flashless –
no, indeed
it was my nightmare prowess
and bravery that cured us,
y’all.
Yeah,
that was me – the one
wearing the invisible
blue snowflake cape –
a hot flash hell hero
from another dimension
I did that!
Today’s poem has me wondering whether the Covid booster has additional side effects like murderous nightmares