At the Fair

Poetry and Prose

I woke up on a Mary-go-Round,

Dizzied by the hoards roaming the grounds.

 

Everyone spinning like clockwork, in gear,

The masses glazed and grinning from ear to ear.

 

Machine’s spitting tokens: “You won, You won!

Eat this foot-long corn dog, and another one…

 

Belch and giggle and slurp down your bubbles.

Now, jiggle back to the show and forget all your troubles.

 

Up to 70% off, And for a limited time

A mystery auction… entry? A dime.

 

Neon flashes highlight the air-

Vapid messaging- SALES everywhere.

 

You may miss out, grab them while they last!

The Jones’ bought two!  You may be outcast…

 

Hurry, Hoorah, let’s Celebrate and spend,

Why else would God create the weekend?!

 

Step right up, and don’t be shy!

You may be a natural, just give it a try!

 

Three tosses for ten, five for twenty,

You don’t get a better bet than that for your money!

 

And just might you be our next lucky winner?

For a year’s supply of microwave dinner!

 

Black Friday is here – Oh My – what a deal!

Back to Monday my dear, now how do you feel?

 

How long will it take you to earn back what you doled?

Just buying and eating and doing as told…

 

So entertained, we are at the fair!

Until we fall asleep; and wake up still there.

Out on an Island

Poetry and Prose

I don’t have my art stuff. I don’t have my paint.

I’ve got one tiny brush and a color that ain’t.

I’m out on an island, which is actually quite rad,

I just wish there were some supplies I had.

I’d like cyan, mauve, candy apple red and pink,

Ya know, as far as colors go, send the kitchen sink.

I draw in the sand but the waves just take,

Every masterpiece that I try to make.

Rhyming all day is for the birds,

Getting tongue tied, and stumped on words.

A single picture is worth a thousand of these.

Someone, send some art supplies, please.

My Sticky Burden

Poetry and Prose

It’s all over my hands,

It’s even under my nails.

Nothing removes it,

everything fails.

I washed and I washed,

there’s no sign it’s budging.

Actually, it’s getting worse,

it’s definitely smudging.

It’s a strange problem to have,

and not many do.

Have a problem like this,

on not one hand but two.

I’m the first to admit,

I have egg on my face.

It’s definitely my fault,

for leaving the race.

It’s my burden to bear,

as this life demands.

To figure out what to do…

With too much time on my hands.

A polyglot’s thoughts

Poetry and Prose

It’s strange sometimes, when in solitude I sit,

And a voice welcomes herself to narrate a bit,

 

A veces en español, la voz me habla

De cualquier cosa, con cada palabra

 

Y al mismo tiempo, sin darme quenta,

Comença outra historia, com força tormenta.

 

Lembrando situaçoes que quase esquesceu,

E isto acontece, no cérebro meu.

 

Je pense que c’est tres amusant,

Mais il peut être beaucoup déroutant.

 

J’ai de la chance, que est seulment moi,

Que parle la voix, et pas à toi.

 

It’s not really lonely, for me in my brain,

I have so many voices, who come entertain.

 

I love all these words, that in my life I have met,

Sin ellas, não seria capaz de ce tête-à-tête.

 

Word Fighting

Poetry and Prose

I wrote a sad poem earlier today.

Got the words out so they wouldn’t stay.

 

I let them crawl off my hand down my pen,

Though I didn’t really want to see them again 

 

I looked down, I realized that they were just wiggly words.

Scrambled up letters, invented by nerds. 

 

I observed these puny paupers on paper,

And how exponentially their power could taper.

 

I can strike and scribble and doodle as I choose. 

And I betcha my eraser these words’ll lose

 

When it comes to a battle of strategy and wit,

These measly words could still learn a bit.

 

So, if you’ve got words giving you guff,

Roll up your sleeve and loosen your cuff.

 

Let the words slide down and splash on the pad,

And I tell you what, you’ll be happy you had.

 

Once they’re all there, and you’re the boss,

Well, now it’s time to play a little word toss.

 

Negatives and nay-sayers, out they go,

Now it’s just you and happiness running the show.

 

You can pop a prefix on one and BAM it’s undone,

Or rearrange some letters just for fun.

 

Grab your quill and get to writing,

This is not about poetry, it’s about word fighting.

Play with Language

Poetry and Prose

Play with language, not your food,

Play with language, while in a tongue tied mood,

Play with language, it’s not considered rude,

Though more oft than not it’s misconstrued.

Play with language, who knows what you’ll find,

Play with language, it’ll open your mind,

Play with language, it’s not unrefined,

Just steal words from before, and place them behind,

Play with language, you should try it sometime,

Play with language, or play rhyme,

Play with language, it’s no semantical crime,

Do whatever you’d like, shift the paradigm.

Play with language, you mustn’t follow one rule,

Play with language, they don’t teach play in school,

Play with language, you may sound like fool,

But playing is fun, and to have fun is

refreshing.

Home

Poetry and Prose

Where is my home?

Will I know it when I see it?

Will it welcome me back?

The nostalgia, the comfort, and that smell…

When I get there, how will I know?

Is it where my mother lives?

Where I hang my hats?

What language does it speak?

I’m homesick…

For the idea of “home”

Heights charted on the wall

Family pictures, memories of a broken arm.

I long for that place.

But it lives many lives,

in many memories of different places.

Chapters.

Nowhere is home, yet everywhere is.

It is ithe familiar smells in an unknown town.

That same old stray dog.

Getting lost.

Finding my new favorite spot.

Home is not just a place.

I carry it with me,

It’s the tiny pieces I pick up a long the way,

it has taken a lifetime to build.

Home is where the heart is.

I am home.

Soup

Poetry and Prose

I don’t like water chestnuts.

They were in my soup today.

I felt bad for disliking them,

and ate them anyway.

Most of them.

Halfway through my soup,

I realized, I don’t have to like them.

If I don’t like them,

I don’t have to eat them.

After all, I’m an adult.

Three sit at the bottom of the bowl.

I don’t like water chestnuts.

my ailment

Poetry and Prose

I think I am infected,

I must be quite ill,

I don’t know where I caught it,

I’m not sure if there’s a pill,

On the outside I look fine,

But internally a mess,

I don’t know how to cure it,

I haven’t the slightest guess,

How long will this ail me,

I need some sort of clock,

I am sick of feeling this way,

Sick of writers block.