Eulogy for Floyd

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4.25 Eulogy for Floyd

Light the matchstick torches!
Bang the Hollow Cans!
For Floyd the King of Rats is dead
At the hands of the humans!

I’ll tell you my friends about dear Floyd
Who was smarter than a cat
And just as big in size
His coat was lustrous, thick, and grey
He had bright brown beady eyes
The glue traps never stopped him
Though they ripped out belly fur
He ate the cheese off snapping traps
He hissed at all the curs

Light the matchstick torches!
Huddle in the night!
For Floyd the greatest rat is dead
He put up such a fight

My fellow rats are sad this day
For Floyd finally succumbed
To the cruelest of temptations
To the smallest of the crumbs
While sniffing bones left in the sun
He met his tragic end
As with a snap the lights went out
In those beautiful brown eyes
And so was Floyd undone

Light the matchstick torches!
We’ll have a garbage wake
In honor of our leader Floyd
Who made one big mistake!

****

Yeah, our apartment building has rats. One rat in particular, sometimes seen but not caught until recently, stood out for me.

I stuffed a plastic bag into the hole in the wall – it disappeared.
I glued a bean can lid to the hole – it eventually got pushed off
I laid down a glue trap – it got pushed away from the hole
I laid down a snap trap with cheese – the cheese disappeared off the un-sprung trap
I cleverly put a large glue trap in his “bathroom” (my unused guest vanity drawer) – he pulled himself free, leaving behind a bunch of soft belly fur.

I mean, I have to give Floyd credit – he really played a good game. I caught four other rats before the guards finally caught Floyd. As big as a big cat, according to my neighbor…poor Floyd. You were a worthy, disgusting opponent.

Cheers.

A Small Promise

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4.22 A Small Promise

He said come here and hold me
All throughout the night.
I’d love to, Love, but I’m afraid
I promised I would write.

Your kisses make me smile
And your arms are my delight
But I’ve a second rendez-vous
I promised I would write.

For I’m a woman of my word
And words give no respite
I’ll come back to your warm embrace
I promised I would write.

Who knows how long I waited
For the muses to alight?
Cursing that I ever said
I promised I would write.

Your sleepy hands reached for me
In the waning white moonlight
I took your hands and kissed them
I promised I would write.

And I’m a woman of my word
And the words are tucked in tight
So kiss me love for I am here
I promised I would write.

Empty Space / Love and Bouldering

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4.10 Empty Space

The empty space inside my head
Is vast, but ever shrinking
I find I bring my focus back
With patient, conscious thinking

Or else I stare at something bland
And let my hands meander
Perhaps they’ll write a shiny phrase
And my brain will take a gander.

I haven’t looked down at the keys
Which I know sounds most outlandish
Would you be kind enough to look
In case there’s something I accomplished?

****

4.11 Love and Bouldering

If I’m a bucket
You’re a crimp
We make an interesting climb
I’ll take your arms
You’ll need my fingers
We’ll make it up just fine
I’ll hold your feet
You take my toes
While we’re both in our prime
And when we’re up
We’ll trace back down
Let’s chalk it up to time

****

With thanks to a Facebook Ad

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I used my prose way back in May
When I had useful things to say

And then in June I wondered why
My well of words was cracked and dry

I used my prose – such lovely thoughts
I wrote them out, those nimble plots

Those thankless letters left me there
Stuck with August everywhere

I scratched out words one at a time
I seeded prose in autumn rime

Ruminating through the cold
I felt the silence taking hold

I used my words way back in May
In March I had nothing to say

Till suddenly the prose came home
And settled in my finger bones

Perhaps I have new things to say
I only hope to last past May…

——

I saw a Facebook ad that was about a shampoo or something. In my haste to scroll by, my brain simplified the first sentence to “I started using prose in May.” The rest wrote itself very quickly, until the end. I have difficultly telling when my brain wants to end something hopefully for real, or if it’s pretending to ignore a reality that I don’t want to face. Not writing for months, for example, in any format. All my writing has been on ice for what feels like ages.

NaPoWriMo is starting in a week. I hope that gets my creative muscles flexing again.

Fell behind. Must catch up…

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Well, ok, I got sickish.

Then I had work and it all just started tumbling away from me. I’m nine days off, but I have nine more days to make up for it. If I do two or three a day, I should be caught up.

Luckily for you readers, I have been scribbling poems down on paper!

Also I’m working on an epic poem as a bit of joke for a British friend of mine. More on that later!

4.13 Bitch on a Train

Your instincts told you that the foreigner wouldn’t know to pounce.
Safe in your prejudices.
Fool.
Know what you did not anticipate?
This foreigner has been riding the rails for months.
I’ve lost my fear.
I’ve lost my patience.
That seat is mine.
I claimed it ten stops ago.
You may want it,
But you won’t get it.
Sorry, Junior.
You snooze.
You lose…that seat.

4.14 Sakura Philosophy

Sakura season is but a breath of spring
A flippancy, a dalliance, the barest floral fling
Two weeks tops of cherry blooms under which we dine
Staring up at flowers while drinking sweet plum wine.

Such times seem held in stasis as though to last forever
And yet the trees are stripped with the barest hint of weather
Seeming snow-capped branches shaken by a forceful gale
Spring begins by shaking off the prettiest of veils.

Perhaps that is the lesson that we are meant to learn
That we are the like the buds that bloom and fall in turn
So take heart, my blossoms, that spring will come and then
Upon our fall new sakura will burst into bloom again.

Two more: 4.11, 4.12

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Busy Bee: Interpretation I (4.11)

You up?
You down?
You want to go for a night on the town?
How’s six?
How’s eight?
Work’s not till Monday so we can go late.
He’ll come.
Her too.
We’ll drink and maybe do something taboo.
We’ll walk
I’ll text
And make sure y’all know where to go next.
I asked.
It’s grand.
Everything’s going just as I planned.
It’s time.
Let’s go.
Trust me – I’m the girl in the know.

Busy Bee: Interpretation II (4.12)

Near the Iroquois River sits an ice cream shack.
It’s been there for thirty years, surviving cold and flood.
Open for the hot Midwestern summer and nothing else,
The Busy Bee does not offer blizzards but “tornadoes”
Which taste the same, cost a dollar more, and fill the void
With nostalgia and something resembling Oreo cookies.
Every summer the local populace buys raspberry soft serve flavorbursts, mudslides, blue ice slushies,
Then sit along the riverbank, noting the water level, cleanliness, and any interesting debris washed to the muddy banks after the latest thunderstorm.
As far as rituals go, it is delicious.

Couplet Practice (4.6)

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Couplet Practice (4.6)

Stuck in the curse
Of my free-striding verse
Like cuffs on my feet
The hamper the beat
Of the song in my mind
Which is one of a kind
Yet I can’t touch the sound
Which ambles around
The edge of my sight
And won’t enter the light
So I write what I know
While I wait to be shown
What the words have to say
At the end of the day
If I’m lucky I’ll see
What my words need to be
Or else I’ll waste time
With a series of rhymes
And hope for the best
After a decent night’s rest.