Just a free write. Enjoy.
Oh, I’m a Gonna Go!
I’m a gonna go out where the wind durst blow
Sand in my knickers and mud in my toes
Where cow pies rightly disappear and the crickets eat them dangburned rusted bandoliers!
Where the guns don’t get to shootin’,
Where there’s no high brow falutin’
And everyone dances ’till half past three…
If you need me, why that there where’s I’ll be…!
In the Land of Absolution…!
There’s too much fun to be had at this week’s Terrible Poetry contest. Have fun and keep writing. ✏️
Falling asleep, deep-deep-deep. Babysitting another adult, two–three– generations removed from me.
“We’ll get that to you in a week.” I scoff. A week being sixty days, you mean. But I’m too clever, too snug, to call out the lies, the tales your fingers drum-on. After all, no good would come of’…such unrepentant honesty.
The very oxygen would be stolen from your gills.
No comeuppance allowed upstream in the laws of generational physics. So I wait, floating still in the current, until your ropes are cut and you’ll float away, while the brine and salt wash my eyes and hair. And you go to be judged at your sunset day.
Deep. Deep. Deep. When will these felons with blinders retire to the sea…?
We can be captains, we can be heroes of the elite.
Based on true events….
A Time of Kerfluffles
Two weeks ago, my eyeglasses broke. The pin popped out and the tech’s head just shook. “Too bad, you’re out of luck; you’re a blind, little bat now you idle schmuck. And don’t stumble on the welcome mat on the way out, you putz!”
My finger, shortly thereafter, broke in two; would I ever lie to you? Oh well, it’s just a strain, but I do have people sign my little splint just the same.
And then last Tuesday, I recall still yet with dread: I stepped on a rusty nail head! No scratches, no impailments, no ER trips or sky rocket payments. Tetanus shot is up to date and my guardian angel is going on vacation, post haste.
And then yesterday, or was it two days ago hence? I broke my car’s side mirror, to my garage’s horror and my proceeding recompense. Seven years of bad luck is mine from parking a smidgen too close inside.
No worries and have no fear. Because, even if this superstition is true, it’ll be over so very soon. At my current rate, I’ll be free of this bad luck around, well…let’s calculate and see. Why the year six thousand, four hundred and ninety three!
Inspired by C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters and the many current events of the modern world. I may do more of these.
This week’s Terrible Poetry Contest is over at Chelsea’s page. Give it a read, give it a whirl, chuckle and snuffle until the words all swirl.
This week’s theme is losing something dear to you. I was daring and wrote about losing my patience.
Meetings blur past eyes
Goals stretch farther to Saturn
Do the scratchings count?
A flower of red
Soft warmth against my forearm
A life struggles on.
A tiring day.
The Amber Eyes keeps whining.
To rest, is foreign.
“Hello and this is Reginald Swinebottom presents. Welcome to Day 13 of of our Blogmas 2018 Premiere. Please, join us today for another excruciating “Terrible Poetry” reading! The goal is to write a truly terrible poem–extra points for jolts of revulsion and sudden aches of terror. Join the brouhaha at Chelsea Ann Owen’s blog. Enter and join the fun, or subscribe to her page for future updates–if you dare.
The theme is: Parody of “‘Twas The Night Before Christmas”