I was in the mood
for a real page-turner.
My bibliophile friend
handed me a book of white-knuckle suspense.
"Read this! It's quite a doozy!," she promised.
And she wasn't lying....
I blew off many a phone call,
filed away my to-do lists,
prioritized book above all hobbies,
yadda yadda.....
I was surprised how fast I got to
the final chapter.
Alas, I didn't get to close the book.
Not yet anyway...
A surprise I never anticipated, you see.
Ugh, never have I
groaned so loudly in my life!
Jane knew I'd come to her
confused, demanding an explanation....
"Hey, is this your idea of a practical joke?", I asked.
She guffawed her "Yes,"
handing me
the last page she tore out.
Silly gal, best believe I'll get her back.....
The foghorn groaned through seas forlorn,
To mourn the scorn of a sailor sad and travel-torn;
Thrice-lashed, salt-bruised and storm-torn,
wishing his soul to be reborn,
when midnight's black and barbed thorn
was withdrawn by break-of-day at dawn.
one lash for being ragged and outworn,
one more for stealing the captain's corn
a third for old regrets too long worn
upon the sleeve, to worship and adorn.
Oh the how the forlorn
wear a foghorn
on their sleeves torn
to mourn,
torn to adorn,
torn to scorn,
torn to mourn-
with a foghorn!
New fangled stuff.
Blocks of “blah” everywhere.
Warbling people.
Some type of excision.
Depression is a fancy platter to me.
With those little painted on patterns.
Hissing crickets.
All those random splotches got sorted out.
And more groaned forth.
Happiness feels…mangled.
Depression awakens me like breakfast thrown in my face.
Orange juice tells me to start the car for work.
This is old.
Let me tell you a story . . .
After my beloved mother passed away,
I needed a place to live my life;
the problem was I had limited money,
and could not afford a modern apartment.
So, I was searching for something mature,
a refuge, sanctuary, retreat, harbor, hideaway:
then, I found her, not ancient but aged graceful,
I loved her character, mood, and mystique;
admit she was elderly and along in years.
I soon found out her windows were drafty,
her wood floors creaked, groaned and slanted:
not decaying, let's say dated and I loved her,
I had to hang my pictures crooked to look straight;
some doors are stiff but she has a respectable porch.
She meets my needs for shelter in every way,
my inherited furniture from grandma looks beatific;
and my collected treasures suit my shabby chic style,
I adore the neighborhood, the parks, and paths;
she is the idyllic haven for this girl to live her life.
“It wasn’t me who voted them in.” He bleated, quite moronic.
“And all the lies we’re being told, I think I need a colonic.”
He looked around and gathered his thoughts, “I need to pen a missive,
To my local member, here in town, and it needs to be derisive.”
His needs lined up and in a row he smoothed the sheet for writing.
Nib to page, ink to flow, the Minister’s in for a smiting.
And as the words began to roll with sweet and honeyed menace,
The smile in his eyes began to show, he started, “My name’s Dennis.”
He listed off the promises made with a corresponding date
And coupled them with grievances to even out the slate.
He moaned and groaned and spouted steam. He really was quite grumpy.
And when he read it back again, he found his syntax lumpy.
Scrunch it up and start again, it surely must be proper.
With guilt to place and thoughts to sway, he breached a mental stopper.
And now, when Dennis wrote some more his thoughts and words were crystal.
Seven pages, neatly scrawled. What a delightful epistle.
It is hard to except that our world now is broken—
I have heard it whisper so at night,
When the stars, like punctured lanterns,
Bleed their ancient light.
I have walked through streets of ashen hours
Where hope lay trampled, torn, and thin,
And every door I dared to open
Groaned with grief within.
The clocks all tick with hollow lungs,
Time coughing dust instead of breath,
Each moment married to a shadow,
Each cradle pledged to death.
Once, truth wore garments white as snow,
Now draped in rags of doubt and dread;
The lie is crowned with jeweled head,
The honest word lies dead.
Yet still the heart—perverse, undying—
Refuses silence, kneels, and cries,
As if some mercy sleeps beneath
These bruised and blistered skies.
O world, thou fractured mirror-face,
Reflecting sorrow, shard by shard,
To know thee thus, and love thee still,
Is agony—yet hard.
For to except thy broken form
Is not to bless despair’s cruel reign,
But name the wound, stare at the blood,
And yet—I am remains.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The windmill groaned before the dawn,
her hands already chapped with dawn-tasks,
his fingers practicing Braille lessons on the kitchen table~
both stiff-backed and deliberate,
both heavy with the weight of wheat and words.
Fifteen names,
each one dug into the earth like fence posts:
Clarabell, Dulce, John, Stanley,
each syllable hauled up from the well
with aching shoulders.
The schoolhouse smelt of ink and sweat,
of small hands learning Braille and
the shape of silence,
while their own children ran wild
between rows of corn,
half-feral, half-holy.
Drought years gnawed at the ledger,
but the well never ran dry~
only deeper,
only darker.
At dusk, they counted heads by lamplight,
his thumb brushing her cracked knuckles,
her voice a rasp of hymns and harvest.
They buried two.
Thirteen grew tall as sunflowers.
The Kansas prairie took what it was owed~
calluses, sweat, sleep~
but left them standing,
left them leaning into each other
like split-rail fences
in a wind that never stills.
I travelled hours, hours and hours.
The rusty ornate gate groaned,
a path hued green moaned to me,
as the trees whispered and wept.
Then, I stood at that cold grave,
of my loved ones deep engraved.
After . . . I let my grief weep !
Great American Literature
Our bookshelf groaned under the weight
of American Literature, and my mother was
principally a communist.
An American Tragedy, I read at fourteen,
and my fascination with A Bridge over San Louis Ray
was endless, and so it went on.
I joined the youth wing of the communist party
of Norway, it lasted a month; they kicked me out
I knew too much to be useful.
The plight of the poor concerns me, and I bristle when
seeing injustice, in short, I will fling my arms around
a horse that is about to be flogged, yet one doesn`t
need to be a communist for this. Kindness is not
political and doesn’t carry a flag, you have to pledge
allegiance to, a friendly smile will suffice.
I turned to look back, feeling anxious as I stood
"by the squeaky old gate that tomorrow will find."
Was there someone there watching me?
The gate creaked shut, echoing the taint of guilt
That I hoped no one heard.
Earlier I came through this gate to meet you in the woods.
It was rusty, stuck shut, and needed a heavy shove to open.
It reeked a somber reluctant groan, trying to stop me.
But, I would have nothing of its rattle, grind and snag.
I pushed it aside, and walked into the woods along the winding path.
The gate hung its head, trying not to see what it knew I'd do.
It looked up and sighed and rusty hinges creaked,
as the victim died and cried out, ambushed in the woods.
I turned back to retrace my steps, afraid of being watched.
I could feel it in my bones, though nothing was there to see.
As I approached the open gate it seemed that it had moved
every so slightly, impeding my escape through it.
It groaned, rattled, creaked with a clang of defiance
embellishing a subtle vibrato in the concordance of guilt.
The deed was done, the dirge was sung, the gate sprung, shut.
the field groaned
when the seeds were p
l
a
n
t
e
d
now it's a beauty
The teacher said, ‘Back in five minutes,’ before leaving the room
His students groaned, ‘half an hour’ meant ‘soon’
The time crawled by, the class dwindled to one
‘Still here?’ teacher asked ~ ‘Next class hasn’t begun’
Bumble bee in search of rose to convey its love,
although it was warned of thorns guarding rose.
All advised , better to choose other blossoms.
Bumble bee groaning flapping wings continuous
flying free frolic in garden.
Jasmine, Cosmos, Sunflower, Gardenia greeted
Flamboyant clusters , Marigolds in row nodded.
Flower to flower It fled on ceaseless groaning,
touched sepals, petals, groaned and groaned till came too close,
put nose to rose, and then stopped.
It kissed in best bliss and started to sip
sweet nectar.
Its dormant dreamy desires got fulfilled.
Thirst of bumble bee, not to be quenched elsewhere.
Its ardent ardour is ready to bear pricks of thorns
but to win beauty queen.
A walk to the park
The crisp morning air
There’s frost on the ground
A chill everywhere
Squirrels scurry about
From here to there
They notice me not
I’m needn’t a care
Sitting alone
…those four wooden chairs
Waiting for me
And calling me there
Eight chains frozen
…hanging straight and so tight
Awaiting all burdens
From one winter’s night
Wooden and cold
…but just right for thee
She squeaked and groaned
Then waited for me
I gripped her links
…what was my plan
Push back - release
Or do all I can
I looked to the heavens
…then in front of me
Another man standing
His chance to speak
Needn’t a jingle
…or even a sway
My time has passed
Send wisdom his way.
Inspired by the Onomatopoeia Contest (2024), sponsored by Emile Pinet.
Mid-day invaded my spirits with blah.
I sauntered the path to the coffee shop
and heard my friends blabbing on endlessly,
astir with the recent barista flop.
I swallowed a mouthful of latte,
gagged and gargled with an unwanted flush
of caramel nut crème tickling my throat.
It made my gustatory senses gush.
After much gurgling, I gulped and groaned,
spilling the foamy froth with a loud plop.
My spirits sizzled and snapped
with the luscious last loud drop.
Having quenched my fraudulent thirst
I selfishly, yet successfully, bashed
the doleful doldrums that attended me.
I hiccupped along home and crashed.
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