Hello? Yes, I do have a Ford for sale!
It’s listed on Autotrader today.
There are lots of options, it’s quite upscale,
I can see it from here in my driveway.
Yes, it does have a lot of miles it’s true,
But gosh it’s never ever let us down!
Pardon? It’s a very nice shade of blue,
My wife chose the colour, I preferred brown.
She’s gone now you know, my wife died last year.
I miss her so much, she’s still in my heart…
She was so happy I bought it for her!
What? Oh the Ford? Yes it’s easy to start.
It shines like brand new, it’s washed every day,
It always runs great, and stops on a dime
It’s darn decent with gas on the highway.
I keep it tuned up, it’s still in its prime!
You know what? I think I made a mistake!
I’m hanging up now, of my own accord.
Why would I sell? That car will never break!
My wife would kill me if I sold her Ford!
I lost my mind today -
Oh boy -
and all the thoughts I had
just seemed to vanish
in the haze
surrounding my head
It seemed so wise -
so potent -
so infinitely dull -
complete with thought, effete with pomp
emblazoned on its skull.
An ounce of heart
a pound of spleen
a smattering of phlegm
A bit of code
a bunch of will
And a thick soup of memes:
All this was all mixed
and cut to bits
A chewy marble blend
From which I built
A vague relief
Of life that I intend:
Where has it gone, do tell me?
Where is my upscale mind?
I look without,
I look within,
But nothing can I find.
It seems the mind has melted
And I must build anew
Today's mind-melded structure
With but a quart of glue.
Babs lives in an upscale neighborhood
zoned for single family dwellings
two weeks ago a non-family moved across the street
and three houses down
Babs can easily see them from her window.
She is keeping her eye on them
Logging their activities.
6:45 a.m. red car with tiny lady parks.
6:52 a.m. white truck with big wheels, large man goes inside.
7:15 a.m. skinny woman with red hair leaves.
11:45 a.m. two strange-looking women sit on lawn
they are covered in blankets
talking loudly on their cell phones
Babs has called the city to complain.
But complain about what? they want to know.
She is not sure.
Yet.
Every other Friday,
With my paycheck in my hand,
I headed to the savings bank,
Exactly like I’d planned.
I’d cash the check, depositing
A bit so it would grow,
Reflected in my passbook
Where the interest would show.
That Lincoln Savings Bank is now
An upscale toddler gym,
Survival rates for local banks
Now, sadly, kind of slim.
Direct deposit also changed
The way most folks get paid
And I’m not sure that passbooks,
Nowadays, are even made.
Yet I remember feeling
So grown-up with that fresh check,
Never thinking it would be replaced
By banking done by tech.
Sit and buy me a pale ale
while I regale you with
a tale written in braille
by a man stale in jail with
no avail to raise bail.
Curtail the detail ~ suffice it to say
how a frail male whale wailed when
again and again failed dislodging
a rusty nail impaled in its tail.
Not to derail but meanwhile
across the vale, a snail and quail
hightailed it but strayed off their trail ~
Once all were put up for sale,
t’was the female who tipped the scale.
It’s not much of a tale but
thanks for the ale, it was tasty.
Inhale ~ now let's enjoy an upscale cocktail.
Lineku: 3 stanzas of 5-7-5 lines ~ each line has 5 or 7 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
When choosing clothes, some people buy
Whatever seems to catch their eye.
They always pay the asking price
No matter what, and don’t think twice.
That isn’t me, for without fail
I’ll check to find out what’s on sale
And if it’s pricey, I might splurge
If on that day, I get the urge.
As far as stores, the upscale shops
Will not be on my frequent stops,
But nor will be a tacky store,
With schlocky clothes you can’t ignore.
I guess I like the middle range
When I decide I need a change,
So when I feel it’s time to go,
I’ll check out clothing stores I know.
He is on his riding mower.
He looks like me,
only he owns a rich man's house,
a garden measured in acres -
his skin is better.
No picket fences: this is upscale America.
Long drives and old stone walls; gated.
A cultural dream
pioneering into new luxury,
the way covered wagons once did,
canvas closed, oxen quietly moving on
into territory that's hard to imagine.
I see him standing
near his wide columned front door,
he is smiling the way I smile
when I think no one is looking.
I like him, and imagine his beautiful
wife in my arms.
He left the wagon train,
to strike out on his own.
They found the green valley,
gold seams under their feet,
and the land already posted,
to keep others out.
Groovy giraffe Moots with his bony knees
Slips and slides and calls out “geez!”
Fashionable, yet, not dapper, not in any way.
His confidence is enormous, and here to stay.
Why do you dress in suits? We ask old Moots.
Most of the animals wear their birthday suits.
I like being persnickety and upscale, he said.
We made fun of him, and his face turned red.
Dazzling like goddess Luna dipped in harvest moon,
Yet, musing on beauty around at summer noon;
Seated in queenly splendor at the balcony,
Amazed on the ancient archives of alchemy...?
Nature has molded you in charm beyond measure,
Like luxuriously hidden sapphire treasure;
Sun light falling on you profusely with pleasure,
Reflects on nature's creatures with upscale leisure...!
Above all, in you are voluminously seen,
Philosophies and theologies that have been;
Cogitating in forms of curious puzzle,
Within - like joys and pains - tussle, hustle and bustle...!
Aren't midst apparent calmness, currents and whirlpools?
Are there within interiors, huge moral rules?
Yet, like saints, synthesis of these seems your nature,
It's, hence, constant smile has become your ornature...!
Shine forth! O princess of divine nature! Shine forth!
Like Sirius the luminous star of the north;
May endless wisdom and enchantment from you flow!
May these to the grief-filled mortals, joys endless show...!!!
29 October 2022
Painting prompted Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Lisa YY
Painting – 1
Fish and chips and a pint of dark brew.
Malt vinegar and lashings of salt.
A fish dinner served up
by a truck in a newspaper cone.
That was then, that was before
taste buds got hard boiled,
before the bowtie culture wars.
Pickled onions are now too small
they should have stayed big and brown
something saucy and sour to munch on
while walking around London town.
Peas pudding, jellied eels,
pork pie to tempt our eyes.
Mostly all gone
or not the same.
Shame,
for now we are cosmopolitan
even here in the Midwest
we are upscale in the fine dining fare.
French, Italian, Bolivian, Mongolian,
Mexican and Estonian, it's all good
or can be, but
fish and chips wrapped in newspaper,
nothing better!
Mrs. Squirrel goes shopping in her red scarf carrying her bag.
Many eye it, for it has a designer label, not worn by a hag.
She is flaunting it actually, for she has that kind of personality.
This snotty upscale fashion-labelled bag suits this squirrel to a tee.
We walked around an upscale town
To pass the time of day.
Our grandson’s learning chess and he’d
An hour left to play.
The stores all catered to the rich,
With home goods, clothes and jewels,
While everybody passing by
Played by those privileged rules.
Designer shoes and t-shirts,
Brand-new weekend-wear attire,
All purchased, when compared to mine,
At prices vastly higher.
Instead of envy, what I felt
Was borderline disgust
At lifestyles that I saw embodied
By the upper crust.
The lesson ended and we took
A destination ride
For ice cream, still in town, but on
The much less ritzy side.
When his father-in-law got him
into the poultry biz in Rhode Island
Joe had not fully contemplated that
first day to market when he
when he failed to truss and bag the birds
properly, a holy-moly cock-up so
when he tossed them into his ’02
Honda Accord LX to parlay
the beasties down 95 South RI,
they managed to wriggle free
the chickens did, got loose
from the burlap sack
the chickens did, flapping anarchy,
and mayhem, and bad policy about
the Aught-Deux’s upscale cabin,
the mad bastard capons pocking
fine leatherette and Boze while
Bad Chicken Farmer Joe flailed away,
fowl and feathers, feathers and fowl
flailing, clawing, at the faux cherry
wheel, finally rip-cording his failed way
down exit 8A for Quonset Point,
where, at the light, the cross-walkers froze
glaciating, mightily at the cockerel mayhem
unraveling inside a popular Midclass Sedan.
How much is this duvet? Elise asked.
I found a tag that said two hundred and seventeen dollars and ninety-five cents.
Not bad, she said.
Is she nuts?
Another tag was attached to that tag. It said $895.95.
What is that for? She asked me. “The rest of the duvet?”
This is a really upscale store. Not sure why we working girls are in it.
Maybe because three of us “girls” are retired?
I began to point out the crappiest stuff.
Saying nice things like “I wouldn’t pay nineteen cents for that in a thrift store.”
Guess how much this ugly thing is? Elise asked me. We were howling now.
Sales help was following us around “offering to help us.” Ha!
The chair I liked the best was seventeen hundred on sale from twenty-four hundred.
Is that dollars or cents? I asked the sales lady. She tried to smile but couldn’t.
Rita was rubbing a chair’s material. There was a price tag on it and another on the seat.
What do you think the $200 price tag is for? She asked.
“That’s what it costs to rub the material,” I told her. “Cough up.”
Our friend Susan was keeping out of our way, pretending she did not know us.
I grew up middle class, so I
Was far from being poor
And maybe that is why I never
Yearned for having more.
That mindset is the reason
I can blame or I can thank
For how I spend, no matter
How much I have in the bank.
An upscale store or restaurant
Just makes me feel uptight.
I’d rather spend much less
On every item, every bite.
Our habits may be set for life
Though circumstances change,
Which some may understand
And many others might find strange.
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