Stopping to contemplate a slug
I marveled at this taciturn bug
Designed to live underground
occasionally it is found
making its way ‘long a crosswalk
using up half a day’s clock
on its tortuous path homeward bound
~ never making one single sound
I’m writing with pen.
Scribbling and doodling.
Writing a rough draft.
Then an even rougher draft.
Falling asleep and knocking coffee all over my pages.
Using up my whole notebook.
Running to the paper store and begging for all the paper in the world.
They laugh at me.
But I look them in the eye and they give me their longest scroll, so I can continue.
My pen is dying, but I’m alive.
I’m scribbling over scribbles.
I tell them it’s a book.
I tell them I will publish it whenever the mood strikes.
They laugh.
I ignore them.
I write and write in peace and madness.
Pens die.
Paper is thin.
A book? They ask.
I show them the scribbles.
I show them the way.
And maybe it is just scribbles…
And maybe those publishers would laugh…
But hey?
They couldn’t help but read it anyway.
the only time I clean
is when I am angry
because anger begets anger
and cleaning always puts me into a brown funk
I have been known to turn a room upside down
and inside out
dusting, stripping, vacuuming, bleaching, dipping
when I am ready to tear off someone’s limbs
Because limb-tearing-off might land me in jail
And it’s not my fault when anger grabs me
It means you HURT me
DEEPLY
I will probably drop you.
Block you.
Toss you out of my life.
I will clean until I am ready.to domp you
Using up my energy this way
Keeps me from shaving my head like I did in 1983.
when someone else hurt me this deeply.
scramble the bots there’s a new weirdo in town
using up the sun, talking un-abbreviatedly odd
some skin looking healthier than the rest of us,
us, junkies of likes – us, beyonders of midnight
I will leave it to the bots to sort out this reality
All these years ago it began
then I picked up my black pen
wondering if I could write poetry
so doubtful was I back then
But then my grey cells responded
bringing thoughts mindfully alive
from that point, confidence grew
brings a vision point to truly strive
Having been set to write poetry
it's appropriate what made my debut
for my subject matter set to write
a long-pointed thing is my clue
By now you'll have worked it out
that first poem was titled 'The Pen'
which would be my best ever friend
writing in my notebook forever open
To think now many I've penned
using up gallons of flowing ink
it all began with a pen of mine
which was indeed my missing link!
(This is written looking back on the first poem written all these years ago, so many pens have been used since then!)
Everyone wants to save my life,
Everyone to whom sugar is knife...
But shame to all sellers of sugar,
Who dread it more than jumping cougar!
They tell me my case is different ;
Fifty two years on Earth apparent.
I begin to fear the Devils rate
At which I court all carbohydrates,
Like one clearly acting in bad faith,
Not well- expressed Nutritional Faith
A trifling too, with the Christian Faith
"And one wouldn't want to smile at Death !"
Then remembered I my daily walk
And a teacher's long hours at talk,
Holding like cigarette a long chalk,
Much worse than a hunter's dragging stalk
"Sure I'd kept using up the much feared,
Sugar my blood leaves as I shave beard".
A building ruin touches my heart
Its days of worthiness are now gone.
Its French doors are now falling apart
crumbled bricks inhabit one-time-lawn
Weeds climb trellis instead of lace vine
Honeysuckle no longer calls bees.
Bush roses at last gave way to time
wind caused an awkward list to the trees.
No more wrong key clanks on piano
or children giggling, whispering tales
No longer young lovers 'neath willow
No more fish stories becoming whales.
Those bygone days are to be no more
Laughter, anger, happiness, sorrow.
Its walls bore all, quietly they wore
until using up its tomorrows.
April 5, 2023
for 'Writing Challenge--R Words' contest
by Constance La France
howmanysyllables.com=9
2nd
Don't waste your energy,
In trying to fit more hours in your day,
As no dividend will ever come from thinking the house will ever pay,
A dividend for those who use their energy in that way,
And you will be using up time that should be set aside for play.
Instead of using your daily quota of energy in that way,
Try planning your day,
To reduce the time of your office stay,
By working out what can be put off for another day,
Without hell to pay.
If you do as I say,
And don't waste your energy trying to put more hours in your day,
As even if you can never put extra hours in your day,
You can prolong your life by many a day,
Resulting in more hours to play,
From hours you could not fit in your day,
That you found by using your energy in a more productive way.
You would need giant shears
To cut a rug,
And why should anyone need to do it?
In their 20s and 30s, they jitterbugged
If you had the energy to pursue it
The jitterbug was a lively dance
That was all the rage,
They danced frantically
Both entirely engaged
In dancing as if there was nothing to it.
All seemed to dance on one spot,
Not using up much space,
They jitterbugged and jitterbugged
At a manic pace
The poor rug suffered that was on the floor
Continuous dancing is the reason that rug wore
It acquired dents and slashes
As if cut by scissors or a knife
Caused by all those young lads and lasses
That cut the carpet, causing the rug strife.
To cut a rug means to dance,
Not just the Jitterbug.
I like to dance the waltz,
Cos, I get a cuddle and a hug.
Catholic education taught me all my Ps and Qs
when nuns and priests coached a child's reluctant view,
in a quandary and a quiver
to kneel up straight and perfectly perpendicular,
amidst the gold and platinum rich cathedrals
churches of quicksand-like quag pews medieval,
shaped for the prostrating prayerful penitent
awaiting an offenders penance and its remnants,
in somber quiet of quaint old confessional tombs
while incense burns a bitter scented perfume ,
quintessentially questioning everything qued
perpetuating a quay to conclude
when to sink or swim in perplexing quirky quotes
of pseudo pallid pantomimes of forgiveness and hope,
when tranquil poise in prayer
extolls the loss of childhood innocence repaired.
Using up those Ps and Qs with an added one or two.
Penance Poise Perfume Platinum
Quay Quiver Quandary Quaint
for the sponsor of contest Mind Your Ps and Qs
Michelle Faulkner
2/19/21
Which pair of shorts to wear today
What color T-shirt best romps around and plays
Should I sleep in 'til eight, eight-thirty, or nine
How about 9:30, Central Daylight Time...
Hmm. It's ten already. To heck with breakfast
Before you know it, the sun'll be heading west
Think I'll mosey out back and catch a few rays
What a way to start another lazy summer's day...
Huh? I have a job to do? The toilet needs cleaning?
Oh, well. From useful work I thought I was weaning
Alright. OK. I'm on it. Give me about half an hour
Then it'll be time for my morning shower...
Ah! Nothing like luxuriating, using up all the hot H2O
So much for the laundry in the washer. That's the way it goes
And now, let me see. Oh, my! It's nearly one!
Time for lunch. And then my morning will be done...
As you see, I've got it really rough
When the tough got going
They left me behind ~
America's #1 Cream-Puff
Once upon a time, Liz Unicorn,
was quite unhappy with her tiny horn,
and one sad, lonely day began to bawl,
cause horns of friends her age shot up so tall.
Right then appeared Fred Frog, portly and plump,
who jumped onto her smooth and shiny rump.
"Now please don't cry, Liz Unicorn, you see
your horn will grow and shine amazingly!
For now, it's using up growth energy
to make a sturdy base that sure will be
much better to support the best 'horn-crown',
for it will be the tallest one around.
You see some finer things take time to build;
be patient and I know you will be thrilled."
Liz turned her head to blow a thankful kiss
to kind Fred Frog who offered hopeful bliss!
Sandra M. Haight
~9th Place~
Contest: Once Upon A Time
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Judged: 02/10/2017
It takes a lot of courage.
To make simple minded.
Using up your marriage.
Yet not ever finding.
Something so beautiful.
And so far away.
Pain is not approachable.
And will make you go INSANE.
The lake was only small
But we boated.
Not far to go...
Back and forth
On the little lake
And watching the boat go.
Back and forth and go -
Using up the day
That won't return.
--------------------------------
2/15/2015
Contest - STRAND Choice 8
Sponsor - Brian Strand
2nd place win
--------------------------------------------------------------
Featured poem for the week commencing 5/1/2016
Ten-year Randi Clay
Just moved into town -
The town of Fear Street,
Where horror pulls you down.
Enormous, gigantic calendars
She sees, hung on her street
On October 10th is marked
In red - ‘The Birth of Pete.’
She makes new friends at school,
And likewise - enemies too,
Who seemed to keep on saying,
‘Beware – He’ll get you! ’
Whenever asked “Who’s Pete?”
The children turned too pale,
But at last, quite surprisingly,
They began to tell the tale:-
"There was a boy called Pete,
A normal 12 – year old,
Until one day he fell so ill,
And caught a horrid cold.
Alas! One day he died,
And was buried in his grave,
They thought it was the end of Pete,
Grumpy, dull, but brave.
But right from that very year,
Pete gets up on the tenth,
And enters into other kids,
For using up their strength.
It is now an annual tradition
Of playing Hide and Shriek -
Whoever Pete makes ‘IT’
Is the new one from that week.
Randi, the risk for you is
Too real - Heaven forbid.
You’re new to Town Fear Street -
AND PETE DOES LIKE A NEW KID."
---------------------------------------------------------
Based off the idea from an R.L Stine book
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