Human Condition

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 20)

What will future archaeologists from human or alien civilizations make of us? Today, I’m challenged to answer with a poem. My poem should explore an object or place from the point of view of the future scientist.

n Si(CH3)2Cl2 + n H2O → [Si(CH3)2O]n + 2n HCl

n Si(CH3)2(CH3COO)2 + n H2O → [Si(CH3)2O]n + 2n CH3COOH

They discovered it around the start of what they called
the Twentieth Century, which related to keeping track
of and measuring what they called time… beginning
with when one of their five thousand or so gods supposedly lived,
as best we can tell, given their early rudimentary measurement devices.

As far as we know, some called it rubber or plastic
but eventually virtually all said silicone because few could pronounce
polydimethylsiloxane in any one of their hundreds of languages.
Before they died off, this stuff was virtually everywhere
sometimes solving, and at times, causing problems.

We cannot examine or test anything they did anywhere
without finding this stuff in use by them, internally and externally.
We find it in all parts of their semi-decomposed bodies, mostly
to make lips, breasts, and other sexual organs look inflated
or larger. Eventually, it was everywhere. We find it in clothing,
on them as sexual lubricants and toys, and in everything they looked at or touched.

We mostly take it for granted now and we suspect
they did, too. They used it for rudimentary rockets but when
they failed to test it completely, it let them down and caused
many deaths. In fact, we can accurately determine when
things happened by how they used silicone before what they called
“artificial intelligence” (which was real) made their existence redundant.

Look both ways.
But study the past and appreciate the present.
Mind the gaps when the AI starts working together at night in your garage.

 

Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

 

This is very brief clip from The Graduate:

Monday’s Rune: NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 17)

I call my Monday poems runes, which can be ancient Germanic alphabets or stones with such symbols used in fortune telling (mystery or magic). Synonyms for rune include lyric, poem, song, and verse. (www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary)

For today, my NaPo challenge was to write a poem that contains the name of a specific variety of edible plant that grows in my area. I was to make a specific comparison (or contrast) between some aspect of the plant’s lifespan and my own. I was also to include at least one repeating phrase.

Byline: By Bill Reynolds as prompted by Maureen Thorson at NaPoWriMo dot net.
Dateline: Everywhere in Texas, but mostly from near Austin, 
perhaps anywhere in the Americas, April 17, 2023.
Copyright and published: 2013, by Our Literary Journey, 
NaPo #17, Monday edition, Rune section.

Cautious Culinary

An eerie red afterglow surrounded us as we drove between the hellish throbbing of wildfire embers from the hearts of burned prickly pear cactus.
I don’t know why.

Ubiquitous, often unseen until it stings, Opuntia of family Cactaceae, also called tuna, sabra, nopal and more,
a bushy edible succulent, often decorative, shrub.

Light green or bluish thorny fleshy pads sprout Spring’s purple-red fruit for jam, jelly, or syrup.
Unharvested fruit become beautiful cactus flowers.
I don’t know why.

They are decorations for xeriscape, desert, Mediterranean, and cactus gardens.

When spiny glochids are removed, pads or fruit are nutritious but best harvested in morning as taste changes during each passing day.
I get it.
I also change as hours of each day pass and like the pear, I taste better in the morning.

The fruit emerges in Spring and soon flowers, more growth and long lived but old age produces less desirable taste.
I get that too.

I can be oh so prickly, no more fruit or flowers, but inside, except for arteries and added parts, I am soft and moist, maybe a little salty for some.
Don’t know why that is either.

I cannot nail down my life span but this year is “expectancy”, nor if the pear outside my door will be there after I’m gone. They live a long time but eventually
everything must die.

I don’t know why, it’s one of those things.
For life to be, there must be death, food chains, health, fire, and sickness
when an eerie red is glowing all around us.
And like me, prickly cactus can be too much.

Look both ways.
The cactus you do not see will stick you good.
Mind the gaps, wear good boots, and watch for snakes.

 

*Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

 

Prickly Pear cactus after they flower in Spring.

 

Edible pads and fruit.

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 15)

This is Saturday. This morning, I had a two-hour online meeting with my writer group. I left that meeting early to make an open mic poetry reading. I drove 40 minutes each way and read five poems. Now, I am to write a poem. I should also find time for things like exercise, reading, and whatever else comes into my life. Retirement—right.

Today’s NaPo poem should exaggerate some (supposedly) admirable qualities of a person in a way that exposes my doubts about them. This person may be real or imagined. A person who was held up as an example of how to be, but one about whom I had doubts.

Doug was a tall and handsome fellow,
a man of means,
a legend in his own time
and perhaps
in his own mind.
He was untouchable. Until he wasn’t.

Normally, when someone, either man or woman,
falls from the grace of celebrity status
and the pillar we place them on,
the reason is either drugs, alcohol, or sex
(predatory, paid for, consensual, or otherwise).

But this guy’s demise was precipitated by
pride and a godlike belief
in himself and his mind and spirit.

As it turned out,
His Nibs was replaceable after all.

Look both ways in the mirror of confidence.
Thankfully, no one is irreplaceable.
Mind the gaps because everyone is vulnerable, lies, and eventually dies.

 

*Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 13)

On the 13th day I was to write a short poem that follows the beats of a classic joke. My poem should emphasize the interplay between the form of the poem and the punchline.

I use humor. But today? Nada. In desperation I am posting this just so that I post “on prompt” and do not get behind. (Nobody said it had to be good.) I hope to do better tomorrow. Anyway…

Doctor, doctor,
what is wrong with me?

Each morning
when I look into the mirror
I feel like throwing up.
What is wrong with me?

The doctor says
he doesn’t know
then adds,
“but your eyesight
is perfect.”

Look both ways when contemplating the literal and the ironic.
Mind the gaps. Even the best comics flop sometimes.

 

Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

Not his best, but Ray is on-prompt, too.

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 9)

Today I was to write a sonnet. While allowed space regarding traditional sonnets, I was to keep with a general theme of “love.” I did not shoot for iambic pentameter, but I did manage ten syllables per line, except for the final two, which are nine and eleven, thus averaging ten. I made no attempt to rhyme.

I don’t think you understood love like me.
When I told Mom that you were a good man
Walking home after making arrangements
She balked. I understood and we agreed.

You had always been a difficult man.
With a world view no wider than the path
Of a tear rolling down my cheek or hers.
Coalminer tough and Irishman drunk.

Your mother died when you were only eight.
You were raised by a strict Scotsman father.
About him and you, you never told me.
He was your only father role model.

Now I wonder about me as a father,
And my wife as my children’s mother.

Look both ways in love and life.
Nobody is perfect and forgiveness is good.
But forgetting is optional.

 

*Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

Friday Fictioneers for March 24th, 2023

The queen of Friday Fictioneering and purple lane swimming, the lovely Rochelle, has dealt us a prompt photo from the most awesome Liz Young. With an abundance of humor and joking around, the Queen and her King are chiding us into dealing from our own deck to call or raise a story in fewer than 101 words (beginning, middle, and end).

If you want in on the game, a seat is always open for you. Just shuffle on over to Rochelle’s blog by clicking on Liz’s pic. There you will be cut in on the rules according to her Hoyle-ness, and you may drop your ace story with ours in the inlinkz pot using any ante, wager, or whatever photo pleases you.

PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young

Genre: Memoir
Title: Funny Dad
Word Count: 100

***

Astrid owned the store. I dropped my stuff on a table then went to order.

Her father walked over and told me an Aggie joke.

I glared at him, “Should I laugh now?”

He spewed more insulting chaff. I scowled, “That’s dumber than the first!”

He paid for my order. I insisted she take my money. She refused. Astrid had no choice.

Then he said, “Student loan forgiveness is buying votes.” I dropped my items in the trash and said, “My vote’s not for sale. Don’t quit your day job.”

I haven’t returned. It wasn’t her fault. Dad’s a dick.

***

Look both ways because none of us choose our parents.
Mind the gaps because our DNA is 99% the same as monkeys.
Sometimes we can tell.

Click on the joke book to find more mad-jokery to read.

Sammi’s Weekender #303 (enterprise)

Click graphic for Sammi’s blog where you may play along and/or read more prose or poems.

Sin, according to those in the know
can be committed and then lovingly remitted.

All it takes is a paid remittance for which
said sin remission is granted with indulgence.

By paying my way, so it is that they say,
with remittance my guilt is pardoned
all at once, and thusly,

Religious enterprise thrives,
a consequence of my temporal sinful existence.

Religion only if a god, because of
delusional intoxication being like love.

Look both ways because some god needs your money.
Mind the gaps and the go-betweens, who never seem to have enough.

 

Friday Fictioneers for March 10th, 2023

For International Women’s Day, Rochelle has invited us to receive inspiration from a yummy photo by Jennifer Pendergast. To save your seat at the FF table, click on Jennifer’s inviting dinner pic for a savory trip over to Rochelle’ place for writer’s just desserts. Be sure to thoroughly peruse all the menu has to offer.

For the record, today is also National Organize Your Home Office Day. Since I kind of stay organized, today I will begin changing my office décor. I could probably finish in one day, but Amazon delivers the goods tomorrow. Today is undo. Tomorrow is do-over.

PHOTO PROMPT © Jennifer Pendergast

Genre: Historical Fiction
Title: Talk To Me
Word Count: 100

***

My invitation to the séance arrived via overnight delivery. It was addressed only to Reynolds. My street address had obviously been added by a different hand. I decided to go. My first.

I arrived before the appointed time of 5:00 AM. The door was ajar, so I walked in. The table had only a crystal ball and twelve empty chairs.

I waited. I double checked the invitation. I had the date right, October 7th. But the year said 1849.

As I waited longer, I felt a chill. Then I heard his voice, “Reynolds, Reynolds, Reynolds. Lord. Help my poor soul.”

***

Look both ways when reading Poe.
Mind the gaps for an elusive truth in his biographical history.

Give Edgar a click to mosey on over to where all the other stories are neatly linked up.

Friday Fictioneers for March 3rd, 2023

To christen March, twenty-twenty-three, and to mark this Rosh Chodesh, our own Friday Fictioneer’s fabulous femme de mystère, Rochelle (aka, the lapping lady on the pool deck), drew upon a Miles Rost a photo to motivate our 100 (or fewer)-word story.

If you want to join us in this clean weekly fun cycle, tumble over to Rochelle’s blog and dry your eyes with the bright colors (esp. purple) and get rinsed and dried for a cleverly pressed story of your own. Just touch the start button on Miles’s photo below. We can iron things out later as we fold in our finest fibs.

PHOTO PROMPT © Miles Rost

Genre: Clean Gonzo Fiction
Title: Loaded Laundry
Word Count: 100
***

I was doing laundry and writing when I heard a door slam.

A lady stormed in carrying a full laundry basket. I tried not to stare. She tossed clothes into a dryer and put something else in with them. Then she stormed out, never looking at me or speaking.

Again, a door slammed. I heard several louder noises, like gun shots.

I smelled something. The dryer she used was billowing smoke. Then it exploded.

I woke up with a firefighter leaning over me asking me what happened. There was more to the story, but I only told what I saw.

Look both ways, even doing normal household chores.
Mind the gaps in silent storming ladies.

Click on the firefighters to link-up with more micro-fiction (or non-) stories.

Monday’s Rune: Unconscious Us

Blame it on the Moon

Is that true?
There is a me I don’t know?
One I cannot see,
not of my choosing, but me
nonetheless.

My shadow self,
a midnight me that
neither ends where I begin,
nor begins where I end.

Is there a pronoun for that me?
A he, she, or whatever,
a servile acquiescent person?
A deep and darkly denied secret
which is me
and not me?

Does my shadow me know this me?
Am I influenced by midnight’s shadow
as if possessed by a blind spot,
a truth I can neither deny
nor admit?

Look both ways for the existential self.
Mind the gaps for what is unseen, but real.

 

 

In analytical psychology, the shadow self (aka ego-dystonic complex, repressed id, shadow aspect, or shadow archetype) is an unconscious aspect of the personality that does not correspond with the ego ideal (which is?), leading the ego to resist and project the shadow. In short, the shadow is the self’s emotional blind spot, a trickster.