Humor

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 4, Of Nature

Now that I have gone several rounds with Facebook, finished every chore and honey-do I can recall, and exercised, I am ready to write a NaPoWriMo poem, to the day’s prompt.

That prompt is to poem up something natural that takes my title, some language, and/or ideas from The Strangest Things in the World: A Book About Extraordinary Manifestations of Nature, by Thomas R. Henry. It’s a cool book/Gutenberg Project. I’ll read every word when I am no longer knee-deep in trying to prove to you that I can still turn a phrase, poetic or not.

I love Nature much more than it loves me or you. I roll my eyes at things like “natural ingredients, GMOs (I mean, so what?), organic (prove it and pay for it), back to nature, and off the grid.” Dr. Scott Peck wrote: “…natural does not mean it is essential or beneficial or unchangeable behavior. It is also natural to defecate in our pants and never brush our teeth…” (The Road Less Traveled).

I decided to write a poem:

Of Nature.

I first camped out in the woods or forest
as a Boy Scout, about age twelve.

Years later, I tent camped with my wife
and I learned what chiggers are, sort of.
She had over 100 bites. I had none (that time).

I was sent to Survival Schools by Uncle Sam
to learn skills about how to live alone
with Nature (so we’re never truly alone).

I’ve hiked wilderness trails in several states;
in the mountains, sand pits, and pebble pocked paths
of the Chihuahuan Desert in New Mexico
(26.2 miles, four times),
and I hiked the boonies in Guam.

I swam in streams, rivers,
stock tanks, ponds, lakes, and two
major oceans. I backpacked in and days later
back out again. I pissed and shit in the woods.

I suffered from heat and nearly froze,
wild animals woke me up and threatened me.

Thunder and lightning and torrential rain
made me question my sanity.

I know the creepy crawler creatures
by first name, and I’ve been bit,
stung (once in the ass), scratched,
charged and needled.

I have taken Benadryl to recover
from the sicknesses that being close to nature
bestowed upon me.

It’s beautiful, wonderful, glorious,
and even freakishly mysterious.

Ask the first in. Ask the pioneers. Ask
the natives. Nature is not a safe place.
Most frightening of all: people!

Take Her for granted at your own peril.
Love the beauty but respect it all.
Nature can and will kill you
without fear or regret. Ask anyone
of the frozen dead bodies
of the Everest climbers.

But then again, what the Hell?
Go ahead. Be one with nature.
Stomp that fire ant den. Follow
that rabbit into the briar patch.
Play piñata with that wasp nest,
and charm or handle that snake.
Enjoy your life. It’s all you get.

Looking both ways is not good enough
in the depths and wilds of nature.
Mind the gaps, look, listen, and be careful where you eat, step, sit, sleep;
and appreciate where you decide to defecate.

NaPoWriMo 2024 Day 3, Boom Boom

On the third day of April, I was given, via prompt, the task of writing a surreal prose poem (whatever that is). Since on Day One I chose to poetically recount the plot of Going After Cacciato (Tim O’Brien), and since it is somewhat psychedelically surreal, I decided to pop a prose poem based on that, with sadly surreal over-and-undertones, metaphors, allusions, suggestions, and damn lies.

Taking this poem literally can lead to a bad trip, man. If you ask, “What does that mean?” I ask, “What do you mean by mean?”

Boom Boom

In the Nam, the tunnel was the cuckoo’s nest of tightly squeezed death. It all went down that way because the blind leading the blind works better than the blind leading the sightful spiteful since the can-sees commonly also perceive gospel. At the observation post, Big Rifle, Jungle Doc, and Ready Mix watched as Stink Harris got blowed up, floating away, leaving only his face inside his helmet: undead—with a smile. So, they slithered off on a hunt to hook Cacciato. After floating down a cliff, they caught the next train to Delhi where he had jumped one to Kabul! Afghanistan, man. Flashbacks were set to the green alternate timeline when they wigged out because of the oppressed wartime dullness of sightings in Iran or Izmir, Turkey. They hear Sarkin say, “the way in” and she whispers, “is the way out.” Shell Shocked sings it, “Billy Boy, Billy Boy, Billy Boy lived but he was too afraid to die.” He was then a dead head. The smoke clears in Paris. In The World, man. Because being in the war is such a magical and wonderful thing, dead or alive. Boom-boom!

Look both ways for the real never is,
and in every lie, there is truth.
Mind gaps and try, try, try to understand being universally lost.

Friday Fictioneers for March 1st, 2024

Fleur Lind provided the prompt picture that Rochelle has used to pull us up (or in). Click on the pic to ride over to her majesty’s blog of purple purpose to read up on the few rules we play by.

Here ye, hear her. Her highness spoke. Now get your sweet nibs over there and write your story.

PHOTO PROMPT © Fleur Lind

Genre: Junkyard Fiction
Title: White Trash Redux
Word Count: 100

***

“Jayzus, Billy-Boy. What are ya gunna do with that old junk? You might get twenty-five buckaroos for scrap metal.”

“It cost more than that to pull it up, Roscoe. You’d never make it in the resale business.”

“Okay, recycling, then. Who’d buy it?”

“And ya lack vision,” said Billy. “It’s a vintage auto body with a story. People rebuild these things and resell them for mucho dinero.

Rosco asked about the story.

“I need to work on that. Maybe the Green River killer left a body in it or something.”

“Bull shit! You’re a lyin’ mother’s son.”

“Prove me wrong.”

***

 

Look both ways as a wary buyer.
Mind the gaps in the fenders, stories, history, and the salesman’s pitch.

Click on the truck salesman to read more fabulous stories driven by a little of lady from Pasadena.

 

And when he speaks his first words, hear this song.

A Monday Quadrille at the dVerse Pub

Lillian is hosting today and prompts a 44-word poem that must include the word imagine (or a form thereof). Click here for the pub page or here to find more quadrilles.

Dip Stick

When I heard that our friend Jack
was charged by Olive
with checking Sally’s oil,

Sarcastically I said,
(with a semi-evil grin below a slow eye roll)
“Imagine that!”

I’d bet that Jack’s measure of success
was how often
Jack got that Willie wet.

Look both ways because some fools just cannot stop what they do.
Mind the gaps when you check your dip stick for fluid levels.

Friday Fictioneers for December 15th, 2023

The mid-December and Hanukkah Holidays are upon us as we celebrate Sandra’s birthday. Susan Rouchard submitted a dark, artful, candle-lit pic for us to ponder and then create our 100-(or fewer)-word story to post.

Click on Susan’s picture prompt to burn-out on your way over to Rochelle’s artful blog to get all curated up on the magic of Friday Fictioneering.

PHOTO PROMPT © Susan Rouchard

Genre: Feline Fiction
Title: The Museum Fire
Words: 100

***

They ran like cats out of hell. Tonto turned right, skidded left, then jumped through an open door. Duchess followed. Fat Jack barely made it before the dogs got him.

Tonto said, “I don’t know why we run, Duchess. They’ll catch FJ. We’d be long gone.”

Jack tried to hiss and arch his back but couldn’t.

“Leave him alone. He runs interference.” Moaned Duchess.

“Where are we?” asked Fat Jack.

“Oh, candles! Where do I start?” said Duchess.

“I’ll take the top shelf.” Tonto leaped up. “You two start knocking over the lower ones.”

They concluded the fire was arson.

***

Look both ways and light a candle before you curse the darkness.
Mind the gaps for the curious and destructive cats.

 

Click on the running cats to read more masterful stories.

Sammi’s Weekender #340 (wobble)

Click the graphic to wobble on over to Sammi’s page and find more 58ers to pursue.

The bow-legged woman
wobbled like a lady
doing the boogaloo.

Kind of a James Brown
LA stomp
with an old bag
of swag.

I just try to get by,
she said,
with an audible sigh.

Then I saw them leave,
the lady and drummer,
whose name was summer,

wobbled hysterically
out the door
just to move their feet.

Look both ways and write your song.
Mind the gaps and the sounds between the notes.

Friday Fictioneers for December 1st, 2023

For a December first kickoff, Fleur Lind and the sensational Rochelle, Mistress of the Friday Fictioneers Realm, joined forces in a flowerily display of automotive genius.

Click on the pic to taxi over to Madam R’s blog page for instructions on the care and feeding of planted stories of 100 words or fewer.

PHOTO PROMOT © Fleur Lind

Title: Advertising Inspiration
Genre: Fire Sky Fiction
Words: 100

***

 

It was all Christmassy in C-City.

I said, “Hey, Dewey. Let’s tow that old flatbed truck to your boutique and park it outside. You can put your potted plants on it and under the open hood. Maybe even displays or dressed mannequins in or on it. A Santa too, maybe?”

“It is not a boutique, Dad. Kind of, but not really. I don’t know if the city will allow it, but I can ask. It’s a great idea. How did you think of it?”

“When I woke up last Wednesday morning, it just came to me. Pure freakin’ magic. Right?”

***

 

Look both ways for ideas and plants.
Mind the gaps, steal like an artist, and bend the rules.

Click on Julie’s (Dewey to me) plants to read more aromatic #FF stories.

Photo courtesy of Fire Sky Arts, Colorado City, Texas

 

Friday Fictioneers for November 3rd, 2023

To begin the month of November in the crazy twenties of the twenty-first century, two favorites of Friday Fictioneers finest, Mistress Rochelle and “Dalectable” Dale, have inspired us with a two-way including Dale’s mysterious photo and Rochelle’s excellent watercolor painting of Dale’s wonderful shot. Wowzer! Ya gotta get in on this, right?

I’ve written of mysteries behind the green door before.

Click on Dale’s fun, green-door photo to open another portal to Rochelle’s blog page for this phenomenal adventure. While there, your thoughts can be expanded by her patent windows to purple wisdom.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Genre: Musical Parody
Title: Play Behind the Green Door
Word Count: 100

***

We knocked on the Green Door. A woman from Behind yelled, “What?

Marilyn said, “The Chambers to audition.”

“You experienced?”

I was indignant.

“We’re stars (Marilyn giggled). We audition at midnight for Jim and Artie Mitchell.”

She opened the door, “You’re old. Can you do longtime money shots?”

Marilyn dropped her coat and white dress. “Bitch, let us Behind the Green Door now or I’ll stuff these six-inch stilettos in every hole you got.”

The movie is scheduled for release New Year’s Eve with Marilyn and some dude named Johnnie Large in leading roles. I was hired as art director.

***

Look both ways but infer whatever you want.
Mind the gaps for the best porn,
but you must know what goes on behind the green door.

***

Click on the movie poster for a ticket to more 100 (or fewer) word wonders.

***

This is an 80’s, Shakin’ Stevens, version of the #1 song from 1956 , “Behind the Green Door” which replaced Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender.” So many have never heard of the tune, the movie, the books, and now Dale’s pic.

Slowly It Happens

While I have not officially “launched” my book, Any Way the Wind Blows, it is available on Amazon in paperback or as an e-book. It’s even on Kindle Unlimited.

Click the cover for the Amazon e-book page.

So, my excuse for not blogging or playing is pretty much gone for now.

As for this post,

Click graphic for Sammi’s post page and other ideal poems and/or prose.

Instead of saying perfect
when I tell you my phone number
or I say that I’ve not eaten
anything
since before midnight,

You could say, ideal!

Ya see?
It’s a mental image thingy.
Ideally, true perfection is illusive
while ideal could be any seven numbers
following my area code.

Look both ways and mind the gaps when you choose your words.

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 29)

Today, I was to cook up a poem in two parts. The recipe was supposed to focus on food or a meal. Part of the poem was to season the food as a person, and I was to give it some spoken dialogue.

Boiled versus Fried

  1. First this:

Newlyweds were we,
having moved to above her garage
from over on Waverly Way.

She fixed supper for us,
and I first met up with boiled fucking
okra, AKA, slimy green snot.

It was nineteen hundred and sixty-six;
we were 19; something, like this, well folks,
you just never forget, or forgive.

I’m certain I heard the grassy flavored
seed pods of gumbo thickener sing
eat me raw, you city slicker. We be worldwide.
I wanted to puke. I could’ve just died.
Embarrassed, I mannered-up and sighed.
And I swallowed the snotty lady’s fingers.

Little evil green monsters, till one day…

  1. Then this happened…

A crunchy cousin, nicely coated,
in some restaurant, called theirselves fried okra
provided texture to my tale and it was,
step back, Jack, we gunna treat ya well.

Old John Henry called it all “Okree,”
like old aunty of the Mallow family
with a funny first name
and John seemed to fuss over the food
in a good way, but I passed on boiled,
stewed, raw, or wrinkled. Fried
is the only okra for this damn Yankee.

Look both ways and learn to try, but texture counts.
Mind the gaps, but India grows most okra and now has the most people (not China),
and they must eat a lot of okra over there.

 

Click the button for more NaPo magic.

 

Fried okra.