A 44-word poem using juke.
Honky Tonk Attitude
Joe Diffie sang it differently.
Prop him beside the jukebox,
but now what?
Joe died last year.
A pre-delta
corona virus victim.
And we got no jukes.
All the bars were closed.
Joe’s gone to heaven,
I s’pose they got
him a good jukebox.
Look both ways, mind the gaps,
and be careful what you wish for.
***
From dVerse. Click here to play or read.
What a wonderful little word and inventive subject. I’ve written of pens and paints, but not of ink, before now. I even read the history of ink and how it was and is made. Forgive me brother and sister writers. I got so excited—I wrote two twenty-two-word poems. Like money and sex, only too much poetry is enough.
5K Years Since
Inks. Invisible,
permanent. India’s art.
Printing or pens.
Words on paper,
not electronically;
ink, a catalyst to creativity,
with words and art.
Lines of Magic
See the flow on paper,
watch lines, curves, and shapes
appear in history, law, art;
even in silent music on a page.
Look both ways for waves of imaginative creations.
Mind the gaps for innovation’s utility and art’s beauty.
Magic Music
Music finds my mood,
picks at my soul
it finds my feelings,
uncannily,
making music mine.
Is our love for sound and music
the saving grace of life?
Or is it our destiny
not to think about it twice?
Listen to the music but look to see it both ways.
The gaps between the notes, a place where angels play.
Today’s NaPo prompt is simply to write a poem in the form of a news article I wish would come out tomorrow.
Note: the following activity has been CDC approved.
According National and Local Weather Services,
today’s weather begins with morning mizzle
just before sunrise which will be hidden
by thin but pleasant cloud cover, shading away
ultraviolet rays throughout the day. The FBI reports
increased pluviophile online activity, anticipating
large crowds dancing in the streets. A blue-gray morning
fog is expected to precede any precipitation, which is
expected to last throughout the day. According to
biologists, environmentalists, and other health officials,
a noticeable petrichor will be olfactory possible early,
driving pollen counts to zero, extinguishing all house and forest fires,
and forcing plants and flowing shrubs into view
with leaves decorated by translucent pearly droplets.
A low temp of 74 will be followed a balmy 79 degrees.
Naked or lightly clothed people will likely be seen,
dancing on all roads and streets, like under a harvest moon.
According to law enforcement officials, no one will be
cited or arrested for lingering or loitering in the rain,
and wet citizens will be expected to dawdle in public.
As dusk approaches and all nearby deluge ceases,
the soft comforting rumble of distant thunder will be heard,
with the occasional lighting sightings to count until
telling, non-threatening bumps are heard. Local
businesses, libraries, and vendors will be moving outside
to serve refreshments while local bands are expected to play.
After midnight, as residents begin to sleep, the sounds
of distant thunder will turn to gentle lullabies
for a peaceful, uninterrupted night of rhythmic rains.
Look both ways for the finest of days.
Mind the gaps between drops and dance in the rain.
Edgar Lee Masters’ 1915 book, Spoon River Anthology, consists of poetic monologues, each spoken by a dead person buried in the fictional town of Spoon River.
My day eight NaPo prompt/assignment was to read a few of Masters’ poems, then write a poem in the form of a monologue delivered by someone who is dead.
“Good morning America how are ya?” *
I’m J. R. Cash but call me Johnny.
I been a singer ‘n writer of songs all my life.
I wrote poems, too. Not no more though.
Paul and John Carter made a book
sometime after I moved out here.
I made lists of do’s and don’ts,
like who to kiss and who not.
Rockabilly, I walked the line in
more than one ring of fire.
Sue was a joke, Jackson was not. Either way,
I was the man in black, or undertaker was okay.
The Hag caught my San Quentin show. He signed up.
I was inside less than him. Now, I’m back with Jack
on the orange blossom special.
How ‘er my pals from Bitter Tears doing?
Ya know, that Lonesome Dove fellow?
He just hopped on this train.
“And often I say, No more I do it/
But I miss the traveling/And I miss the songs.” **
***
*From The City of New Orleans written by Steve Goodman, covered by many.
**Quotation from Cash’s poem, “My Song,” in Forever Words: The Unknown Poems.
Notes: ‘Paul’ Muldoon edited Forever Words. ‘John Cater’ Cash is his son. ‘Jack’ refers to his brother who was killed in an accident at a young age. ‘Hag’ refers to Merle Haggard.
Look both ways when you cross memory lane.
Mind the gaps well, or a song you might miss.
I wrote two poems because I liked this prompt.
Happy Raspy
The young, talented, beautiful Irish busker’s angelic voice,
unique and indescribable, called to me from Grafton Street.
Her glancing smile and raised brow calls all to pay homage
to the gift that brings me to resonated tears. My raspy old poem.
***
Yo, Billy Boy
When we said, “Call for me,”
we invited a friend, always a boy,
usually Jimmy, to stand outside and yell,
“Hello, Bill (or Billy)” loud enough
to be heard from any part of the house
and responded to, if anyone cared.
***
Look both ways on Grafton in Dublin.
Mind the gaps in such a marvelous voice.
Yesterday, Morris Mac Davis (January 21, 1942 – September 29, 2020) died, as did Helen Reddy (25 October 1941 – 29 September 2020). Mac was a country music singer, songwriter, and actor, originally from Lubbock, Texas. He was one of (if not the) my wife’s favorites. I wrote this poem a few weeks ago. I kind of relate it to his song, The Words Don’t Come Easy.
Grant Me the Words
I want words to share with her,
to impress her, to draw her closer.
Are there such words? Is what I feel
a force? One that words can’t say?
Words must say what I want. This world isn’t
perfect. People have people issues,
life is life, it is all relative. Except love.
Love is not relative. Love comes in thousands
of different flavors. That love is not this love.
Each is special. Each unique. Each its own.
The pain is not the love, it is not the passion,
it is not the physical or mental human reality.
It is the inability to tell another human being
how much you love them. How much you care.
We suffer most not because we love, but because
we lack the humanity to share our words of love
with the world, because we don’t know what they are.
But we try. We must always try.
Look both ways at the good things in life, like love.
Mind the gaps for lessons and reasons. Always try.
They don’t come easy but find the words.
Many thanks to Rochelle @ Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple for again distance-herding us through another Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a story based upon a photo prompt, today by Jennifer Pendergast.
My challenge was to write a complete story (beginning, middle, and end) in 100 words or less. The photo prompt led me to the American West. That triggered an old TV show (western genre). I then found some inspiration in songs by Eric Clapton and Willie Nelson.
I added videos at the end in case you want to see what I’m talking about. The complete TV show is there. It’s too long to watch it all, but the intro is informative.
Title: Caballero Revenge
Genre: (Copycat – Hysterical) Fiction
Wordcount: 100
***
Loco was in full gallop when Pancho yelled, “Santa Mierda, Cisco. A coal train. What we gunna do now?”
“Diablo says we jump between the cars. The posse will never catch us.”
“Loco say you both loco. We go around. Ride to the rear.”
“No, Pancho. To the front. We’ll shoot the engineers and take the train.”
“But Cisco, we are the good ones. We don’t kill and steal trains.”
“Ah, but Pancho, we do now since you shot the deputy.”
“Oh, Cisco, I only did that because you shot the sheriff.”
Thusly, the Cisco Kid and Pancho became outlaws.
***
Look both ways, especially if you shoot the sheriff.
Mind the gaps in trains, but ride to the front.
Thorns are in gardens,
And colors from pretty flowers,
Rose pedal jellies are sweet.
This world of sounds,
Voices heard, long before birth—
Mother, father, sister, brother.
Sounds of nature,
So sweet and quiet,
Some warn of danger,
Others safe passage,
Voices of friends,
A love,
Some grumpy old men.
In time,
Life’s pleasures wane and wither,
Music comes not as before,
Beautiful sounds are
Nothing to waste.
Disallow atrophy
Of lust
For a wondrous life.
Be alert.
Sounds. Enjoy them.
Be aroused
By smiles and touches
Of troubadour drums.
Surround yourself with pleasures.
Hear every note
With silences between.
Waste nothing.
Mind our gifts.
Take care,
my love.
Some things shall not
Always be there.
Look both ways with eyes and ears.
Mind the gaps between notes and words.
This is my first swing at Rochelle’s 100 (or fewer)-word story challenge based on a photo provided by Na’ama Yehuda. Many thanks to both. If I did anything wrong, someone please tell me. My story:
Genre: Fiction
Word Count: 99 (including title)
Mourning Mystery
She told the turban-clad cabby, “Seventy-second and Central Park West.” As he pulled into airport traffic he asked if she was a fan. She said, “No.” But she claimed to be born on December eighth, nineteen-eighty. He looked and shrugged.
She stepped onto the Dakota driveway and walked slowly to the archway door. Then she walked across to the park. As she stepped onto the Strawberry Fields Memorial, she removed the Carter Arms .38 special from her purse, placed the barrel in her mouth, and pulled the trigger. She heard, let me take you down…nothing is real…forever.
***
Look both ways. Forty years ago from next December 8th, Mark Chapman murdered 40-year-old John Lennon by shooting him four times in the back with a Carter Arms Undercover .38 Special, in the arched entrance to the Dakota Apartments. One can walk across the street into Central Park and view the Strawberry Fields Memorial. Within days of Lennon’s death, several fans committed suicide. While this story is fiction, the emotions are not. Mind the gaps.
***
Click this Inlinkz link for more wonderful stories.
