Pain

Monday’s Rune: War Poetry

But First

To balance my blogosphere life, I shall henceforth post my unprompted poems (or prose), called runes, on Mondays (formerly Thursday) so I can plan to post about every other day.

I claim King’s X for April because I hope to be working my way through 30 poems in 30 days with National (Global) Poetry Writing Month (napowrimo.net). I try to write to the daily prompts/assignments (it’s optional, I’m not that masochistic).

Thus, I shall post every day in April. When possible, I will combine or do a second post on Friday Fictioneers and Sammi’s Weekender. I will also try to read and comment on those challenges when I can.

Why Can’t We Be Friends?

What is the difference between
genocide, slavery, life,
and freedom?

It’s war. Granted. War is bad.
It’s literally hell on Earth.
Innocents and soldiers are killed.
War’s destruction is
without logic or proportion.

But pacifism is worse.
Evil cannot be appeased.
War is the symptom.
Humanity is the cause.
Hate is the disease.

Choose well but take a side.
Peace is a dream guarded
by nightmares. History proves
we always get the war we want.
There may be no winners in war,
but there are losers. I’d rather not.

Look both ways in the real world.
We must always fight for what is right.
Mind the gaps for seeds of hate and find the first casualty of war: truth.

 

Sheri’s Alliterative Challenge

Author Sheri J. Kennedy is hosting a writing challenge she calls “Alliterative Literature Plotted Prose and Poetry Challenge.” I call it alliteration on a double dose of steroids. She is taking submissions through April 10th, 2022.

If you would like to test your skills click here or use the link below for Sheri’s blog (Reality With a Twist) with the composition rules, submission instructions, and Sheri’s example.

My entry is posted below. While challenging my story telling ability, my vocabulary, and my overall mental acuity, I found writing this to be fun and educational. You have about three weeks, so why not give it a try?

Benevolent Bedlam

Bronco buster, Bret Butler and his beautiful brunette bride, bonnie Bamby Buttercup, bebopped into the Bohica Brothers Barrelhouse and Brewpub brandishing boo-coo bucks to buy beer, bratwurst, and beans.

They bantered with the blond bimbo barmaid Brenda Bobbitt before her bashful barback boyfriend, Buck Bukowski (brilliant but a bit of a boor), butted-in with bragging babble about Bret’s bright blondish brew. Bebop blared on the boom box.

Bamby bought brandy but Bret brabbled and briskly begged Brenda to bring boosted bitters of basic brown or beclouded brews for his blooming belly, blessedly beseeching her to bear with him and bide his bleak befuddlement. Bret could be a bit of a bullheaded brute.

Brenda beamed back at Bret’s bargaining blast and brought him bottles of black booze. Bret belted back the boss beer. Buck begot barley-broo from behind the billet. Before bada-bing bested bada-boom, the blasted boys were buzzed and boasting bushels of blarney.

Bamby briskly beseeched her bae to bring back a brindled bundle from the boot of the Buick. Bret brought her brand-new babushka, beholding his brazen brilliance. Then all blazes broke out blunting the barroom bliss.

Buck boasted about Bamby’s bodacious breasts baffling a befuddled Bret and betraying Brenda. Briefly, Bret was bar borne and bounced bedeviled upon Buck and began bashing and beating his brains while bumping Brenda’s bodice. Beaten Buck became befogged by Bret’s bustling brawl and bummer blowout. Bret and Buck bled. Before long, the blotto bestial barbarians were befouled and besmeared with blood.

Bret brooded about Bamby’s besmirched beauty and his babe’s big as buckets bosoms. Buck brandished a borrowed Baretta, but Bret bullied him badly by bashing his bean with a board. By and by, Bret’s biscuit was buttered, and Buck’s bacon was baked and boiled. Both bemoaned the bustle as the Beatles blasted Bad Boy in the background.

The boxing bickering buddies became Bamby and Brenda’s bane. Bedimmed and befogged, Brenda bitched and barked barbs about the bamboozled buffoons so their breathless ballyhoo could be belayed. Bamby bargained with the boneheaded, broken, badass boys.

The beginning bourne bombed because the bloke and beau butthead’s blatant boisterousness brought bandy bromides, blank bywords, and behests before breaking off the boxing bout. Bewitched, bombastic, and bedaubed, Bret and Buck broke bottles on bones before breaking up the brouhaha. The brainless bumpkins backed their bodies off, bearing beaming blue blisters.

Now buffoon Bret bowed to benighted Buck. Brandy berated Bret to begone. Betrayed, they booked as Buck breathed, being borderline bitterly batshit and buggered. Brenda beheld Buck as a binger of a bacchanalia. By and by, byes were blabbed and broadcast by all. Brandy and Bret bolted for their bus. Blowsy and bursting, Buck blubbered, babbled, and bawled as Brenda bickered, bayed, and bellowed.

(by Bill Reynolds)

And this is the link to her blog: https://realitywithatwistbooks.wordpress.com/2022/02/25/alliterative-literature-plotted-prose-and-poetry-challenge/

****

A glossary is unnecessary for submission, but since I used some unusual words, I am adding one here.

Glossary: referenced from merriam-webster.com, or as cited

babushka: triangular head covering, scarf
bacchanalia: Roman festival, an orgy.
bae (ˈbā): slang acronym, before anyone else; baby, babe, or sweetheart
bandy: to discuss banteringly
barbed: pointed, biting criticism
barley-broo: whiskey (also, barley-bree)
bedaubed: ornamented with vulgar excess
belayed: stopped, to cancel
benighted: a state of intellectual, moral, or social darkness
bide: to tolerate, withstand
billet: a chunk piece of wood (synonym for bar)
binger: a drunken revel, excessive – compulsive
Bobbitt: alludes to Lorena Bobbitt
bohica: (slang; Google, Wikipedia, urban dictionary; ‘Bend Over, Here It Comes Again’)
boo-coo: much (Google, military slang)
bourne: a goal or destination (synonym – plan)
brabble: squabble
bromides: tiresome person, a bore
brouhaha: uproar, hubbub
Bukowski: alludes to Charles
bywords: epithet (disparaging, abusive word)

Sammi’s Weekender #250 (mannequin)

Click the WWP prompt graphic to open Sammi’s blog and read more writings of poetry or prose.

No, no, no.

She didn’t know,
she couldn’t see my loss,
drained of outward expression,
emotionally spent, I sat — still,
a heartless, brainless mannequin,
my skin ripped by her words.
I was not, as she accused,
an automaton. I loved her.

My brain and heart were not sapped,
but hope seemed impossible.
Suicide seemed the only answer,
an escape from daily pain, the way home,
to bring order to irreversible chaos.

My mind: bleak, grim, sullen:
I walked to window,
I cried, broken, never again to be me.

Look both ways.
Reality isn’t always as it seems.
Mind the gaps, nothing is perfect.
Into every life, some sadness, some love, some hope, some loss.

Friday Fictioneers: January 7th, 2022

For the first time in 2022, our dear and lovely lady, the queen of Friday Fictionalism, Mistress Rochelle has joined forces with Brenda Cox to masterfully tempt me into yet another maddening moment of muse-some, mendacious micro-storytelling.

Click on the next photo for a free taxi ride over to Rochelle’s place where you may want to get smart about writing fibs to a photographer’s photo. My sad story follows the prompt pic.

PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox (Click it!)

Genre: Gonzo Journalism
Title: Don’t Be Misunderstood
Word Count: 100

Cold and drunk as I might be, I stumbled into the artists den, desperately needing to pee.

Of a painting man I asked, “Where’s the restroom?” my slurred Texas accent sounded like I asked, boom-boom?

With a mean look he yelled at me, “Number ten. Boocoo dinky-dau drunk, american. Take money!”

Through a white curtain, I entered where several young ladies were sitting around laughing and pointing. One demanded money.

I got out my wallet. Then, I heard a loud crack.

Next thing I woke up, dead as you see me now, with wet pants and an empty wallet.

Look both ways in the house of the rising sun.
Mind the gaps, speak clearly, and reconsider the nearest bush.

Click on Jake or Elwood to check out our literary squares gallery and more magnificently moving micro make-believe.

A bonus, if you dare: —

Sammi’s Weekender #239 (smuggle)

Click the prompt graphic to teleport to Sammi’s blog and other poetry or prose.

Egregiously Absurd

Smugglers
of humans seeking better lives, liberty, to taste
freedom, asking only workman’s wages.

They flee to us with wicked problems,
bringing constantly changing confusion,
due to undefinable inequalities of states.

By coercion or consent, trusting snakeheads,
coyotes, or polleros; at great cost and risk,
begging asylum from worse.

We pick them up, send them back;
our failed fences, blank walls.
WTF is beautiful about that?

Look both ways and “Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too.”
Mind the gaps on the high road of morality.

Friday Fictioneers 12 – 01 – 2021

Friday Fictioneers challenges us to write micro-fiction (<101 words) prompted by a photograph supplied by one of our colleagues. It’s all teed up by our friend, extraordinary artist, and fabulous leader, Rochelle. Click the prompt photo to see her blog page with all the skinny. It’s fun.

Today’s picture has a two-level outhouse indicating politicians up top and voters below. I recall seeing this arrangement in a military cartoon with officers on top and enlisted below.

In the Viet Nam War, officers and radiomen were preferred targets of the North Vietnam Army and the Viet Cong, which is why soldiers did not salute officers in the field.

Click on the PHOTO PROMPT by © Lisa Fox for Rochelle’s blog to get all the FF info.

Genre: Military Fiction (War Story)
Word Count: 100
Title: FNG* Down

The new Lieutenant ordered me to be his radio man. Our platoon leader was callow, yet confident and eager. A stickler for rules, he risked soldiers’ lives needlessly. A poor listener with a gung-ho, know-it-all attitude.

He chewed me out in front of my squad and gave me extra guard duty. Bad enough I had to hump the motherfucker’s goddamn radio.

In the jungle one day the lieutenant ordered me to step back, I yelled, “Yes, Sir,” stepped back and saluted him. The crack sound of the AK-47 made me dive for cover.

Our next lieutenant was a big improvement.

Be aware of enemy presence and men with guns.
Mind the gaps, make more friends than enemies, and keep your powder dry.
Just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean you’re not being watched.

Click on the soldier to link to the squares, where other stories are being told.

*FNG is military initialism and jargon for fucking new guy.

Tuesday Rune: Health

Nine on Tuesday

It’s nine o’clock on a Tuesday.
The patients just shuffle in
with oxygen tanks and walkers,
some in wheelchairs, hoping
for something better
for medical science
to keep them in one piece
to keep us alive and well.

Now, for some, is the time
of politics over health,
religion over medicine,
conspiracy over science.

I look around
and I say to myself,
man, what are you doing here?

It’s nine in the morning
and I am just one
of these people.
Another old fart
or flatulentess
getting a test to tell us
what we already know.

Some day this shit’s
gunna kill us,
if our own stupidity
and pride
fail to do it first.

It’s a lovely, sunny, cool day
here in Temple, Texas,
for wondering, Bill,
what are we doing here?

So, we sit and wait,
neither early nor late,
to have some clinician guide
say it has not gone away.
“If you stroke out,
give us a call, and
have a nice day.”

Look both ways.
Understand life backward but live it forward for as long as you can.
Mind the gaps for the fountain of youth, the tooth fairy, Santa Claus, and life everlasting. Amen.

Friday Fictioneers 11-05-2021

Many thanks to the wonderful Rochelle for herding us cats on Friday Fictioneers. We write micro-stories inspired by a new photo each week, provided by very creative and imaginative compatriots. Here is the photo and my story for this week.

Click on this week’s PHOTO PROMPT © Jennifer Pendergast to link to Rochelle’s Blog.

 

Genre: Fiction
Word count: 100
Title: Krumpas Coop

Excruciating pain shot from my foot to my brain. I yelled, “Those damn Legos are diabolical. That hurt!”

Mary yelled back, “Are Steven and Julie there?”

I said, “I think the Krampas got them. The window is open and no sign of them.”

Mary walked in, “Well Krampas knows how to write.” She handed me the note.

I read aloud, “The ransom is a bag of M&M’s, a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream, and two new ponies.”

As I handed the note back, we heard giggling coming from the attic.

I asked, “Do we negotiate with terrorists or Krampas?”

Look both ways and mind the gaps.
Especially when Legos are involved.

Click on Krumpas to read other stories.

Friday Fictioneers: Let’s Party

Many thanks to the wonderful lady, talented artist and writer, and patient friend Rochelle, for herding us cats on Friday Fictioneers. We write micro-stories (fact or fiction) to a new photo each week, provided by some very creative and imaginative compatriots. Here is my story for this week.

This week’s prompt (PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.) provided, and I bet painted, but Rochelle. Click the image and go to her blog to learn all about it.

 

Happiness Is

The outdoor social party was to welcome new arrivals to the senior center near Seattle. Bill, a newcomer, volunteered to serve special lemon-flavored ice cream.

“This is the best party. Everyone is happy to meet you, Bill,” said Marilyn, the Social Director.

Bill said, “Have some ice cream, Dear, everyone loves it.”

Back at their condo, Yolonda said, “Gawd! I can’t believe you spiked their ice cream. I hope no one finds out.”

Bill removed the bottle of lemon-flavored drops from his pocket. “A little THC never hurt anyone. We’ll need a big bus for next week’s pot shop run.”

Look both ways and share the love.
Mind the gaps and quash old fears.

Click the meme to read all the other stories.

 

Friday Fictioneers: Tanner’s Plague

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson. Click photo to go to Rochelle’s prompt page.

“Father” Tanner, had a lovely wife, two wonderful daughters, and a future as church rector. Young, bright, athletic, and handsome; he inspired the congregation’s vibrant teen and Boy Scout groups. Eventually, he was ordained to the priesthood.

However, Tanner’s sexual relationships with teenage boys were discovered. He was defrocked, dismissed, and ordered to therapy, without legal action. Soon “cured,” he was again hired as Sexton and advisor to parish youth groups.

Thirty years, over 450 victims, and 2,500 counts of sexual assault later, Tanner was imprisoned, where at 67, he died of natural causes; shamed and disgraced, but never cured.

Click for link to other stories.

Look both ways.
Be alert for predators where least expected.
Never expect victims to confess.
Mind the gaps, remain skeptical, and verify if you trust.