I’m well

red,

white-bread

and blue spoken,

broken bar, striped star

–Yank–

I

Doodle

notions. . .

America,

I’m beautiful,

from see to final see

in verse

and glare.

of rockets, there.

barely missing me.

i took steps

to change my life,

real steps

–not under ladders, though–

tried angles without shade…

changing bad habits

one by one

–combining sum, i

designated Friday

to stew,

and scratched the sauté, i

traded hooker heels for

horse shoes, &

closed Windows

–so rain couldn’t get in–

furling umbrellas, i

pulled rabbit feet

like petals,

salted anything behind me, and to the left, i

trashed pepper also

so’s not to sneeze,

and bring frying Pan from Fire…

collecting pennies from wishing wells, i

saved ‘em heads up

glued wishbones back together, i

weighted my end–

looking beyond surface sheen

to check work as i

had scuttled

all

reflection.

How does a hummingbird handle the rain?

and what about bumblebees…

are there ‘brellies

and wellies

to help out these fellies

or without do these pilots complain?

How do pond dwellers deal with a drought?

the tadpoles, the fish, and the skitters…

is there office

to process

the loss of the faucet

and if not what goes on with these critters?

How does a wolf pack recover from fire?

a bear, or a deer, or a moose…

are there builders

with guilders

to refill

the wilderness

replenishing pine tree & spruce?

However it is, these beasties then live,

I’ll wager that this much holds true…

they don’t blame

the rain

or the flame

for their pain

they change tack, since reaction was due.

©Karen Robiscoe

if any-any

thoughts were pennies,

you bet I’d think a lot,

& Sparkletts jars,

would board this bard,

just on second thoughts.

If nickels wooden,

truly stood in,

for dough when I am duped,

I’d lose my cool–

to play the fool

and trade those chips for loot.

If dropping dimes,

amassed in time,

I’d gladly be the fodder

with secrets told,

I’d roll like gold–

those dimes until they’re dollars.

Yes, at all costs,

I’d balance books,

and turn clichés around…

with bottom dollar,

& prudence proper,

& pennies for a pound.

If 1 of my senses

must be impaired,

I opt for the common

since common’s not rare,

keeping the extra-

-sensory close,

perception’s the tool

I rely on the most.

if 2 of my senses

were taken away,

the next would be

text book,

oh aye, & oh neigh

my horse sense would

canter up to the block,

and though I liked riding

I’m okay to walk.

If still yet another

sense would be lost,

incense is the sense

I’d certainly toss,

’cause fresh air is better

–it never needs lighting

is smoke free and sweeter

and much more inviting.

I strum my grief,

& pluck one-liners

~riffing beats~

as I define

/ a life in leaf /

my story time. . .

in bits-so-sweet

until decline–

there never was a prelude finer–

worth a sonnet

and a shiner.

Through a reed &

with some weed,

I blow my smoke

in piping. . .

oboes, flutes,

kazoos that toot

to mellow

bellowed griping. . .

My odes

unload!

My poems

come home!

My villanelles unveiling–

in measured chord

dynamic score

of trial’ing & tre’vailing. . .

For mortal wounds

the gizmo used

is full-on Philharmonic,

no poem,

but tome!

–a fiction long–

subverting

hurt to tonic. . .

As lullaby,

may I imply,

to me all words

are music,

witty, ditty

> even sh*tty <

can be pretty

when I choose it.Like Loading…

she was a Trampire

inclined to sink fang in anyone w a pulse

and he, a Wary Wolf

–Weary, too–

pulling long hours as a Chewbacca stand-in on Instagram, and moonlighting as a wool-gatherer

(rer)

it seemed unlikely this Undead &  that Uncombed would ever click

–beyond fatuous likes on socially networked duck pics, at any rate—

so when they chanced to meet

at Witching Hour

–featuring Bloody Mary 2 fer’s, Salty Dogs, and Full Moon Shots–

it was a star-crossed event.

(yes, the Kardashians were there)

An emoji-free, meant-to-be happenstance

(no, no one knows why they’re noteworthy)

during the course of which WWW and the Tramp

shared bar bills, contact info, and ultimately

a pasta dish w miniature meat-shaped balls among tactfully trimmed spaghetti skeins…

a Disney do-over just this side of PG 13,

the Wolf and the Tramp ultimately decided

their shared penchant for

(empty) Coors Light

and trimmed T-bones frilled in silver socks

–not to mention macaroni–

was reason enough to take their

relationship to the next level

–a Carnival Cruise for 2–

replete with

toothsome midnight buffets,

batting cages,

and world-renowned, onboard barbers. . .