Tag Archives: Wordpress daily challenge

The Pen State of 409

mr-_clean

Mr. Clean

had a thing

for little 409—

a scrubbing bubble,

made for trouble,

scented lemon-lime.

 

A Brawny guy

–and just as fly

as paper he promoted

he spiked

her span,

lined her cans,

and on him–number doted.

 

And all was well,

until she fell,

into kitchen basin…

jammin’ drain

(but cleaning stains)

her heartbeat doubled…racin’..

 

Would hero–hers,

be Janitor

drummin’ up some business?

or Mr. Bowl

now, oh so old,

to salvage

cleaning citrus?

 

Neither, nor,

it turned out

—4

–09 had a handle,

on more than grime,

and double-time,

she leveraged self–

from channel.

409

 
 
 

daily prompt: clean

Tine’y Poem

Tuning_Fork
 
Donuts.

Donuts presented problems.
 
..O..O..O..

Without sugar, I test-piloted

dozen

(after dozen)

growing glazed in choking rings,

certain the

next

(crueler)

would be sweet

–I mean…donuts!

Aren’t all turnovers sweet?

kicking scones to curb at last

–and then reluctantly—

because…donuts!

You get in a real rut with donuts, but

setting shoulders

and apple’y core,

I dusted myself clean with first–

adjusting hair

with pins…

taking hairpin after

hairpin and

cramming it in

do

~missing flyaways~

and locks like you wouldn’t believe

(so who’s telling)

but as my days of metal-head were

long gone,

I gave those up, too,

–less reluctantly…

since…

(hairpins)

moving on

and on

and on

and in tine, deemed the Queen Mum no more important

than self, so I

dropped silver

(and “special” before “awesome”)

occasion

negotiating the fork

in the road,

never once quoting

Frost.

 

prompt: fork

 

 

Station Identification

violinplay

He is music.

a string theory

sometimes classic,

and sensible arrangement

sometimes love,

violins & silly putty

sometimes rhythm and blues,

no Tambourine Man

and sometimes easy listening–

everyday theme that contradicts category

He is the crescendo in every melody,

the harmony in the pain.

prompt: music

 

the Bunny, the Moth, and the Closet

happy_butterfly_2

We all know about

the wardrobe…

–with lions, kids, and witches–

but less is known,

about the zone,

that houses other stitches,

I posit

closet

leads to Odds,

as End to wardrobe glitches

–no slippers needed

just a beaded–

bag of silver fishes.

Since land of Odds

conceals the paws,

attached to noisome Wall’Rust…

a beastly mold,

on clothes of old,

and dampness

turned to crust

–this Wall’Rust sentry

bars all entry–

unless you fill his guts…

with silver fishes,

brought in dishes,

–Wall’Rust likes such fuss.

In land of garments,

other varmints,

await your visit, too–

not as rare

as tardy hare

are Dusty Bunnies—who

down from garret

beg for care, it

asks a lot of you,

so grab a towel,

to swab the dowel,

and floor to ceiling, too.

Or drop the cloth

and bring a

>Moth<

since winged bugs

have Balls…

they’ll clear your path,

to Odds and back,

and double-check your halls

–where overcoats

hide other roads–

that stretch beyond the Wall

of closet

’cause it

smart to swap

the outer, underall.

by Me

prompt: closet

Do Over

beez_pleeze

clammy hands

racing heart

shivers

← there →

→ to here ←

knocking knees

sound like bees

buzzing in my ear…

instant chill

feeling ill

standing ends of

/ hair /

sweat runs cold

lose control

tripping over air…

mouth is dry

breath—a sigh,

eyes are fixed to ground

thoughts

~confused~

words refuse

.to form.

when you’re around…

©Karen Robiscoe

daily prompt: nervous

and that’s why he needed an Ark

 

the sea went missing

way before Moses,

~evaporated~

I supposes,

returning to

a cloudy sky–

–leaving desert

high & dry,

compelling

would-be

could-be

swimmers,

surfers

waders

skinny

dippers,

skiers

sailors

cruise ship

skippers,

to wait for

rainfall

tied in bow-ses,

ahead

of skimmin’

l’eau

with toe-ses.

wave

©Karen Robiscoe

prompt: gone missing

the Other Gold

coins_2

I’d give thanks,

if in my bank,

the funds were made of time…

No more lament,

of days ill spent,

all loans repaid at prime.

Yes, glad I’d be,

if money tree,

was seeded past and present…

with futures phat,

returning that–

I’m king instead of peasant.

I’d then increase,

my inner peace,

investing self per diem…

with kindly acts,

no tit for tax,

no tithe to cryptic scheme.

Just har-mony,

e•ter•nally

enriching all I see…

I’d stock unsold,

this wealth like gold,

bestowing shares for free.

With that accrued,

I’d pursue, too,

another purse to ration…

the love inside,

all humankind,

is thing I’d view as cash–

–and let it rain,

on IRE or pain,

un-til the bleeding masses…

were healed in heart,

alight from dark,

by payday love advances.

ker_pounding_heart

©Karen Robiscoe

prompt: unlimited funds

 

<span>%d</span> bloggers like this: