Day Thirteen: Fortune 500


It could be better, but it’s good for nothing
Nothing beats the day like a wet fish
Fishing for compliments leaves you unsatisfied and wet
Wet behind the ears you may be but at least you’re pretty
Pretty woman will not look at fat wallet
Wallet says yes, heart says no
No rest for the wicked, or anyone else
Elsewhere, someone got a better cookie
Cookie say order better dessert
Dessert is the end leave quickly now
Now is a moment, always here, always leaving
Leaving that prawn was a good idea
Idea that come in the night not always good
Good man hard to find; No he isn’t here
Here is your fortune: there weren’t really 500
Help. Send help.


Image credit: Fortune Cookie, GFDL via Wikimedia.


Day Twelve: Lamps


Wishing I had
Better hair
So that birds might
Not want to nest here
Who wouldn’t want that?
Their own personal aviary
Sung to at the drop of
A hat, which you could never have.

Wishing I had
Thinner thighs
As if I make the world
A better place
By reducing the amount of me
There is in it.

Wishing I had
Calmer words
For passion is a flaw
Unless one spreads
Their growing thighs
For it…

Wishing I had
Fewer wishes
Aladdin’s antithesis
Throw my lamps away.


Image credit: Genie Lamps, Public Domain via Wikimedia.

Day Eleven: Busy

The chairs went up
One by one
I had written all day
Made breakfast
Washed pots
Fed children
Articles, interviews, excerpts;
Sell, sell, sell you bastards…
Away from the oars
Of my one man slave galley
I pushed each chair
Into a hole
That seemed barely large enough
Soft velvet brushed
On stiff plywood
Juxtaposition that seemed
Oddly apt.
Lumps and bumps
In the loft above;
My love
He carried them
One by one
To the space that needed them.
We filled one space and emptied another
A yawning void in the garage;
A forest of velvety wood
In the loft.
One by one
The chairs went up
Oh why is the sky so blue?

Day Eight: Sunflowers

I wanted to write
A poem for a flower
But my mind was dark
The lark had sung
And left my grey cells cold
A fold of loss
Within the cloth of mind.

I felt your small hand
Within mine; we walked
And talked but no one
Was listening.
Not even us.

I wanted to write
A poem for a flower
But my pen was dry
The cry of loss
Was heartwrenching and hard
A card left on
The doormat of my mind.

I took your small heart
Within mine; I worked
You played, and we were
Both listening
To the flowers.

I wanted to write
A poem for a flower
But my words can say
How gay the day was
When you planted your flowers
Sunflowers, hopeful
For life.

We hoped for it too.

Day Seven: Fiend

Shouting never works but I can’t stop;
The fever in my mind a fiery fiend,
See your face shut down; where is my key?

Your mind is mapped; a code without a key
A snarled up mess; no switch to start and stop;
Possession by the crazy, crusty fiend.

The sun cold burned our eyes; a solar fiend
The silence blurred by turning of the key
The car alive; I never want to stop.

Stop this, fiend; please be my key to kind.

Day Six: Salad

The day you asked for salad
My heart bloomed
Like a nasturtium
Edible and delicate
Colurful and tasty

‘I’ll try a bit of that’
And I shot like the rocket
To your side,
With the lamb’s lettuce
No longer having to hide.

The red tomato matched your mouth
As it disappeared inside
And bowls of pride
Were filled anew.

‘Did you like it?’
‘Meh’, a slight thumbs up
Gladiatorial praise
The battle is won.

Day Five: Gem

‘Just get me one seed’
He says, his smile of sun
Matching the glowing sky
Spring’s first kiss
For the lovely earth.

He tamps down compost;
The only joy in rot
As I struggle
To pick one seed
From dozens

To stop the snow
Of little white flakes
Lettuce seeds,
Small spears of simple

Gem, they call it;
Like this moment
Diamond cut and crystalline
Sharp forever.