what IS that funky ass smell?
oh, it’s my own head
backyard apple tree
Fuji with aspirations
of being Fiji
Our apple tree molted in this particular pattern this year. The recent snow made it all the more apparent that it’s been looking at the neighbor’s palms and dreaming big dreams.
I know you’ve been tempted to follow Death,
But don’t open that door, you’ll be mortified.
Yes, of course I want to keep you here…
It’s just…the afterlife is occupied.
Note: And with that, we’re done here. 31 poems in 31 days, from a campsite, from my office, from my heart and from my juvenile sense of humor. I saved this for last, because the picture is very … final. I would love to know if anyone has a favorite; I suspect it would be different from mine! Now we go back to the usual sporadic Bad Poem-Every-Once-In-A-While schedule, which might be weekly (ish). Thanks so much for being here. Any comments about the experiment welcome.
Now, with school starting, I will edit The Tiny Giant (oh, yeah, I finished the manuscript rewrite in early August…more later about that) and write some more of these dark twisty short stories that have been rattling around waiting their turns. I’ll see you all early next week with a grim little piece of microfiction called “Sink.” Since we’re into experimenting and all…
I bought one of those books–
Coloring for adults.
They evangelize them so much,
It’s like they’re forming cults.
“It’ll relax you!” they said,
So I got out my shiny pencils.
I sat and scribbled and scratched.
In five minutes, I was mental.
The stress involved in choosing
Colors for each insanely tiny space
Was “relaxing” an agonized grimace
Onto my tightly scrunched up face.
If you’re into this crazy fad,
Please don’t let me yuck your yum.
Deep inside, I must still be five,
Yelling, “Coloring is dumb!”
Note: Mrs. Johnson was my first grade teacher. She despaired at my terrible pencil grip for as long as I knew her. Also, I bet you’re dying to know what I’ve saved for last. Me too. Tune in tomorrow to find out what’s running the last leg of this relay.
Very often when I’m cleaning,
Excavation is the goal.
Resurfacing the counters
That disappeared so long ago.
In what seems like seconds,
Crap sprouts like frickin’ weeds.
All our junk in giant piles,
Like chronic skin disease.
Note: This is not what I consider a “giant pile.” This is almost cleared off, thank you very much.
When my time comes to go,
I’d like it best to be
A murder most heinous
Like on mystery TV.
I’ll leave Cabot Cove
On a sheet-covered stretcher
Under the penetrating gaze
Of Miss Jessica Fletcher.
A Franklin Terrace gang hit
‘Cause I got crossed in The Wire.
Trampled by horses and branded,
A puzzle for Longmire.
Miss Marple would do for poison
Some ex-lover slipped in tea,
But call DI John River
If the investigation needs ESP.
My little gray cells are splat?
Then get the fine cells of Poirot.
If the murderer’s overconfident–
Take him off guard, Columbo.
DCI John Luther
Will kick ass whenever required.
Remington Steele will give his bond
To see the murderer retired.
No? You’d rather a gentle end
I’ll still get my grisly death
And you’ll have to call Barnaby.
Note: Obviously, I love me a good TV murder mystery, old or new. I just started watching “The Killing” on Netflix, and I’m looking forward to seeing where it goes. All time biggest favorite? Probably “River,” also on Netflix. That’s a masterpiece, and believe me, I have a LOT to compare it to–gorgeous story and fantastic performances. I read a lot of mystery novels, too. I find it relaxing to follow the detective and see where he/she goes. Being a type-A, it’s a relief when somebody else is responsible for something, even fictitiously.
Also, for those of you following along at home: I worked on the deck rail today. Here’s a shot of some of it actually done. I’m going to make sure I get all the spots I can see out my windows first.