A Quiet Morning

Photo by Kevin Menajang on Pexels.com
Exiled to the backyard,
While inside the termite inspector inspects,
Kohnan limps to the door,
Pleads with liquid brown eyes.
He doesn’t bark; has no energy for that these days.

“He’s friendly.” 
The inspector nods. Kohnan sidles in quietly.
He’s drawn blood.
He can be protective, even with friends.
Not now. Mornings he wakes up slowly in a fog of old age.

He’s at my feet, 
Moving his head to the sound of steps in the attic.
The sun falls in patterns, 
Warms my legs, his arthritic hips.
Warmth is welcome to us both, we’re grateful spring is coming fast.

The News Went Straight to Her Waist

Photo by Ngakan eka on Pexels.com

Elsie was in such a rut. Doomscrolling was her go-to activity. Things changed with an e-mail. She’d won a weekend at a luxury spa. She woke in a fancy hotel, took a yoga class, and had donuts for breakfast with her personal trainer. 

The girl finished her yogurt. “Any trouble spots?”

Her tummy, always her tummy. The mound that amplified her waist had expanded recently. “I want a flatter stomach.” 

”You’re a stress eater.”

“How could you tell?”

The trainer said, “Your T-shirt.”

It said, “Hands off my junk food, you fascist.”

“We’ll start with your social media. Then, pilates.”

Lord Save Me

Photo by Angel Rondon on Pexels.com

After a downpour, the Stetson disintegrated into an ill-formed mess. The cowboy set it on the hatter’s counter. “A replacement. Free.”

In a nasal tone, the fastidiously dressed clerk said, “No guarantees.”

The cowboy pulled out his gun. “This here’s my guarantee.”

“This here’s my answer.”

The cowboy’s gun flew from his hand.  He hit the basement floor. Ominously, a trap door snapped shut above him. Blood trickled from his head.

The place smelled worse than the stockyards. In the dim light he saw sewing machines and skeletal workers manning them. Lord, oh Lord, what had he gotten himself into?

Tennis Anyone?

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

At night, she played tennis. It started innocently enough. It was raining and she couldn’t sleep. She took a few balls and thwacked them against the back wall of the garage. Retrieved them from under the car. The next night, she parked on the street. Next, she moved the workbench to the side yard. And so on and so on until she had the garage replaced with an enclosed tennis court. 

Her roommate was surprised. “Did you check with the landlord?” 

“About what?”

“Putting in a tennis court.”

“It’s a garage, a better version.”

“How?”

“It has a tennis court.”

Mistress Minna’s Comb

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug, down the track they go.
On a kind of mission bent.
Lickety-splitly off they went
Some would say they’re heaven sent.
Here is what I know.

Mistress Minna was a nymph, a beauty so they said.
In a tree she kept her comb,
Ancient heirloom made from bone.
One fine morning she intoned,
“Guards, a thief has fled.”

Sure enough the comb was gone; thief fled on the train.
So they followed on the track.
Tried to get the bone comb back.
Gantry singing clicky-clack,
Pumping in the rain.

Tracks were damaged in the storm. 
They caught him.

Bunnies and Baskets

Photo by Amar Preciado on Pexels.com
Easter eggs are piled sky high,
Dollar each they run.
Once a year, “Splurge,” we cry,
One for all, and all for one.

Bunny chocolatiers we are,
Upright on our legs.
Melt the chocolate from the bar;
Shape it into tasty eggs.

Eggs that nestle side by side
In shiny, foil wraps.
In wicker baskets they reside,
Excited bunnies, fill and clap.

All night long, bunnies create
Goodies for the kids.
Out you come, don’t be late,
Searching, finding where they’re hid.

Children wearing chocolate smears,
Tummies, tongues, at rest.
Bunnies done until next year.
Satisfied they’ve done their best.

Rabbits, Radish, Rap

Photo by Laura Lumimaa on Pexels.com

Few people knew that the famous rap singer was a radish farmer. Between tours she tended  three-acres in Mendocino. She did it for the bunnies. 

Most of her neighbors were pot farmers. They had turned the neighborhood into a bunny-free zone thanks to the crop they grew. Bunnies get very sick from THC. But the rap singer brought the bunnies back. 

Soon, they were stripping her radishes of their tops. The singer built a studio in the barn where bunnies danced the bunny hop and ate radishes. The singer’s new sound, munching and thumping, was a huge sensation.

Radish, Rabbits, Rapping Redux

Photo by Petar Staru010deviu0107 on Pexels.com
Rapping rabbits, reaping radish,
Ruddy, spicy, earthy, raffish.
Crunchy red, dicey tribe,
Nibbles, wiggles, saucy vibe.

Hey, yeah, whatcha saw,
In the garden, giant maw.
Open, rapping, tails snapping,
Radish beat and bunny dapping.

Dig it, dig it, from the soil,
Dig that radish, toil, toil.
Little claws feed little maws.
Eat the beat, cure the blahs.

Hey haw, whatcha saw?
Peter Rabbit in a brawl,
Fists be punchy, throw a paw.
Gonna call em, call the law.

Sirens sound a red alert.
Sirens scream one damn loud blurt.
Leave the fields, hop the fence,
Dude don’t owe no recompense.


Seal Up Evil in a Wooden Box

The Robert A. Heinlein memorial award, in wooden box by Unknown maker is licensed under CC-BY-NC-SA 4.0

Pandora breathed in the garden’s verbena scent. She breathed out a spell to quiet the unicorn and summon the dragon, then she rubbed the genie’s lamp. From the ground, she pulled a box so ancient and filled with grievance that it groaned. 

It had taken centuries to master herself well enough to undo the past. She was ready, with help from her friends, to reverse the mistakes she’d made as an impetuous youth. The four  breathed wishes into the box.

It roiled. Disease, pestilence, greed, slavery, the evils of the world poured in and settled together. Pandora closed the box.

Departed on St. Patrick’s Day.

Photo by RDNE Stock project on Pexels.com

Gillie wrinkled her nose. “It’s not magic.” What she meant was, the delicious taste of spring flowers and green hills was missing from her St. Patrick’s Day oatmeal. 

“It’s green,” her father said.

“Did you dye it?”

He swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

“Where’s our leprechaun friend?”

Her father produced a note from his pocket.

“I’m off to the motherland. It’s not safe here.”

“Did NICE deport him?”

“The witch hunts are over. Now they’re hunting leprechauns.”

Gillie pushed the bowl away. “They’re not nice. It’s opposites day every day.”

Her father wrapped her in a warm hug, powerless to do more.