WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS

Seems anything can be a sport these days, even things that require little or no physical skill or talent.  Like chess.  Or poker.  Since I suck
at chess and cannot control my “tells,” I need the Olympics to hand
out gold medals in something for which I possess natural aptitude:

THE BEDROOM SPORT  —  Sonnet
(No, not that one!  Geez, get your mind out of the gutter.)

If snoring were to be declared a sport,
a competition all night long would rage
Chuffing Chortle versus Thunder Snort,
contenders on the PosturePedic stage
Pure monotone or wild cacophony?
Scoring-wise, it doesn’t really matter,
but uvulation is compulsory;
the judges gotta hear them tonsils rattle
A deviated septum raises hell,
like a double chin or lying on your back,
all guaranteed to boost your decibels
and jerk the needle on the seismograph
But in the end who wins, you or your mate,
depends on who’s asleep and who’s awake

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SPRING FORWARD, AUTUMN BACK?

Is it Autumn or Fall?  My husband and I have debated the name of the season for the past thirty years.  To me, fall has always been fall.  My parents said so; when you’re a kid, they’re the authority on everything.  That hit a snag when I started school.  Apparently, the last two meals
of the day are lunch and dinner, not dinner and supper, as I had always been told.  My lunch box was proof.  My parents disputed this claim.  Back in the day, when they walked ten miles, uphill both ways, to the one-room schoolhouse, they had carried dinner pails.  Ask a teenage Wal-Mart clerk where to find “dinner pails” and you’ll get a blank look, the same one you get if you inquire about canning jars or clothespins.  The 80-year-old greeter will know what you’re after; if he’s a wise-ass, he’ll snicker and direct you to the Olsen’s Mercantile in Walnut Grove.  Fall, however, was validated on the bulletin board in our classroom.
F-A-L-L, spelled out in big, official-looking letters and surrounded by a mélange of red, orange, and yellow construction paper leaves.  If a nun said it was so, it was so.  Nuns were demi-gods, after all.  Fall remained rock-solid, unchallenged until I married a man who insisted “autumn” was the correct word for the season between summer and winter.  If that were true, it would be the dinner/supper dilemma reincarnated, not to mention poor Sister Josetta having to suffer in purgatory, her penance for lying.  The librarian hedged, saying it could go either way; fall was simply vernacular for the “proper” term, autumn.  Not one to lose sleep over being proper, I used fall and autumn interchangeably
for years without really thinking about it.  Then I did think about it:

FALL BY THE WAYSIDE

Mankind was damned
by its fall from grace;
we fall off the wagon,
we fall on our face

We fall ill but we never
fall into good health
We fall into ruin,
not winnings or wealth

We fall blindly in love,
a free fall of the heart,
falling out, then away,
‘til it all falls apart

We fall over ourselves
but fall short of success,
falling victim, it seems,
to our own eagerness

Fall down on the job
or fall prey to a scam
and you’ll need to resort
to your fall-back plan

Pleas fall on deaf ears
A joke might fall flat
Fall too far behind and
you’ll fall off the map

We fall on our swords,
take the fall for a friend,
doomed to fall ‘til the big
curtain falls at the end

Connotations of gloom
are surely the reason
that AUTUMN, not FALL,
is my favorite season

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PLUNGED INTO A NIGHTMARE

Have you ever felt like you were being trolled after making an online purchase?  The Cosmos knows not only what you bought, but a host of other things you might like, based on that choice.  It suggests items to complement or enhance it.  It pops up helpful messages like “Others who bought this item also bought X, Y, and Z.”  This may be tolerable if you’ve purchased something innocuous, like a socket set or a sleeping bag or a case of dog food.  But if it was something of a more personal nature, look out.  It could trail behind you like an embarrassing ribbon
of toilet paper stuck to your heel.  Read and heed this cautionary tale:


BUYER BEWARE

The Squatty Potty© that I bought
as a gag gift for a friend
unleashed a virtual onslaught
of gear for my rear end

A screen popped up before I had
completed my transaction
suggesting, for my favorite lad,
a kit called Master Crapsman©

The link connected in a snap
to a site for Poo-Pourri©
Just spritz the bowl with Trap-a-Crap©
and drop a deuce, scott-free!

They also thought I might enjoy
a box of quilted Shittens©
an ill-conceived commercial ploy
for wet wipes shaped like mittens

I cleared my cookies straightaway
suspecting double-cross
but onward marched the shit parade
like a wave of chocolate sauce

T-shirts with “I pooped today!”
stamped across the chest,
padded seats and chrome bidets
and fiber supplements

Free shipping on a new commode,
a plumbing tour de force
designed to handle outsize loads
in just one flush, of course

I phoned the website to demand
they cork their brown assault
They claimed it was out of their hands
Alas, the system’s fault


But accept this free Emoji Turd
a download for your phone
in case you’re at loss for words
or texting on the throne

I found a clever use for it,
a survey from their end
I awarded them five little shits

and pushed the key to SEND

The last laugh wasn’t mine, I fear
I found myself upstaged,
Joan LIKES the Squatty Potty! smeared
across my FaceBook page

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DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU!

Independence Day!  Woo hoo!  A paid day off for picnics, parades, and fireworks to celebrate our freedom.  Well, the scraps of it we haven’t traded away in the name of our “safety and security.”  Big Brother’s presence seems kind of comforting, right?  That’s exactly how he gets his foot in the door.  Remember, if he’s looking out for you, he must also have his eye on you.  You and everyone else.  Watch enough cop shows and you will learn what’s possible; they don’t just make all that stuff up, you know.  You could dismiss this whole post, write me off as
a crackpot conspiracy theorist.  It’s your prerogative.  But as they say, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

THE EYE IN THE SKY

The spy next door that peeks
around her curtain night and day
is not just “being neighborly.”
More likely, CIA.

You know that crackling static
while you wait for the dial tone?
It could be someone listening in,
a wire tap on your phone.

The camera on your monitor
that transmits while you Skype
sees every keystroke that you make,
each password that you type.

Cells and hard drives can’t delete
your comms or browsing history.
The back-up files are always there;
just how remains a mystery.

Tabs are kept on bank accounts
with each transaction logged.
Credit cards know where you shop
and stay alert for fraud.

The black box hiding in your car
stores constant data readings.
It knows if you don’t buckle up
and how fast you were speeding.

ATMs and traffic cams
have facial recognition.
The GPS inside your phone
can ping without permission.

We’re slowly being poisoned
by Big Pharma and Big Ag,
your death marked “undetermined”
as they zip the body bag.

My buddies say I’m paranoid,
and are they right?  You betcha.
These days you gotta watch your back;
this world is out to getcha.

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WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU ORANGES…

This week, I’m taking a detour from Form Street onto Rhyme Avenue.  Where that ends, we’ll follow the road less traveled, an unpaved trail called Oblique Lane.  Anyone who regularly writes rhymed poetry will wind up here sooner or later.  Oblique is an umbrella-term for rhyme that is close but not exact.  You might also hear it called slant rhyme, lazy rhyme, imperfect rhyme, half rhyme, near rhyme, off rhyme, or even assonant rhyme, phrases loaded with enough sorry connotations to make your best option sound like trailer trash.  Don’t let that scare you.  Oblique rhymes possess a jury-rigged cleverness that springs out and surprises the reader, a feat that turns predictable verse green (or maybe orange?) with envy.  The best excuse for using an oblique is the lack of a perfect rhyme, but who needs an excuse?  I adore them and encourage you to slide them into your poetry whenever and wherever you wish.  In that spirit, I’ve composed a LAI, an edgy attempt to prove that whoever said “nothing rhymes with orange” was only half right:

IMPERFECTLY PERFECT

End-words like orange
offer a challenge
quite unique
Rhyme must be foraged,
an assonant change
in technique
A lazy, half-knowledge
slanted in homage
to Oblique

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ONCE UPON A TIME…

Narrative and epic poems have been around for centuries.  These are usually book-length works that tell a tale.  I haven’t the fortitude to pen the next Iliad or Odyssey, but I do like to write STORY poems, a type of “bite-sized” memoir.  This one’s dedicated to all the underdogs, and my friend Lana, who introduced me to the story poem.  The jerk who tried to kill me with the kickball was named DONALD, by the way.  Go figure.

OUT IN LEFT FIELD

She is too klutzy for kickball, so
she spends recess
with a library book
But in gym class, participation is
non-negotiable
Chosen dead last,
she takes her place in the outfield
With bases loaded,
the class jock steps
smugly to the plate to run them in
BOOM!  A pop-fly
speeds toward her,
a red missile trained on its target
The ball strikes with
a resounding smack;
she reels, but clutches it to her chest
He’s OUT!  Red-faced,
cursing, he snatches
his cap, slams it to the ground, and
stomps on it, leaving
a big, dusty footprint
Seething with incredulity and rage,
his odious eyes bore
full-force into hers
but it is her moment to be a hero
and she flaunts the
burning imprint on
her cheek like a badge of honor

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NOTHING TO LOSE, EVERYTHING TO GAIN

In a MONOTETRA, each stanza is comprised of four rhymed lines.  Each line has four metrical feet, a total of eight syllables.  What makes it such a powerful form is that the closing line of each stanza is four syllables, repeated.  A Monotetra can have as few or as many stanzas as desired.  C’mon, sink your teeth into one!  They’re the greatest.  You’ll love ’em.

donut-4

TEMPTATION

On Sunday mornings, I escape
to wait in line with jaws agape
and scope the sugary landscape
of rounded shapes, of rounded shapes

From the case, glazed bodies gleam
filled with jelly, filled with cream
and twisted cinnamon daydreams
Their silent screams, their silent screams

penetrate my helpless brain
and though resistance I might feign
my diet’s headed down the drain
‘cause donuts reign, ‘cause donuts reign

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OH, OH, OH, I’M ON FIRE

The RONDEAU is yet another French form.  Each line has eight to ten syllables that flow in an undulation of upbeats and downbeats.  The first line begins with a refrain and ends with a rhyme.  The refrain (A) and two rhymes (a and b) are woven through the fifteen-line structure in the order demonstrated below.  Online sources cite this sequence as the most common of the variations that exist for this versatile form.
In addition, I managed to kill two prompts with one poem, #11 Night and #12 Change.  Call it cheating if you want; I’m calling it ingenuity.

menopause-3

AFTER THE CHANGE

Aa    On restless nights post-menopause,
a       as hormones yield to nature’s laws,
b       dreams disrupted by hot flashes
b       In their throes, she madly thrashes,
a       and her sweat-damp nightgown claws
a       as though its neckline were the cause
a       bemoaning sleep as once it was
b      Cool water on her face she splashes
A      on restless nights
a       Back to the bedroom she withdraws
a       to wrestle in insomnia’s
b       firm grip until, at last, she crashes,
b       up again as fever rachets
a       and manly snoring shakes the walls
A      on restless nights

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MORE AAACKS THAN BILL THE CAT!

A great place to utilize poetry is in writing SONG LYRICS, our Tower Group assignment for the next meeting.  My answer to the challenge is a simple limerick series (like last week) with a refrain.  More Trump bashing?  You betcha.  If “the Donald” wants us to quit roasting him,
he needs to stop pouring gasoline on the fire.  “When you put it that way, it sounds like a pack of blatant, stupid lies,” someone remarked.  Umm, yeah.  That’s pretty much the definition of “alternative facts.”

donald-1

JUST OUT OF BRAIN-WASHINGTON
(From Trump’s Lips to Your Ears)

Refrain:
Believe in alternative facts
Whoopee for alternative facts!
Put the truth on the shelf
and keep telling yourself
“I believe in alternative facts”

Believe in alternative facts
All you need is alternative facts
Disregard honesty
and repeat after me
“I believe in alternative facts”

Verses:
My inaugural crowd was so vast,
it’s sure to remain unsurpassed
That people would think
a few marchers in pink
had outdone us, that leaves me aghast
(Refrain)

My cabinet’s filling up fast
and seats for advisory staff
A fluke that their owners
are generous donors
who stuffed my campaign’s Super-PAC
(Refrain)

The intrusion by Soviet hacks
to manipulate votes that were cast
was nothing but rumor,
a scheming maneuver,
pioneered by irate Democrats
(Refrain)

Shut up with the yakkity-yaks
about showing returns from my tax
The public and press
couldn’t care any less
so forget it, that’s all in the past
(Refrain)

Bowling Green coverage was lax,
but now that we’ve issued the facts
the Circuit Court Judge
who wouldn’t be budged
will be bringing my Muslim ban back
(Refrain)

Vetting in the aftermath,
based on dozens of terrorist acts,
will bar Yemen and Syria,
Somalia and Libya,
Sudan and Iran and Iraq
(Refrain)

I’ll repeal the ObamaCare Act
toss that nonsense into the trash
The poor and oppressed
will have open access
to the privatized plan we’ll enact
(Refrain)

The Mexican Wall is on track
and they’ll pay for it all, so relax
An astute business man,
I have things well in hand
Under sanctions, Nieto will crack
(Refrain)

Ignore all the Standing Rock whacks
set on blocking the pipeline contract
Army Corps engineers
say there’s nothing to fear
There’ll be no ecologic impact
(Refrain)

And by the way,

Ivanka did not get the axe
At Nordstrom’s, she’s selling like crack
So don’t wait to peruse
her fine jewelry and shoes;
they’re flying right off of the racks!
(Refrain)

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IMPEACHMENT RHYMES WITH ORANGE #ALTFACT

This week on JustJoan42, we welcome our old friend, the LIMERICK.
A limerick is a five-line form with a waltzing beat that often involves bawdy humor.  The first, second, and fifth lines contain seven to ten syllables, rhyme with each other, and conform to the same rhythmic pattern.  The third and fourth lines are shorter, rhyme with each other, and have the same rhythm.  Perhaps the most famous one begins this way:  “There once was a man from Nantucket…”  Google it if you’re unfamiliar.  WARNING: this poem is political.  Believers in alternative facts may wish to put their fingers in their ears and hum until it’s over.

red-button-2

OPEN LETTER TO THE SENATE

I’m sure Bernie didn’t envision
his campaign would end in recision
His bump from the race
left us in a bad place:
Trump or Clinton, a dismal decision

I held out until the last minute
amid warnings Donald might win it
The odds seemed remote
but I cast my blue vote
To be honest, my heart wasn’t in it

I paled as Ohio turned red,
fighting panic as westward it spread
I threw up a prayer
for the country’s welfare
and uneasily tossed in my bed

I woke the next morning unrested
Seems popular vote had been bested
Why do we acknowledge
the electoral college?
Red’s so-called win hotly contested

Despite opposition’s outrage,
the U.S. became Donald’s stage
Teamed up with Bannon,
another loose cannon,
he’s gone on a reckless rampage

His cronies warm cabinet seats
Detractors are out on the streets
He pokes other nations
and threatens relations
with his inappropriate Tweets

Senators, please take a stand
and impeach this tyrannical man!
Before it’s too late,
pry our nuclear fate
from the grasp of his miniscule hands

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