Day 161

Today's words:

Berry
Foundation
Wolf
River
Fog
Ambiguous

Who would have guessed that a berry
Could be the foundation
Of the whole problem? As the wolf
Stood on the bank of the river
In the fog
I looked for something less ambiguous.

It's really quite unambiguous.
Looking for a berry
In the fog
I laid the foundation
Of what became the river
That attracted the wolf.

But was it a wolf?
Or something more ambiguous?
Standing by the river
Looking for a berry
And building a foundation
In the fog.

It was the fog
That confused the wolf
And led it to the foundation.
There things become more ambiguous - 
Did the berry
Draw it to the river,

Or vice versa? Because once it was at the river
It was surrounded by fog.
It wanted a berry.
I'm pretty sure it was a wolf,
But it's still rather ambiguous,
And doesn't seem to have a sound foundation.

There are cracks in the foundation
And water from the river
Leaks in - there's nothing ambiguous
About that. Condensation from the fog
Coats the coat of the wolf
And looks like dew on the berry.

The foundation is obscured by fog
By the river while the wolf
Seeks the ambiguous berry.

Day 160

Today's words:

Sunburn
Bank
Gym
Screen
Seesaw
Basket

When I was a kid I got a sunburn
Every summer. The bank
Closed at 3 and my school didn't have a gym.
Sunscreen
Hadn't been invented. We played on a metal seesaw
And got Easter grass in a basket

Made, no doubt, of harmful substances. Today's mom would be a basket
Case if she saw any of that. But not then. I'd peel off skin after the sunburn
While riding the seesaw.
At the bank
There wasn't a screen
Between us and the teller, and gym

Was a period in school, not a place to go. Adults didn't go to the gym.
And, not to put all my eggs in one basket,
No-one wore sunscreen
Either. A sunburn
Wasn't something to be afraid of. We rolled down the hill on the bank
Of the river after playing on the seesaw.

Today the only seesaw
Is my emotions as I guilt myself into going to the gym.
Thankfully the bank
Is open late now, and I put my groceries in a basket,
So I don't use a plastic bag. I'll never get a sunburn
Because I don't leave the house without my SPF 30 sunscreen.

I remember when in church they did away with the screen
Between you and the priest at confession, and when they took the seesaw
Away from the playground. They told us to avoid sunburn
And everyone had to work out at the gym.
The only basket
I'll buy has to be locally-made and artisinal. You can take that to the bank.

I got home from the bank
And opened the window screen,
Letting the breeze in to knock the basket
Off the table. It fell like it had been on a seesaw
And the other person stood up suddenly. Time to go to the gym,
Sticking to the shade to avoid sunburn.

Rolling down the bank after playing on the seesaw,
We didn't need sunscreen and didn't go to the gym.
We picked up rocks with a basket and peeled our sunburn.

Day 159

Today's words:

Sponge
Coffin
Night
Flesh
Foundation
Madman

Makeup sponge
In hand, he bent over the coffin.
He needed to finish the makeup before night
Fell, making it harder to tell flesh
From foundation.
Only a madman

Would have chosen this job, he thought. A madman
Or someone born into it, as he was. He stroked the sponge
Across the foundation
And leaned over the coffin,
Applying the makeup to the dead flesh.
Night

Was falling. At night
He became a madman,
Ravenous for flesh.
He stood up, threw the sponge
On the floor, and closed the coffin.
He'd been brought up with a strong moral foundation

But that foundation
Had crumbled under the weight of the eternal night
Of his existence. He felt like he was imprisoned in a coffin.
He knew he was a madman
But there was nothing to be done. As a child he'd been like a sponge,
Soaking up the scent and feel of the dead flesh

All around him. That rotting flesh
Became the foundation
For his madness. He kicked the sponge
Across the floor as he went out into the night,
A madman looking to put someone else in a coffin.

His life was a trap; it felt like a coffin
And he could feel his own flesh
Rotting. So he became a madman
And the foundation
For his madness was the night.
The next morning his co-workers found the sponge

On the floor. They opened the coffin and saw that the foundation
That had been applied to the flesh the night
Before was clearly the work of a madman with a sponge.

Day 158

Today's words:

Midget
Ketchup
Corn
Midwife
Flea
Tornado

The midget
Doused his fries with ketchup
And then attacked the corn.
His mother was a midwife;
His father had owned a flea
Circus. He was born during a tornado.

They always said that the fear of the tornado
Had stressed his mother so much he became a midget.
Either that or a flea
Had bitten her, poisoning his genes. Asking for a bottle of ketchup,
The midwife
Prepared to pour it on her corn.

To put that on corn
Stirred up a tornado
Of controversy, but the midwife
Didn't care. If the midget
Could use ketchup
So could she. Next stop, the flea

Market. My last flea
Market finds were a pair of corn
On the cob holders
And a ketchup dispenser.
Despite having been born during a tornado
The midget
Didn't blame the midwife

Who'd delivered him; he knew the midwife
Had done all she could. Maybe a flea
Bite was the cause of him being a midget
And maybe not. He tried the corn
That had started the whole tornado
Because of the ketchup

Controversy.  He didn't really like ketchup
That much, but he ate it to please the midwife.
During the tornado
When he was born, the flea
Circus was destroyed, as was the corn
Field. And he was born a midget.

Is that ketchup or real blood? A flea
Should be able to tell. The midwife ate her corn,
As the tornado swirled around the midget.

Day 157

Today's words:

Binder
Stomach
Slipper
Bed
Tail
Croissant

I slammed the binder
Shut. "I can't stomach
"This," I said. I put on one slipper
And then the other and got into bed.
My dog gently wagged its tail.
In the morning I had a croissant.

A good croissant
Is hard to find in this country. I took up the binder
Again, watching as my dog's tail
Drooped. Again my stomach
Churned. I should have stayed in bed.
The dog took a slipper.

"Bring back my slipper,"
I called, "And I'll give you a bit of this croissant."
I climbed back into bed,
The binder
Left on the table. My stomach
Was starting to feel better. The dog's tail

Was wagging again. He wagged his tail
Faster as he returned with my slipper.
I rubbed his stomach
And fed him a piece of the croissant.
Maybe I should try reading the binder
In bed.

The dog jumped on the bed
And wagged his tail
In my face. I got up and went to get the binder.
The dog followed me, carrying a slipper.
Should I get another croissant?
My stomach

Grumbled. Lying on my stomach
In bed
I nibbled at the croissant
And stroked the dog's tail
As he chewed my slipper.
I opened the binder

Again, with no response from my stomach. The dog's tail
Hung off the bed, and the slipper
Fell to the ground. I finished the croissant and closed the binder.

Day 156

Today's words:

Hymn
Mite
Bingo
Bandage
Result
Pliers

This poem is a hymn
To all life, from the smallest mite
To the old ladies at the bingo
Table. To the wounded man wearing a bandage,
His wound the result
Of a mishap involving a pair of pliers.

I'll pull it out with pliers
If I have to. This hymn
Is the result
Of thinking about the mite,
The bandage,
And the bingo

Table. Bingo!
You see, use those pliers
Wrong and you'll end up with a bandage.
Let me begin the hymn
Again. It starts with a mite
And ends with a result.

The result
Of winning at bingo
Or of killing a mite
Is the same. Pliers
Or not, we're all dead in the end. No hymn
Can mask the pain, no bandage

Can soothe it. I'm ripping off that bandage
Right now. I know the immediate result
Will be more pain, but in the end it will feel like a hymn
To freedom for the newly-exposed flesh. So it's all the same: bingo,
Pliers,
Mite.

And just as the mite
Dies in the end, so the bandage
Must come off, even if pliers
Are needed to do so. The result
Wouldn't be out of place at a bingo
Game in a church basement. So sing a hymn

To the mite whose work is the result
Of placing a bandage over the eyes while playing bingo.
Using my pliers, I pull out the hymn.

Day 155

Today's words:

Poster
Baboon
Leather
Button
Scandal
Spar

The boy had a poster
Of a baboon
In his room. The animal was sitting in a leather
Chair and wearing a Clinton/Gore button.
Makes no sense to me, but I'm not going to make a scandal
Of it, or agree to spar

With those who would. To spar
Over whether a poster
Is a scandal
Or not seems a waste of time. So what if the baboon
Is wearing an old political button
And sitting in a leather

Chair?  I'll put on leather
Boxing gloves before I'll spar
With anyone. And that button
On the poster
Was obviously Photoshopped in; it was never worn by the baboon.
There's a scandal

For you, if it's a scandal
You seek, and not a leather-
Faced baboon
Or someone to spar
With.  Look closely at that poster.
You can see the button


Was added later. If it's the button
That's provoking the scandal
About the poster
I'd say forget it. Put on your leather
Gloves and spar
With the baboon.

Yes, he knows how to fight, the baboon
Does. Button
Your lip and prepare to spar
Over an imagined scandal.
Or throw down your leather
Gloves and forget about the poster.

Only a baboon would cause such a scandal
About an old political button and a leather
Chair.  Why spar? It's only a poster.

Day 154

Today's words:

Pilot
Moon
Mind
Guilt
Souvenir
Candle

The pilot
Navigated by the moon.
It was second nature. His mind,
Meanwhile, was consumed by guilt.
The souvenir
Of what he'd done weighed on him. He'd light a candle

When they landed. The candle
Flame would act as a pilot
Light to guide the souvenir
To the moon
And release the guilt
From his mind.

"I don't mind
"If you think a candle
"Will ease your guilt,"
She said to the pilot.
"But every time I look at the moon
"I'll remember what you did. It's an ugly souvenir."

And just as a souvenir
Can overtake a mind,
The moon
Can obscure a candle
Flame. The pilot
Light can be blown out by guilt.

Guilt,
Creating its own souvenir,
Can act as a pilot,
Steering the mind
Wherever it wants, past the candle,
All the way to the moon.

The moon
Light is the color of guilt,
And the candle
Flame its souvenir,
Pay it no mind;
Just pilot

Your ship in the moon-lit souvenir
Of the guilt in your mind,
And trust the candle as your pilot.

Day 153

Today's words:

Monkey
Bullet
Ravioli
Knife
Trophy
Runway

"Laugh all you want, but that monkey
"Would take a bullet
"For you." "What crap," she thought, cutting the ravioli
With a knife.
"This is no trophy-
"Winning dialogue to be sure. Best stick to runway

"Modelling. At least on the runway
"I won't have a monkey
"As a sidekick. I'll surely not get a best actress trophy
"For a line like that - 'take a bullet'
"My arse." She plunged her knife
Into the ravioli.

Eating ravioli
Wasn't good for her runway
Model's figure, she knew, but used her knife
On the pasta anyway. Better than worrying about a monkey
With a bullet.
She looked towards her trophy

Case. There was a trophy
Her mother had won for best ravioli.
But she'd fled that world like a bullet
From a gun, towards the runway.
She didn't want to wind up a performing monkey
Or a knife-

Wielding assassin, although her knife-
Throwing skills had won her another trophy
Once. "Screw them all," she thought, "Screw the monkey,
"The ravioli,
"The runway,
"And the bullet."

Which would you choose, a bullet
Or a knife?
Strolling down the runway,
Trophy
In hand, she wanted her mother's ravioli.
So, yeah, she'd take the part with the monkey

Taking a bullet. Maybe it wouldn't earn her a trophy
But she could still use her knife on the ravioli.
Goodbye, runway; hello, monkey.

Day 152

Today's words:

Traffic light
Cocktail
Knife
Doctrine
Parliament
Fairy

The traffic light
Turned red and he slammed on the brakes. He wanted a cocktail
So bad it felt like he was being stabbed with a knife.
This no drinking doctrine
Was killing him. He lit up a Parliament - 
At least he could still smoke. He wished a good fairy

Would make it OK to drink.  He wanted a visit from the Alcohol Fairy.
The traffic light
Turned green and he drew on his Parliament
Wishing it were a cocktail.
He'd like to stab whoever invented this doctrine
With a knife.

Next, he'd take a knife
To whatever evil fairy
Had cursed him to follow this doctrine.
His life was like a traffic light
Stuck on red, meaning no cocktail,
Ever. He'd like the parliament

To pass a law. The parliament
Should make drinking mandatory. You could knife
Anyone who refused you a cocktail.
Some evil fairy
Must have been controlling the traffic light - 
It turned red, stranding him outside a bar. The doctrine

Wasn't helping him now. Screw the doctrine, 
And screw this Parliament.
The traffic light
Turned green, but he made a knife-
Edge turn into the parking lot instead. Maybe a good fairy
In there would pour him a cocktail.

What's one cocktail
Anyway? He was sure the other followers of the doctrine
Wouldn't even care. He saw his fairy
There behind the bar, as he stubbed out the Parliament
And went in. His thirst was a knife
And the neon flashed traffic light

Colors. He sipped his cocktail and lit another Parliament.
He thought of cutting the doctrine out with a knife.
He smiled at the drink fairy and gazed out at the traffic light.