To Look or To Be?

 

If I need a lewk, can it be

Morticia Addams; or would that be

delulu? New hair would be

a must, but you know I’d be

so fine in black. Now, don’t you be

telling the broligarchy! They be

hating witches; so then where’d I be?

 For Friday Writings #192 at Poets and Storytellers United, we are asked to explore or include the following words: delulu, lewk, broligarchy. This is when I know I'm old! The prompt is not compulsory, so I needn't have done it, but I thought I'd have a go. However, I didn't love these words enough to really enjoy them.

PS I hoped that ending each line with the same word might help make some sort of poetry out of  this piece of nonsense.

(Morticia Addams came to mind because I have been enjoying the second season of  'Wednesday' lately – and yes, I am very old: I've been wanting to look like Morticia since Carolyn Jones inhabited the role.)

TV News (Australia)

 

Thousands march 

in our major cities.

(I too, if younger, fitter.)

No mere rumpus,

although impassioned.

Determination!

One placard arrests me:

WAR CRIMES ARE NOT

SELF-DEFENCE. 

Next, an overseas bulletin. 

I recoil, shriek,

cover my eyes. 

Children’s bones 

poke like sticks

through empty skin.

Written for dVerse, for Quadrille #230: Let's kick up a rumpus! (44 words excluding title, which must include the  word 'rumpus'.)

Comments are disabled for this post. (I appreciate that the topic is very hard for any of us to engage with, and I don't wish to start a quarrel here – but sometimes a poet must speak up, as a matter of  honour. You are of course free to use your own poems, on your own blogs, to express yourself on this subject if you feel an urgency to address it.)

My Cat, Poppi

 

This little one, neatly made, quick to jump to a high place, either for resting or vantage, or with tiny paws flip a blanket over her own curved, snuggling back: agile, heat-seeking, comfort-loving, curious, adept … changeable moment to moment, yet she is definite, predictable: creating her life with both whim and established habit.

A fine intelligence shines from her eyes. She is knowing, sums me up every moment. She is wise, accepting my limitations: I’m only human. She is demanding, knowing her due; miaowing bugle-call loud when she needs: food / a clean litter tray / scritches and cuddles (reasonable demands, I say).

Tit for tat. When I stroke or hug her, she purrs deep, nestles in. I kiss the top of her dainty, wee head. One afternoon, lying down for a nap, I rouse to find her licking my hair just where it edges my forehead – grooming me, like one of her kittens. 

The smallest cat I ever had, and the sweetest-natured, she is nevertheless queen of her domain. I only live here. 

We both know my function: to care. We both know hers: to be, thereby to delight.

~ Small cat in high place, with blanket and view ~

Written for FridayWritings #191: Small but Beautiful, at Poets and Storytellers United. I've also attempted to write this as a flash poem: a form of prose poetry characterised by brevity and intensity. (My first attempt. Not sure I've pulled it off.)