Eric Studdard was working on his three hundred and twenty-third masterpiece. This one would be a winner for sure. He had spent the better part of an hour on it and the poem was currently two hundred and ninety-seven words long, with thirty-one lines and seven and ¾ completed verses. It was composed along the … Continue reading “Cynosure” Fumbles a Masterpiece
On Monday the wind blew from the North On Friday the wind blows from the South. Both are cold winds. I feel the chill taint of October or perhaps November.
Upon reading the tag for the Ragtag word of the day, and after looking at the Urban Dictionary invective referenced therein, I just—JUST—could not resist the following diatribe on one of my fav hobbies-hosses (trying to grave our vocabulary in concrete tombs) which also includes one of my pettest peeves—undervaluing the full, social, historic, and … Continue reading Re: the RPD Writeup on ‘Fleek”
“Saloon was a fancy name for the place. Saloon had associations by etymology that suggested class. This was not a class place. The squeak-hinged door had squeaked the same tune for forty years—opening-to-closing, six days a week. (Closed Sundays, except for select parties and football games.) A twenty-four inch, dust-dimmed TV hung from the ceiling … Continue reading How Delmare Wrote his Next
Billy Oswalling got out of his battered pickup, and came across the gravel driveway. It is a gorgeous day, and about to get gorgeouser, Eric Tiodine thought. He wasn’t getting any younger and sitting on his veranda in the morning easing the aches of life was one of his last pleasures. He swung his left … Continue reading What’s it All Worth, Anyway?
Like imprinted ducklings— they follow her swagger across campus— these poetry undergrads Prepared in response to the Ragtag Community daily prompt: sequacious
Long walk, looking for the muse Home at last! “Take your shoes off!” She is mopping floors. In response to the RDP word prompt fungible
she says, is my kinda macho -- eyes coursing the bellowing plains of the page like Sythian horsemen, and when I lean to be near, his voice growls wild honey, clenching thought sure as fists on rope, pommel or rose, a wrestler with joy, I’d plunge the tunnels down to hell, for those hands to … Continue reading A Man Who Reads Poetry
The little people were not welcome. But they came. They sat in the rocks of the Arnie’s wall, trilling and ducking into the gaps between the rocks whenever Arnie opened the door or came around the corner of his house. They had turned the gaps in the rocks into doorways to their homes. They ate … Continue reading Arnie’s Wall
O this ragabash of clowns leading the national parade with their upside trickle downs their ships for shoes and flappy gowns— their huuuuuge fake news charade! O hang this ragabash of clowns and the unfunny mess they’ve made with their treacle nonsense nouns and gibberish through smiles as frowns their constant in and out charade. … Continue reading The Parade Makes a Hard Right into Chaos