Humming (2020 NaPoWriMo #30)

Whining wings

Wheeling sound outside my door.

I leap to my feet,

Rummage in the garage.

Later, crystalline feeder swaying,

I fold my arms, surveying the snow.

Sun-warmed boards underfoot,

I watch his favorite tree.

Has the horrible hummingbird returned?

Rumors placed them only miles south last week.

Our home has been muffled in hushed snow.

We are braced, again, for epic battles on our porch.

Later, when the dog barks at a rumbling truck

And I eye the yet-empty feeder,

I pause to notice the distinctive whine.

Is it just a bad axle?

Perhaps war waits for another day.

Give One’s Tongue to the Cat (2020 NaPoWriMo #22)

The French much have told me to give my tongue to the cat, this prompt was so hard.

But I have long teeth. No hair in my hand. I do things with all ten of my fingers.

I’ll cut the great in two before I start running circles in the semolina.

It’s all Greek (or French) to me anyway. Before I have one foot in the grave, or smell of fir, I’d better bow out of this race.

Maybe I have, after all, given my tongue to the cat.

In 1994 (2020 NaPoWriMo #17)

Contessa Brewer on Twitter: "A 25- foot telephone cord to stretch ...

When I bought the 50-foot cord,
The phone and headset in one moveable piece,
My single existence was less

I roamed the house, cleaning,

My neck was worn crooked
From cradling the receiver
On my shoulder,
Swiss cheeks beeping the buttons.

I could just reach the upstairs phone
From the downstairs phone,
Adding air to the line when leaving
One off the hook.

But opening my world to
All but mere square feet of my entire
Small, first
House. Home.

My dial-up modem,
Quicken software,
Upright grand piano,
CD player.

I would curl with my
Baby blue heeler,
CBS on rabbit ears,
Eating pan-popped popcorn

Those were
the days.
Were those
the days?

Unearthly Delights (2020 NaPoWriMo #6)

Unicorn rearing

Striking hooves, thudding.
Muscular shoulders kniving beneath me.
I smell horsey-sweat,
Bracing for him to take flight.

Unicorns, elegant rhinos,
Real as the toes on my feet.
Fantasy knubs under my chubby heels,
Until the fine hairs of feathers sprout.

We both, unicorn and fancy,
Take flight. Then the call to supper.
The unicorn lands in Bosch’s world.
I land on an earth void of delights.

‘Til we meet again