Perusing the Prompts

Good morning everyone!

I’ve been perusing this morning’s offering of writing prompts and noting how they might mesh together quite nicely.
The Ragtag Daily Prompt — my choice this morning — is WANDER
The Word of the Day prompt is WISTFUL
Fandango’s One-Word Challenge is WAIT
and Your Daily Word Prompt is OTIOSE
(Had to look that last one up; it means futile, idle, at leisure, or without purpose or function.)

Put these together and you can imagine someone wandering “lonely as a cloud,” as the poet William Wordsworth termed it, going along without purpose, hoping something interesting will present itself. Perhaps he’s rather wistful, pondering something he’s done —or not done. Or maybe he feels a little lonely and wishes he had a friend to walk beside and converse with.

In the course of his otiose ambling through the lovely park he pauses, perhaps to watch the ducks in a pond or chivalrously step aside to wait as a slow-moving senior passes. Shall we give our percipient rambler “a host of golden daffodils” to gaze at? Or maybe the falling leaves of autumn, allowing him to contemplate the brevity of life. But then he continues on his way, thinking maybe a strong cup of coffee at the local bistro will perk him up.

Oh, wait! Coffee and writers go together, so let’s make him a writer puzzling over a plot twist. His wandering isn’t otiose after all; as he walks he’s working out scenes in him mind, hoping he can get fresh ideas for that manuscript he’s been working on. Now we can understand and feel with him in his quandary. Haven’t we all been there, wondering how to make the characters believable or get them out of the mess we’ve put them in?

But wait! There’s one more writing prompt to work in. Daily Addictions has given us the word HOSE.

So, en route through the park, our writer is suddenly smitten by another angle for his book. Driven by his brainwave and no longer perceptive of his surroundings, he trips over a hose the gardener’s been using to water one of the flower beds. He staggers, loses his balance, and lands in a patch of freshly puddled earth. A.k.a. mud.

A small price to pay for a brilliant new angle.

“Wee timorous beastie” indeed!

It’s Wednesday again and Biff seems to be AWOL as yet. Nevertheless, I’ll do a Whatnot Wednesday post anyway — mainly because I don’t know what else to do with this verse-of-sorts. 🙂

The following poem is based on a real life experience…

The moon rains silver on my window
pierces the darkness of my eleventh hour,
draws thin slats on my carpet as
warm ambiance enfolds me like a cloak
woven of droopy eyelids, wool-gathering.

My book slips from my hand; sinking into
the fronds of fern casting their shadows
in dark splashes on the carpet
rubbing the rich brown of the old
grandfather clock poised to chime.

Shattering my doze like a snare drum,
the steady rustle I have come to dread.
That MOUSE again!
Intrepid raider of the cat-food dish.
Its toes scratch on the floor tile as it creeps
forward toward its goal – then I hear
that brazen crunching I detest.

It knows – I’m positive it bides its time until
some telepathy reveals to its pea-brain
when I am most vulnerable. Too burdened
and half asleep — can it hear me breathe — 
to give chase. Then out it creeps
to fill its emptiness with a cat food snack,
which it erroneously believes
has been provided for its benefit.

I will the clock to strike, to boom
a hickory, dickory, dock. A horrid shock
that causes said mouse to die of fright.
Yet Grandfather has nothing to say just yet,
so
I sit here trembling in the darkness
while my cat, a warm ball on my lap,
snores on, oblivious to mouse or man.
Waking, only to glance at me in peeved disdain,

when I screech, “You’re FIRED!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my dreams…

Cat + Mouse.K Tyl

Can’t Find Her Purse

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is CAN’T.

This is such a bendable word. CAN’T may means “I’m not able to…” CAN’T may mean “I’m not allowed to….” (Remember teachers of years gone by pointing out CAN NOT versus MAY NOT?)
CAN’T may be stretched to mean “I won’t, so drop it!” or we may use CAN’T as a brush off because I don’t want to bother. And there’s the temporary kind of CAN’T that affects us all from time to time.
Since this humorous verse by Edgar Guest echoes one of my theme songs at this point in my life, “I can’t remember,” it will be my response to the prompt.

THE LOST PURSE

I remember the excitement and the terrible alarm
that worried everybody when William broke his arm
and how frantic Pa and Ma got only just the other day
when they couldn’t find the baby ‘cause he’d up and walked away,
but I’m sure there’s no excitement that our house has ever shook
like the times Ma can’t remember where she’s put her pocketbook.

When the laundry man is standing at the door and wants his pay
Ma hurries in to get it, and the fun starts right away.
She hustles to the sideboard, cause she knows exactly where
she can put her hand right on it — but alas! It isn’t there.
She tried the parlor table and she goes upstairs to look
and once more she can’t remember where she put her pocketbook.

She tells us that she had it just a half an hour ago,
and now she cannot find it though she’s hunted high and low;
she’s searched the kitchen cupboard and the bureau drawers upstairs,
and it’s not behind the sofa nor beneath the parlor chairs.
She makes us kids get busy searching every little nook,
and this time says she’s certain that she’s lost her pocketbook.

She calls Pa at the office and he laughs, I guess, for then
she always mumbles something ‘bout the heartlessness of men.
She calls to mind a peddler who came to the kitchen door
and she’s certain from his whiskers and the shabby clothes he wore
and his dirty shirt and collar that he must have been a crook,
and she’s positive that fellow came and got her pocketbook.

But at last she always finds it in some queer and funny spot,
where she’d put it in a hurry and had somehow clean forgot;
and she heaves a sigh of gladness and she says, “Well, I declare,
I would take an oath this minute that I never put it there.”
And we’re peaceable and quiet till next time Ma goes to look
and finds she can’t remember where she put her pocketbook.

From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest
© 1934 by The Reilly & Lee Company