When I got up this morning and saw a beautifully etched lace on my kitchen window, I thought I should write some little verse about it. For some odd reason I thought of the sun melting the frost bit by bit and “eating an elephant one bite at a time.”
Sammi’s writing prompt gives me the perfect opportunity for my imagination. This is to be “a fun writing exercise” using the word and word count given in the box below.
A frost artist, disposed,
last night while I dozed
to add a nice touch to my place,
not content with the plainness —
my window seemed pane-less —
he’s etched me a curtain of lace!
His work so enchanting
and so fine, I am granting,
adds tasteful improvement today.
But alas, here comes morn
and the warm sun has shorn
a bit of the top work away.
With passionless plodding
it persists in defrauding
me of my curtain —so crass!
As some fool eats an elephant,
each bite sends inelegant
streams of drool down the glass.
And so, in an hour,
I’ve watched it devour
my fancy frost curtain, alas!
The Word of the Day challenge this morning was JACK.
I thought of various Jacks, some authors like Jack London and Clive Staples Lewis, whose nickname was Jack. There are various Jacks mentioned in poems, like Jack who went up the hill with Jill, and Jack who ate his Christmas pie. Finally I opted to do something with the Jack who could eat no fat — poor fellow!
The Ragtag Daily prompt this morning was HEWN, so I’ll include that in my response, too. They say you should have fun with the writing prompts, so here’s my fun rhyme.
FOR THE GOOD OF HIS HEALTH
Bucking all of the sumptuous trends,
Jack’s diet’s been hewn to abstemious ends,
poor Jack gets all the leanest grub
while his dear little wife…ah there’s the rub!
Jack salts his spuds and peppers his beef
not a lick of gravy to give them relief;
forbidden the butter, denied sour cream.
He’s wasting away on this fat-less regime!
His wife does her part to empty the plates
of anything fatty Jack might want to taste;
she, ever-vigilant, metes out his diet
no oil on the salad — though Jack once did try it.
He watches his missus pour on the cheese sauce;
to moisten his veggies, Jack gets barley broth.
She slathers on gravy, eats ham with the fat,
poor Jack’s turning pale as he takes in all that.
Mrs Spratt finished the whole Christmas cake;
for hubby’s dessert a scone she did bake.
He gnawed on the morsel all afternoon
thinking it must be of ebony hewn.
He rues that sad day when his doc, meaning good,
said Jack mustn’t have so much fat in his food,
for Mrs Spratt took the instructions entire
and now from starvation he may well expire.
She started out to say, “You know, yesterday I met a cousin of Katie Powers.” She trailed off, evidently gathering her thoughts.
I was so certain that I knew exactly where she was heading that I blasted back with a witty retort. Well…sort of witty. Sort of catty.
Her eyes focused on my face again and my conscience smacked me when I saw the startled look in her eye. I’d hurt her deeply; I was sure of it.
Filled with remorse, I started to babble. “I’m so sorry! I never should have said that! When you said you’d heard…well, I was just sure you were going to bring up what Katie and I had talked about. But of course you don’t know anything about that. And even if you do, you’d be too good a friend to bring it up in public like this where anybody might hear.” I waved my hand toward some other patrons in the crowded coffee shop.
My throat was so tight now I could hardly go on. “You’ve always been a good friend and I shouldn’t jump to such conclusions. And even if you were going to start in about what you heard, I shouldn’t make such a sarcastic comment. Can you ever forgive me?”
I paused. How would she react? Would my harsh response throw a wedge in our friendship?
She looked at me and opened her mouth, then paused to compose her reply. This is it, I thought. The moment of reckoning.
“What did you say, Terri? The two at that table over there started discussing someone I know. My mind was distracted and I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry. What’s this about Katie? Were you talking to her lately?”
Two fleas went hopping on a mat,
having disembarked the cat
to have a moment out-of-fur
and once escape that thunderous purr.
Their tropical resort gets hot,
with itchy dandruff and whatnot;
sometimes they hunger for fresh air,
to see the world outside that hair,
so they opt for a walkabout.
The mat gives them a good workout.
Some minutes pass; their wandering zeal
is quenched by urge to have a meal
and so they seek their host again —
but puss has moved along by then
which leaves them with an unfilled yen.
And worse! The housekeeper now sees,
has zero tolerance for fleas,
so scoops the mat up from the floor
and shakes it harshly out the door.
They tumble off into the grass
and land together in a mass.
They sort themselves and find some shade
behind the thickest grassy blade
to soothe their bruised elbows and knees
and ponder life’s uncertainties.
So now two fleas hide in the grass
in hopes that some new host will pass.