A Wretch Like Me

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is WRETCH

This word immediately brings to mind the famous hymn by John Newton, a sea captain engaged in the cruel slave trade before he was converted to Christianity and renounced his former evil doings.

Amazing grace
Ship art credit goes to Yuri B at Pixabay

However, from the context of the post I gather you could rather use WRETCH’S homonym, RETCH, which means to vomit.  English does this to us. 😦

“Something to Sing About”

Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning: NATION

Since everyone has a nation, a place they call home, and hopefully likes their own land, there should be lots of upbeat responses to this one.

According to some United Nation study on health and quality of life, Canada is one of the best countries in the world to live in. Having travelled across this fair land and lived in six provinces, I can say this is so: I do indeed live in the best country in the world. 🙂

I lived with my aunt & uncle in British Columbia for a year when I was around four years old, so can’t really count that as practical experience, but as an adult I’ve lived in Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Ontario, and Quebec. The only provinces we haven’t visited at least briefly are Newfoundland and Prince Edward Island. In spite of the occasional winter chill, I feel our quality of life has been “as good as it gets” all across our glorious nation.

According to Wiki: “Something to Sing About” is a patriotic song written by folk singer Oscar Brand that sings the praises of the many different regions of Canada.

“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