Punching Age

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It started at one,

strong and sure

The promise of more

its lure

Birthday punches are a rite it’s true

But as they wore on, so did you

I took its weak finish

with a laughing smirk

Forgot I was 59

didn’t you, jerk?

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Quadrille #160: Poems that Pack a Punch

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Yesterday on Quadrille Monday, De Jackson, aka WhimsyGizmo, got a little punch drunk at the bar and invited us to punch out quadrille. Yesterday was my birthday. My bestfiend, not a misspell – who had the good sense to be born exactly a year later, and I were joking about the childhood silliness of delivering birthday wishes via punches on the arm. One punch-wish for each year, sometimes the token punches are delivered gently, sometimes not. Because I am blessed to age like fine wine, I do not look my years. Unless a boxer, I imagine most would begin to tire before reaching my current vintage and thus today’s silly quadrille.

Office Whoa-s

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Client 09:51-email: Raivenne, it’s not working. HELP?

Me 09:56-email: Please give me a call. No idea what you’re speaking of.

[While waiting for email reply, I look through files, begin to see the problem. Start an email response.]

Client 10:21-email: Will do. Are you free now? Here is the issue.

Me 10:22-email: Yes. Call me.

[While waiting for call, I continue look through their content on the back end and discover a series of issues that I presume are the reason for the request for help and continue typing mostly to have talking points at hand when they eventually call.]

One of the things I inform students during training, is that our application identifies them by name, date, and time, down to the seconds, when an action happens. Do not waste time telling me or any one on my team that you did not do something, because the application will, as I call it, rat you out. I do not contact you if I do not already know that it was you (royal you in this case as it involves more than one person), that did it. I already know if I do not cauterize this at the source now, it will drag out unnecessarily, so I aim for a preemptive strike.

My talking points become a diplomatic full out email, complete with screenshots, timestamps, and step-by-step breakdowns to explain:

– how ya’ll done effed up

– when ya’ll done effed up

– when ya’ll attempted to cover up the eff up which then

– created a bigger eff up, so

– here’s how to fix your eff up and ‘cause summa ya’ll clearly didn’t listen the first time I tol’ ya’ll ‘bout effin’ dis up

– here’s yet another step-by-step detail of the ideal scenario on how not to eff dis up again.

And yes, I went uber petty and purposely CCed all parties involved in the shenanigans, to avoid the backend I thought he/she/they -blame the person not in the email- I knew would happen without it. I spent nearly an hour and a half crafting that email, being excruciatingly detailed, because office diplomacy of politely, but emphatically, saying ya’ll some stoopid Keystone Cops sonsabeeches and we, meaning me, ain’t gots time fo’ ya’ll ‘peatin’ the same ol’ dumb ass ish ova’ and ova’ is wordy as fuck.

I ended the tirade with “Had the ideally happened this entire “conversation” would not be needed.”

As always when I go off the email-rails, I have a second, and often third, pair of eyes go over things because I sometimes forget to camouflage my natural penchant to snark my Rubenesque African American callipygian to near non-existence.

“Oooh, you are pissed!” “Damn did you at least send lube first?” were my colleagues response before I was allowed to click send.

Alas, because I am a cunning philologist (hah! Not the word you thought I would use here was it?), I am also aware that despite my best efforts to curtail my wont for multisyllabic linguistics in professional diatribes, my email diplomacy ofttimes necessitates the employment of verbiage translations. I should mention, in that one hour and a half span of composing said email and writing this slice – I am still awaiting that promised call. Thus, I am not in expectation of immediacy in response to my correspondence.

I think I will pull a Cheshire Cat now – smile and wave and disappear…

Let’s see how others are smiling and waving it out this Tuesday…

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Falling into Spring

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Fall comes fast and furious in ochre and goldenrod jewels that seeming shoved aside the abundant verdant hues of summer. For all its warm beauty I am cognizant of the oncoming days when grayed twisted bodies, shrouded in mounds of white fluff, exchange its colorful jewels for icy diamonds that drip from limbs that will scratch at the too cold skies of winter.

As I kneel in one of the garden beds, the loss of warmth and color sadden me. It’s peaty scent, petrichor after the last thunderstorm momentarily bely the seasons in my mind. I am reminded after winter comes spring and the better days that then follow. Pruning, turning over earth in preparation I remind myself I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace. Thus I bury my autumn doldrums in thoughts of spring for now.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Prosery: When it comes to Katherine Riegel

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Sanaa (aka adashofsunny) would like for us to write a Prose piece which includes the line:

“I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace.” from the poem, “What I would like to grow in my Garden.” by Katherine Riegel.

Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up of up to or exactly 144 words,
Including the given line from the poem.

Morning Scent

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The fresh scent of lawn anywhere
Can sometimes take me there
Magnolia wafting on morning breeze
Even if I cannot see the trees
Yes, sometimes a hint of sweat
Remembrances of you beget
The mourning in memory spurred
When into earth you were interred

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Quadrille #158: Morning Has Broken
dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: A World of Common Scents

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Yesterday on Quadrille Monday Linda Lee invites to put our best morning forward in a quadrille.

A Quadrille is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “morning” in your poem.

Today dVerse guest host Jo invites us to A World of Common Scents and challenges us to write a poem of scents.

Linda’s “morning has broken” struck at Melpomene who cruelly reminds pleasant scents do not always pleasant memories make.

Personal Falling

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I am aware it is still Summer. I am the person who emphatically espouses yearly that my birthday is officially in the summer, regardless that the vernal equinox follows only a couple of days later. So believe me, I well aware it is still Summer.

That being said, it’s officially Virgo season and this week I have noticed my personal markers for the coming season have begun:

  • Waking up to darkness again at 5 in the morning.
  • Being fully dark again by 9pm
  • Enough leaves have begun to descend that the groundskeepers around my job are using already using leaf blowers to clean.
  • I haven’t seen so many people wearing long sleeves since early May.
  • Last night I closed a window because the cross breeze was a bit too cool to take.

I know we still have a month of regular summer, and there’s also Autummer* to go through later in the fall season. But these past few overly humid Canicular days are starting to get to me.

Come on sweater weather!!

*Autummer – what I dub what was once known as Indian Summer, which is no longer used out of respect to Native Americans. It is that brief, yet lovely, time of year mid-to late autumn, here in the US and Europe where after it starts to feel noticeably cold, it suddenly warms up for a few days.  It is what summer should be: regular length days and acceptable heat, just before Jack Frost slips his fingers in to give a hint of what’s coming next.

Let’s see how others are chilling it out this Tuesday…

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Wordle #283 | For Now

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Sir Michaels looks out the window in his nightly watch aware that he is in a way supervised. The neighbor in passing of his own windows across the way, Mussa by name, sees him there. It is the same near every morning, in or out of the light of the moon. If one did not know him better one would think him obsessive in his watch, the neighbor is one such.

He knows folks of the town have warned Mussa to beware such gazing upon Sir Michaels in his solitude – people talk, they do little else – that Mussa would not like it if the sharp faced neighbor were to know of his nightly staring. He has spied the contents of some of the letters the senders and receivers presume are exchanged in secret. The tales told are fanciful and frightening, but remain merely tales, nonetheless.  

For now. Should that change – it will be dealt with.

It amuses him that those who claims such dire tidings as truth are unaware that Mussa already knows he has been cognizant of his spying since his first night seeing him there. Having watched for many months now, though sometimes wondering if he should be, Mussa was not worried about his neighbor. With his face slightly tilted to the sky, Mussa believes he has not been noticed. Sir Michaels prefers to let that deceit continue.

For now. Should that change – it will be dealt with.

Truth be told a part of Sir Michaels admired Mussa’s steadfast observation of him.

Thus, he remains, to Mussa’s eyes at least, a solitary figure draped in moonlight dissected by the muntined panes in the massive, mullioned windows that overlook the garden of night blooming flowers.

“Can you hear me?” Sir Michaels asks into the night.

In the distance Sir Michaels hears the very first howl of many in response. Knowing he is under a watchful eye, he who howls lessens the volume of such as he draws closer.

“Can you hear me?” Sir Michaels asks into the night again. “I know your nature says you must run. Come quickly.”

The howler is quiet as scant hints of the lightening sky foretell the coming dawn, but Sir Michaels does not move. It is near the uncomfortable hour when the first rays of El Sol start to break the jagged horizon of the London skyline. The windows face east, making it dangerous for him to be there. Still, he does not move, he cannot. Not until he knows he is safe.

“Can you hear me?” Sir Michaels asks once more, nervous as he looks at the soon to be too light sky. “I love you.”

Sir Michaels breathes a sigh of relief as a bulk of dark silver fur rubbed against his leg and under his hand. He smiles as he feels his hand rise as the wolf becomes man in the sunlight.

“I hear you. I love you.” Lord Gregon rises from his lupine form, his arms around Sir Michaels, his hands in  the man for only a brief moment before he dissipates in the day’s sunlight becoming a gyrfalcon that lands  on his shoulder.

Across the way Mussa gives a slight shake of his head in acknowledgement of the uneventful night to Lord Gregon. He sighs and greets the guard of the day shift, before turning from the window, his watch done. He hopes, as he does each new day, that a cure for cursed lovers who crossed a madman’s path and that doomed them before he died is fond. They are safe.

For now.

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Wordle #283

howl, beware, obsessive, neighbor, rubbed, admired
supervised, shake, uncomfortable, letters, claims, moon

Use the above ten words in short story or poem.

On Parade in the AM

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7:27am my desk: I am standing at my keyboard going through my usual morning routine as I log in. My earbuds are in, my iPod has RATM blasting because while my body is on the job, the rest of me is still asleep in bed. A colleague passing by sees my very enthusiastic headbanging, looks at me like the very insane person I am, and pronounces “No, it’s too early. No.”

Because she arrived at a perfect moment in the song – I look at her, smile benignly and when the beat drops in my ears a moment later, I raise both hands high – full on rock fingers gesticulating – face scrunched befitting the song’s mood and reply in her face with “🎵Come with it now! 🎶“

She understandably blinks at my unexpected response then shakes her head laughing clearly knowing the song by that one lyric sung even if she can’t hear it herself. “Nope, MUCH too early for that.”

“Hey, I just walked in I’m not awake yet,” I laugh as she walks away while I head-bang on and continue with my checks.

“Have you tried coke?” she asks as she reaches the corner.

And because I really am not quite awake yet, therefore honestly thinking about the caffeine boost, I hear a fading disembodied voice around a corner call out “And I don’t mean the stuff in the can.”

I settled for my usual morning IV infusion of C25H28N6O7, and C12H22O11, aka coffee black 20oz with 2 tsp sugar; but now all I can imagine is a series of horned Red Bull cans carrying banners as they follow a white powdered line down the street stomping in tune to RATM.

[For those not into such – RATM is Rage Against The Machine, an American Rock band and their song I reference is the very loud and very thrashing Bulls On Parade.]

Let’s see how others are rocking and slicing out this Tuesday…

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To Sleep

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Then you laid me down to sleep

In cotton coddled

For sweet dreams ‘til my eyes open

Thus days and nights wrap round the world

‘Till now I lay you down to sleep

In linens layered

But on your eyes I place a token

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Quadrille #156

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Tonight Mish hosts at the pub and wants us to “wrap” things up in a quadrille.

A Quadrille is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “wrap”, or some form of the word, in your poem.

Loving You In Silence

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Loving you in silence

Is seeing you so much
Talking with you so often
And yet knowing
For you there is nothing to say
Or anything to see
Of me at all

Loving you in silence

Is watching
Your heart grow fonder
For someone else
And I find I am honestly
Wishing you happiness
As the tears
I’d never cry without
Fall hard within

Loving you in silence

Is seeing the light of your smile
Shining so brightly
As we chat about the future
And that when you say “we”
You will never mean “us”

Loving you in silence

Is knowing the chance
Of what might have been
Is forever overshadowed
By the reality
Of what will never be
Loving you in silence

Is realizing
It is what it is
Because sometimes
The only way to hold on
Is to let go
And I can finally
Move on

Amicable

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Faces
To sun
It’s over, done
We cheer and root
Grabbing all the Absolute

Long
We’ve waited
How we’ve anticipated
For this fine date
All the ways we’d celebrate

The
Finalized papers
Turn to vapors
All troubles we carried
Much better friends than married

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Quadrille #155—Let’s Celebrate

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Merril hosts at dVerse and wants us to “celebrate” in a quadrille.

Some couples do celebrate their divorce amicably.

A Quadrille is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “celebrate”, or some form of the word, in your poem.