Quackery Wackery Dock, ye, yes ye, our Quackdom Queen,
hath doth run out of socks!
Tho multitudinous, thy choice of footwear, and never (ever), lacking frocks,
a fine mess ye royal dressing chamber, so tidy, clean and launder,
ere thy head done doth befound itself, on ye olde chopping block!
June 30, 2019
~Marcela: taking poetic license and squishing lines… rebel rebel, but doing it, as ever, finely and fun-ly clad, for I have indulged my penchant, for (too) many choices… let it be known, however, that most often, this Queen prefers to purchase previously loved (thereby planet friendly), high end/well-made (thereby lasting a very long time), attire and previously noted multitudinous pairs of footwear.
Day 2: Who was the last person you texted? Write a five line poem to that person.
It so happens, that I was the last person I texted. I often send myself reminders, and this one was about some measurement or other in ye Royal Dressing Chamber, the last room in the new Quackdom, still requiring significant attention…
Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under 30 Days 30 Poems, Poetry
My oppositional flailings
to the expectation-less relationship
you desired,
have inadvertently
weathered my person
into a deepening of spirit,
reminiscent of the sea-years
etched upon your face
dearest Sailor.
With the persistence
of waves on stone
at the seashore,
these flailings and failings
have smoothed
harmful rough edges,
jagged bits of a younger, old me
no longer useful
to anyone.
And I am grateful.
Not despite,
but because of,
that which my net
failed to capture.
~Marcela: version 57.9 despite myself.
June 22, 2019