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
"Let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the
spirit. For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own
mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the
unprofitable is caught."
-kahlil Gibran
Interestingly enough, I deliberately cast a net a few years ago,
and in so doing, despite my oppositional flailings against its
very nature, the 'catch' quite inadvertently developed,
through a love and friendship unlike any other I have known,
into a profound deepening of my spirit, one not unlike what
Mr. Gibran speaks of.
~M.Y.M.
Kahlil Gibran quote from Google Search
Poetry and Image: All Rights Reserved Marcela Mrnka, please share
but do attribute. Thank you.
~M.
Cold-drunken Hoars, drop
frosty icicle diamonds
in the grassy ditch
Marcela: itching to go walkabout,
January 17, 2019
Irons in fires
and babies in bathwater
burning hands on hot choices
tossing dreams with the gray matter
Dead horses are flogged
and red herrings are leaders
drown on dry land
cry-cry the bleeders
Cats bark up the wrong trees
and worship false gods
disheveled deliriums
reverence for frauds
Covet glittering fool’s gold
and turning blind eyes
doves are but pigeons
baked blackbird pies
Stitch in time saving nine
and the madd hatter’s head gear
leaches mercury anyway
insane-inside voices leer jeer and snear
Knights in armour so shiny
and heads up in clouds
chainmails breed rust
glory dreams become shrouds
Hold feet to wildfires
and get raked over coals
an ingrate's in-gratitude
shown to kind souls
Hands unfit to hold candles
and heads full of loose screws
hold powerful offices
govern from pews
Low men on high horses
and caught with pants down
got nil on Godiva
gadding all about town
Pots call kettles black
and once upon a blue moon
justice prevails
victories small and hard hewn
Keeping nose to the grindstone
and paying with arms legs and heart
a fertile mind screams
just keep making art
Get your three squares
and beeline to the hive
but find the bumblers and fumblers
they are your tribe
Life in a pickle jar
and facing the music
pay heed inner wild children
they are the muses
Make all days red letter
and pull out all the stops
climb trees climb mountains
view your world from hilltops
live high on that hog
for yours doth have wings
and when lift-off fails
get up on a swing
Affix rose coloured glasses
and don your finest of finery
misbegotten cretins remain
but you’ll make damn fine scenery
~Marcela: Idiomatically yours.
November 11, 2018
Poetry: All Rights Reserved, please share with attribution
Image: 
