Thursday, September 19, 2013

The Alphabet Project U Through Z



U is for Umbilical


Prompt: Ululate, udder, undulate, ukulele, ulcer, uranium, Uranus, unicorn, Ulysses, uncle, uno, unicycle, unisex. Ursula, umbrella, uppity, umbilical, umbra, utterly, unique, umbrage, Underoos, Underdog, underarm, undone
 

I have a friend named Ursula. She has a great big brain.
You’d think that fact a blessing but instead it is her bane.
She has imagination far beyond us mortal folk.
She has so many cool ideas her neural paths can choke!

 

While at her uncle’s house one day (an uppity old coot)
She said “you have to see this!” In her hand was eye of newt!
“Why Ursula, that’s quite unique” I said without a hitch.
She smiled. “My pal Ulysses taught me how to be a witch!”

 

I thought “I must be dreaming, or unwittingly drank booze!
This girl just couldn’t cast a spell, she still wears Underoos!” 

She saw what I was thinking, in a bubble o’er my head.
“You believe me or I’ll send you to Uranus pal” she said!

 

So I bought it stock and barrel, she’s a witch and that’s for sure!
(Now I keep my inner thoughts more closely guarded and obscure) 

So I said “how ‘bout you show me what a witch can really do?”
She replied “Hold on, I’ll take us to my Manse du Cordon Bleu!”

 

I closed my eyes as counseled and I felt a little breeze;
Then Ukulele music nearly dropped me to my knees!
My ulcer started whining until soothed by English Horn;
She said “Ok we’re here now”… from atop a unicorn!

 

“Can I…” she stopped me right away, “No unicorn for you!”
She said “get on that unicycle lying there askew!”
I had to ask the clown if he’d relinquish his one wheel.
He said “You never cross a witch, of course Monsieur Surreal!”

 

So on we went, down Umbra lane, a dark and gloomy road.
Some wolves began to ululate, they seemed in chatty mode.
But soon we came to Unoville, and Manse du Cordon Bleu,
and there began a little show she called “The Witch Review!”

 

She lined up toads for kissing, each a prince enthralled by hex.
I said “You know their genders?” “She said “Toads are unisex!”
And soon the evil witch’s spells were undone by a smack.
Then Ursula said “Oh my dear, it’s time to take you back!”

 

She whipped out an umbrella and began to conjugate.
She chanted all her subsets, we began to undulate!
As if we’d touched uranium we both began to glow!
She had me frightened utterly, (though that’s the status quo)

 

We flew at speeds approaching sound, my underarms were chafed
I shouted “Even Underdog might not think this is safe!”
But soon we’re on the good old ground, inside her uncle’s barn
She said “I have some chores to do, some udder pulling; Darn!”

 

I left her to her milking cows and ran myself back home
I hoped she’d not take umbrage at this winding, rhymey tome
But you see I had to write it down before I could forget
It’s like a text umbilical; we’re tied by this vignette!





V is for Voluminous


 
My archive is voluminous, a million words or more
Although I think “delightful”, most the world thinks” what a bore”
There’s no interactive whirlygigs in poetry or prose
There’re no guns to shoot, or baseball bats to whack them on the nose

 

It takes more than 20 seconds to assimilate one piece
It’s enough to move the passersby to call the time police
Words require concentration, multitaskers can’t deduce
If I wrote about a puppy they would see a rabid moose

 

I’m just glad I love the process, execution makes me smile
It can scrub away the fretfulness of daily, shouted bile
Just so long as I stay happy through my own pernicious bent
I will pen these ditties even though they’ll never pay the rent



                              W is for Wainscot

 
I miss the days of city life, the smell of bread upon the breeze
The houses kept from crumbling by two extra coats of paint
The grand piano windows bearing glass of many colors high
on walls composed of lath and plaster, illustrating quaint

 

I miss the sound of sirens and the buzz of electricity
that hum along the power grid that whispers “I’m alive”
The people waiting for their bus, the pets tied up at grocery doors
the vestige of “community” that suburbs just contrive

 

I miss the wainscot and the hutch, the picture rail and papered walls
I miss the lousy floor plans with no closets and steep stairs
I miss the oak six panel doors, the windows masked in winter’s frost
I miss the subtle dignity of life without its “airs.”

 

I once created character from virgin cloth and memory
I tried to move a mountain with a shovel and a pen
At that I lost, and now I’m here in Placidville awaiting dark
yet reveling in those good thoughts of times long passed again





X is for Xenophobe


 
Ms. Pron called me a xenophobe because I hate her son
She says I’m Asian prejudiced, she fears I have a gun
I’ve tried to tell her I’m just fine, a regular old guy
and that my only phobia’s of labels misapplied

 

A xeno hates a populous, a “someone not like us”
my dislikes have no preference, I don’t distinguish thus.
“I hate your son” I said “as he’s a bully and a puke;
the fact that he’s a foreigner is just a lucky fluke.”





 Y is for Елена (Yelena) (Helen)


 
Each hair was silver, cream and rust, each tip a midnight black
Her eyes shone blue as autumn skies once summer won’t come back
she stole my heart by nibbling on one unguarded ear
I named her for a friend of mine, a Russian princess dear

 

Yelena was more cat than dog, just tolerating love
she’d show her boredom with her teeth, right through my leather glove
but she was just a babe you know, a puppy on the prowl
not even of that ripe old age when Huskies learn to howl

 

She ran away one winter’s eve when temps were well below
We thought her dead but looked around next morning in the snow
and there she was, come stumbling out from a neighbor’s wood
She’d built a little igloo there, her Huskiness made good

 

Another month she blessed our lives until one day she fell
while running over drifts to me, she didn’t seem too well
I carried her into the house and called a local vet
We just had lost our Nicolas, we couldn’t lose her yet

 

We soon were told she had a heart that wasn’t quite all there
she’d need an operation soon, an opulent repair
and then a life of leisure and a daily hidden pill
she lives or dies, we must decide; each prospect made me ill

 

We settled on the chance to run, we couldn’t end her days
I wandered to inform her of her critical malaise
but she had found her favorite place and curled up to die
she’d breathed her last below my desk and whispered her goodbye

 

I buried her below the Watch, near Nick but on her own
amidst tall grass and black eyed Sues, I built a little throne
and there a dogwood sprouted from a seed from God knows where
a fitting live memorial for canine lady fair




                             Z is for Zealotry


Oh woe for human zealotry and all its ugly spawn

The tangled web of self-deceit, the autocratic brawn

a passion taken to excess, a dogma as a sword

the poison that is spent to keep one’s ox from being gored



Beware the righteous and their kin, the always on the mark

those zombies fond of talking points and pitchforks in the dark

Take heed they cover both our flanks, they’ve commandeered high ground

by courting ambiguity their kings of fools are crowned



Stand fast the armies of good will and keep those bastards out

Those roguish fundamentalists, those humanists devout

Keep centered and avoid the wings, let firebrands be snuffed

Be one with temperate balance, let the zealots be rebuffed


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