Crab Pot

Crab Mentality


They call him Crabby Appleton
Tho’ his given name is Gerard
He holds no degree
from any university
He came up fast and hard.


Born just a common sewer rat
He learned at quite a young age
that slipping through cracks
and dealing out wacks
meant spending some time in ‘the cage’.


“There’s got to be a better way!”
He’d exclaimed to his man, Hench
upon his last release
for the quick cut and fleece
of some love birds on a park bench.


On a lark he decided on cracking a book
A thick one, filled chuck full of laws
twas there that he learned
a guy wouldn’t get burned
if he had him a slick set of jaws.


He caught a ride, straight out of the street
and into the house on the hill
by catching some wind
that a senator’d sinned
By messing round with some Judges, Jill.


From there the sky was the limit
as he had made all the proper connects
he won every election
as the only selection
For public servants who value their necks.


So, Vote for Crabby Appleton
Throw in with the self-saving lot
he smiles and he waves
an’ sends men to their graves
as he scales the electoral crab pot.

Written for Chelsea Ann Owens Terrible Poetry Contest, the topic this week is vermin politics, or something kinda’ close to that..

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Leon Hodges

Old man on youtube

Ain’t never knowed no one like ol’ Leon Hodges. All piss, vinegar, and moonshine. Had a mouth a man shouldn’t a et with, couldn’t read a book, d’nt know a letter from a line.

He told some great tall tales tho’, ‘bout women, an wine, an song. Don’t know the truth of nar a one, ‘ccept ’bout how his first marriage up an’ done gone wrong.

Don’t know if he had any chi’drn, if he did, he never spoke a none to me, and I’d a have ta say he woulda, as I was prolly close to him, as another man could be.

When the news come of his passin’, it come down hard up on my heart- I ain’t gone lie. I’ll tell ya the truth, that mans leavin’ done tore this man apart.

All the times I shook my head and said, ‘You damn ol’ bastard liar!’, I’d give anything for one more night, with ol’ Leon, spinnin’ yarns in front o’ a good hot fire.

He was a good man, bl’eive that, cause I wouldn’t tell you no lie, was the best damn friend I ever had. Gol dang it Leon! Why’d ya up ‘n die?

Posted for Chelsea Ann Owens Terrible Poetry Contest, subject this week, write an elegy to something that you have misplaced- so I got close.

She

Crimson’s Creative Challenge #22

She liked to pretend she had taken the road less traveled. She told herself she was in every way, unique. She envisioned herself as having risen above the masses. But in truth, her heart was hard, her ardors weak.

She found herself alone in her mid thirties. By her mid forties she’d become romantically involved, with death. In her fifties, she found herself rightfully imprisoned. A time out, in which she used, to catch her breath.

Oh, she still walks to the beat, of her own drummer. She still sees things, just a little bit askew. But today she’s a little older, and a whole lot wiser. And truth be told, she’s not a whole lot different- than you…

Written for Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge Photo Prompt, and Eugenia’s Brew n Spew Cafe’s Word Prompt; Pretend.

Silence

If they spoke a her birth, she never heard ‘em. If they blamed her for mamas dyin’, she was unaware. If they thought she was less than, ‘cause she couldn’t hear ‘em, they was wrong. ’cause she never knowed, and could’na cared.

As a babe she never cried, so they called her Silence. As a child she never spoke, nothin’ ta say. When she was eight, she tended house, for her papa. There in silence, cookin’ an mendin’, filled her days.

When she was twelve, they brought a man ’round, name a Henry. When she was fifteen, papa sent her off, to be his wife. She cried inside, that night, when he done it to her, but in silence, she accepted her new life.

Season passed, and she could see, her belly growin’. When Henry patted, her belly bump, it made him smile. But when the pains come, she had, no way a knowin’, that Li’l Henry, had been in there, all the while.

With Henry workin’, sun up to down, in the fields. With no papa, no kit or kin, all this was new. She learned herself, how to care, for Li’l Henry. He spent his days, and learned the ways, of silence too…

Posted for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt word: Silence. “How you use the prompt is up to you.”

Gingerbread

The photo is mine.

She languishes in the window seat peering dreamily thru sunlit glass, upon the lush rolling hills of wild flowers, and endless seas of emerald grass.

On the breeze the scent of hyacinth, and fresh baked cinnamon apple pie, kept warm by a sun that never sets- held aloft, in springs eternal azure sky.

She is adorned, in the crispest organdy, trimmed in exquisite Italian lace, as a halo of flame kissed ringlets, frame her inordinately delicate face.

She is a vision, of unattainable perfection that exists solely inside her own head- where she remains inadequacies prisoner, in a cage made of gingerbread…