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Photo finish Friday: “Fit”

One size rarely fits all -- except possibly to entice all to fits.

One size rarely fits all — except possibly to entice all to fits.

Fit

Yard Sale – we have hot pants!
Stop! Buy today and take a glance.
Try a pair – they’re over there
Under the bicycle kit for repair.

“Women’s Plus Size Petite Pants”
Marketing words meant to entrance.
That’s how they’re being sold online.
They can be yours: they once were mine.

Wore them once and put them away.
“Petite, my ass,” is all I’ll say.
But they’re a treasure beyond all measure
and they’re here today to give you pleasure.

Yard Sale – we have hot pants.
Stop! Buy today and give them a chance.
You want a pair, I know you do.
Make that two or three or quite a few.

–Photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Photo finish Friday: “Spring table”

The weather and calendar turn to spring. Invariably, there will be picnics. Here's a writing prompt. Build a scene, story, or poem around it.

The weather and calendar turn to spring. Invariably, there will be picnics. Here’s a writing prompt. Build a scene, story, or poem around it.

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Photo finish Friday: “Starting off”

Photo prompt: what's the first idea that comes to mind?

Photo prompt: what’s the first idea that comes to mind?

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Photo finish Friday: “13 divided by pie”

What did the guru say?

What did the guru say?

I went into the woods today
a question on my mind.
I did not expect it,
but a guru I did find.

Young and fair of hair,
she sat in the eye of a thatch.
Bright were her clothes,
brightest thing in the wooded patch.

I approached with care
afraid I might frighten her away.
She bade me come closer,
“Do you have a question today?”

I said that I did
and proceeded to try to ask.
It was about triskaidekaphobia,
but she said that would simply pass.

“It’s a silly number
falling on a Friday.
If that is all you have,
then you have no reason to stay.”

I turned to leave her,
feeling suitably rebuffed
when she said she had a question
if I thought I had the right stuff.

Then she paused a minute
and I told her I would try.
She said she wanted to know
about this day they called pie.

“What types of pie,” she asked,
“will there be on pie day?
If I come out of the woods
can I taste whatever I may?”

I thought it through a minute
then realized what she meant
but if she were looking pie
this might not be her event.

I told her 3.1415 was
what this day was about.
She looked up to the sky
and then I heard her shout:

“Just another lousy number
when all I wanted was a slice.
Take two radii and form a wedge
of blackberry would be nice.

“Add a scoop of ice cream
to this little wedge of pie.
Is that too much to ask?”
and then I heard her cry.

I quietly left the woods
tiptoeing over roots and rocks
vowing never to complain
to a guru with golden locks.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Photo finish Friday: “Time’s up”

The spring has sprung Savings Time has fell and here comes idiocy cold as hell.

The spring has sprung
Savings Time has fell
and here comes idiocy
cold as hell.

Daylight Savings Time

by David E. Booker

Time to lose an hour

What else can I say?

It’s coming March 8th,

Early A-M that day.

Clocks will spring forward

Even though I may not.

An hour will disappear

But in my body, not forgot.

Charge ahead we must

Into this time-warped fray.

It is a stupid thing

to give an hour away.

‘Tis a great shenanigan

A political cluster duck

That has led us to this day

With which we now are stuck.

So when you go to vote

Remember who took away

This hour of sleep or fun,

And all without any pay.

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Photo finish Friday: “Ice on a wire”

Ice encrusted plastic beads on a metal wire.

Ice encrusted plastic beads on a metal wire.

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Random act of poetry: “Knitted beard”

The knitted beard.

The knitted beard.

O’ knitted beard
you feel so weird
strapped up against my face.

My neighbors point,
get their noses out of joint,
and say I’m out-of-place.

I’m a circus freak
but cold air can’t leak
up onto my chin.

When warm weather hits
I’ll remove this mitt
and be clean-shaven again.

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Photo finish Friday: “Bug out”

The attack of the metal-eating bugs from Mars was stopped dead in its tracks not by military firepower or industrial genius, but by rust and cold weather.

The attack of the metal-eating bugs from Mars was stopped dead in its tracks not by military firepower or industrial genius, but by rust and cold weather.

What will happen come Spring? Nobody is sure.

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Photo finish Friday: “Strata”

Ages from now, when archeologists dig up the strata of our time, it won't be rock, but miles and miles deep of processed paper and envelopes.

Ages from now, when archeologists dig up the strata of our time, it won’t be rock, but miles and miles deep of processed paper and envelopes.

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Photo finish Friday: “Little brown apple”

Apple on a fence.

Apple on a fence.

I don’t know, but maybe I ought not
to have shoved this apple onto this spot.
For here it will remain
with no one to explain
as it shrivels away and begins to rot.

Poor little apple in my lunch
I spiked you away just on a hunch
that that brown spot
looked like food rot
and not something I’d want to munch.

Children are starving in places like China
or just down the street from a nearby diner.
Yet food by the bunches
goes uneaten after brunches
from fast-food shops and places much finer.

Bugs may come and have a heyday,
picking at the remains of the apple’s decay.
Eating away this fine shiner,
once bright as a light to a miner,
it’s soon dull and brown and shapeless as clay.

Good or evil? Oh, what have I done?
I’ve not fed the apple to anyone.
No nutrition for play.
Oh, how I’ve gone astray:
I should had eaten it or given it to someone.

I don’t know, but maybe I ought not
to have shoved this apple onto this spot.
For here it will remain
with no one to explain,
and even a homeless man will leave it to rot.

–by David E. Booker

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