#Micropoetry Monday: Opposites

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He was Shakespeare,
she, greeting cards.
She saw in him,
a man who took himself too seriously,
even as he saw her as a woman
who didn’t take herself seriously enough.
He exposed her to words
that meant something,
even as she exposed him to words
that had once meant something
to someone
on their best days &
on their worst days.

He wrote love stories,
she, romance novels.
Each believed the other
to be inferior—
hers in literary merit,
his in marketplace value,
though they both practiced
self-love
by doing what they loved.

She was finishing school,
he, vocational.
She made rumors people used
for the detriment
of their peers,
whereas he made things people could use
for the benefit of them.
When she decided she wanted
to “go slumming”
by trying someone new,
he told her that he only knew how
to work with wood,
not stone.

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#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book

mormoni

We were in our own little world—a world in which Mother did not fit.  Even as she & David belonged together, so did David & I, in our own way, in a way the 3 of us together never could.

Empowerment was allowing myself to believe in something I could not see, & yet, to believe in something greater than ourselves was to be under their rule.

I was not called, but given a calling.  I was to work for the Church for free, & pay them on top of that for the opportunity to do so. 

Mormons assigned callings, & I realized how many tentacles they had—through 3-hour church services, Enrichment meetings, Visiting Teaching, Institute, & now, a job in the Church.

I knew then that he didn’t believe the Church was true—he loved a lie because it was a beautiful lie—a lie that gave him power over those who were true believers.

I bore false witness that the Church was true, & prayed for God to have mercy on my soul if I was right.

There was something creepy about a grown man asking me if I’d been obeying the law of chastity, for what happened between a man & a woman in the bedroom was between them, & no one else but the God who had made them.

God had called me to serve in the nursery, something I knew nothing about.  Just as He’d called Noah to build the Ark.  Yet how easy it was to say that “God said.”

I didn’t question.  I knew better than that, for as it was said, so it was believed:  When our leaders speak, the thinking has been done.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #482: Brief

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Dad’s Briefcase

Like Mama’s purse,
for Lyle & Lyla Ledbetter,
Dad’s briefcase contained all the secrets of adulthood:
the bundles of bills he called “Monopoly money,”
the dice without dots he called “sugar cubes for the mules,”
& the little bottles that looked like perfume samples–
“the stuff dreams were made of.”
For children,
life was not seeing
but rather,
not understanding what they were seeing.

https://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/wednesday-poetry-prompts-482

 

#Micropoetry Monday: The Lighter Side

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Orange hated being compared with Apple,
as he was quite pithy & had a zest for life,
whereas Apple,
although not without a peel,
didn’t know the difference
between a screwdriver & a mimosa.

He was forgiven for his culinary sins—
squirting ketchup on hot dogs
& spooning sugar in his grits—
when he made the cruelty-free,
gluten-free,
& flavor-free brownies that,
nevertheless,
put them all in a good humor.

Deciding to peel off some pounds,
Apple, Banana, & Pear Shapely
went to the gym,
only to have Hourglass
give them several karate chops &
pour them into smoothies.

#Micropoetry Monday: Dream in Chocolate When You’re Feeling Blue

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Bryan Dark & Sara White
had always been at odds—
Mr. Dark claiming antioxidant powers &
that Miss White wasn’t real chocolate.
When they came together—
she, as a coating
& he, a filling,
they realized that although they were different,
they were also equal.

He called them chocolate balls,
she called them truffles.
He said she was too fancy,
she said he was too plain,
but when their child called them bonbons,
they realized that no matter what you called them,
by any other name,
they tasted the same
(but always just a little better dark).

He was all kinds of eye candy—
this hunk of white chocolate with
a soft center that melted her heart.
She never got to unwrap this temptation
in the shiny peppermint paper,
so she satisfied her cravings
by noshing on the darkest nougat—
an activity that packed on the calories
rather than burned them.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

David was my watchdog,
for beware,
he’d always said,
to churches asking for money—
that filthy lucre—
to these tax-exempt businesses
that were more interested
in saving one’s soul
than one’s life,
in praying for you,
thus passing the buck to God,
rather than doing something to help you
themselves.

For the answer to the prayers
of many Mormons
were different than the answer
to mine,
so who was to say that this person
or that person
was praying in the wrong spirit?
For my answer had come in a dream,
not from a feeling.

I became a checklist Mormon,
for it was more important what we did,
rather than what we believed—
just as our salvation was more about
what we could do,
than what He did.

Mother had been as Jacob,
David, Leah,
for he’d come unto my mother
masquerading
as her beloved Patrick,
& lay with her.
But David did not labor 7 years
for her;
he’d simply waited.

I saw the Bible as truth
through allegories.
I didn’t see Adam & Eve
so much as real,
but as representations
of every kind of
humankind.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #481: Writer

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Ann M. Martin

Her books were a beloved part of my girlhood.
I remember she loved “I Love Lucy”
& looked like a schoolteacher–
that is, if Ellie Walker from “The Andy Griffith Show”
had taken Helen Crump’s place
before “Helen the Grump” had been written into existence.
I remember thinking her middle name just had to be Marie
because it fit her “That Girl” appearance.
I remember thinking that it must be the greatest job in the world
for one’s books to be adored by little girls all around the world.
I remember thinking of myself as an honorary Baby-Sitters Club member–
the one you never read about but existed nevertheless–
for I wasn’t shy around these girls.  
As I read her bio now,
I learn that she taught autistic children (I teach my own),
that she loved Roald Dahl
& wrote for her college newspaper,
that math was her least favorite subject
& that her fourth-grade teacher (third for me)
told her that she was a wonderful writer.
I think that maybe I liked this lady–
what little I knew from her blurb in the back all those years ago–
because I saw myself in her,
or saw in her,
what I hoped I might
someday become.

https://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/wednesday-poetry-prompts-481