Insomnia

Prompt: Earworm

dreams

Once there was a way,
To get back homeward.

Once there was a way
To get back home.

Sleep, pretty darling,
Dot not cry
And I will sing a lullaby.

Golden slumbers,
Fill your eyes
Smiles await you when you rise.

Sleep pretty darling
Do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby.

My brain is oh-so-literal, judging from the soundtrack it’s put together for insomnia. But the brain forgets that the insomniac will bounce through soothing lyrics in triple time, completely neutralizing their somnolent qualities.

Still, it’s a lovely song, from the Beatles’s Abbey Road album. Lovely, but with something angry bubbling to get out. Perhaps my insomnia soundtrack should be more ragey (let it all out before sleep) or more sweet (no hidden anger).

Or I could take a pill.

Death and Tennis

Prompt: Impossible

black dog

A scruffy black dog runs across the court, black on blue
Sniffs the crotch of the ball boy
Takes a lap
Tongue lolling
Looks for me

She serves
An ace
The black dog scoops up the green ball
Looks for me

He flies over the net
Lands softly
On soft pads
Looks for me

It is his dream
I am there
Find me.

Autobiography

Prompt: Autobiography

clown-on-fence

Ups and downs
Cheese and clowns
A moustache here
An Afro there
Homemade wine
A Bartlett pear
An orange van
A string of lights
Tea-stained days
Neglected nights
The Marseillaise
A drop of sweat
A barren page
A private jet
A vacant stage
A patron saint
To paraphrase:
Fingerpaint.

Tiny Umbrella

Prompt: None

freddie

Hello Wednesday!

In a departure from tradition, this post is not related to a prompt, nor is the post meaningfully related to the images that accompany it. (Just call me crazy and wild!) It’s just that the following has rattled around in my head for over a day now, so it’s time to let it loose:

Your family’s home
They wanna be fed
But you are confused and tired and stressed 
And would rather be dead!

We are the caterers, my friends
And we’ll keep on cooking ’til the end
We are the caterers
We are the caterers
No time for stress dreams
‘Cause we are the caterers of the world!

Who knows what it means
It’s only a dream
But when it’s night after night after night
You just wanna scream!

We are the caterers, my friends
And we’ll keep on cooking ’til the end
We are the caterers
We are the caterers
No time for stress dreams
‘Cause we are the caterers of the world!

Do you have recurring, repetitive anxiety dreams? I do, and they get so frustrating— and so boring— that I am trying new strategies to keep them at bay.

The kitchen/ cooking dream had almost faded away, once I conjured up detailed images of a singing catering crew who would pop into the middle of the stress dream as soon as I saw the dreaded big kitchen. Now my dreams are getting sneaky. The big cookpots are only slowly revealed. The ingredients and guest list keep changing…

I suppose if I dealt with the cause of this particular recurring dream it would go away for good. But for the life of me, I can’t figure it out.

Apropos of nothing, may I present, since it’s Wednesday, a few of my favourite cartoons?

cartoon nice wave

cartoon leo-cullum-may-i-have-a-tiny-umbrella-in-this-ernie-i-m-on-vacation-new-yorker-cartoon_a-G-9184361-8419447

cartoon bliss-are-you-as-excited-as-i-am-new-yorker-cartoon_a-l-9269896-8419449


Wishing you an excitement-filled week—

~~FP

Rhymes with Sandwich [Repost]

Prompt: Sneaky

witch-image

This was, I think, the first weekly 100-word challenge that I submitted to an online group a while ago. The prompt was “Rhymes with Itch” and I remember the group leader being surprised that I took the challenge so literally.

Rhymes with Itch

Sneaky Footsnap was a snitch,
He had a plan to make it rich.
Bertha Cussmore was a witch,
Who made a fortune selling pitch.
Sneaky dressed up like the bitch
Certain none would note the switch.
His clever ruse had one small hitch,
Sneaky Footsnap had a twitch.
By virtue of this telling glitch
Sneaky wound up in the ditch,
Lifeless, cold, without a stitch.


How’s Waldo?

Prompt: Identity


Dear Wednesday,

Who the hell do you think you are? Or, more calmly, do you think you possess a reliable self-awareness, or are you kidding yourself?

How do we gauge our level of self awareness; how do we crack the code of what our “identity”— the fact of being who or what a person or thing is; self, selfhood, singularity, uniqueness— actually entails?

I think we all should be able to express our singularity in a western haiku poem. What, you are more complicated than that? No, you’re not. You have more similarities with the billions of other people in the world than you have differences. You like walking in the rain, Red Bull, sardines, Persian carpets? You loathe hypocrisy, mistrust the medical establishment, secretly love dogs more than people, admire those who don’t give a shit about what others think of them? Congratulations! You’re not unique.

English haiku is a three-line composition, broken down into 5-7-5 syllables, and featuring a lean, elegant style which often references nature or an unexpected juxtaposition of subjects (according to Wikipedia, if you need a source). But the western version is flexible, should anyone find the constraints too difficult.

Opaque surface pierced
By sunlight and forgiveness
Empty shell beneath.

That’s me after a five-minute attempt. I found it hard. Try it?

Meanwhile, cartoons about the topic and prompt identity are not abundant, though the first (and maybe second, least likely the third, but possible) of today’s selection of some of my favourite cartoons is tangentially so related:

cartoon waldo wonders


cartoon superheroes in underwear


cartoon duck hunting


Nanowrimo is coming soon, so off to prep. Happy week!

~~FP