Day 95 - Happy Birthday Kayley

The Queen
Royal clad in skinnies
a blazer and a toque.
With clunky rings of silver
and kick ass vintage boots.

A fan of Dickenson,
of Emma, Char, and Anne.
A feminist fiasco,
strong and smart and savvy.

Smiles wide, laughs loud,
and tweets wise wit.
Hippy birthday to you
our Majesty, the Hipster Queen.

Day 94 - WOW this is bad

The Puck
Round as hockey's puck
Makes spectators upchuck

Like those who drank too much,
but from icing, not booze as such.

So conniseurs are sick
every time they lick

the white and yummy muck
off the oreo puck.

Day 93 - There's probably nobody out there anymore, but whatever

Slogging
My gloves are on.
M boots are tied.
My big hat pulled low.

I wade into the sludge,
gripping the handle
tightly. Prepared
for the ripple,
the first sign of trouble
in the water.

I see it.
A tremor on the chin
of the bank.
A single drop
of the pond.

I watch the face;
the quivering, trembling face
of the bog.

Thick bubbles grow and burst.
A deep schluck, and another, and more.
I see a small crest
in the slime.
It lurches toward me.
I brace myself,
and my wordnet.

Two eyes meet mine,
the beast's.
I stand my ground.
She starts to redescend
into wet safety.
I slap the surface of the swamp,
refusing to be ignored.
The eyes reappear,
their surface glossed by gleams of malice,
or, wait, a tear.

A moment of calm,
a moment to breathe
but neither of us do.

The pounce.
She lunges.
A torrent of water, and the slop, fly at me.
I pounce too,
leading with the net.
She snarls, caught,
unable to flee, as she likes,
from the fight.

The thrashing begins.
It starts angry, agressive.
Becomes terrified, erratic.
Finishes panicked, desperate.

Her pain hurts.
I freeze, then free her and fling aside the net.
We tumble together into the mud,
me holding her, her holding tears.
Through the pale brown
she is invisible.
I worry I am losing her.
For a moment she slips away.

But then we bring each other back.