Musings by The Poet Loriet
The Strangest Dream
The Strangest Dream
Morning coffee brews
while the dinner chickens
revolt me by scratching
their chicken butts.
I glance out the window
at red gingham airplanes
flying in blue cotton candy
sky.
Rubbing my eyes,
I pass the eskimo
perched upon my toilet.
"Hey, Nanook!,"
I yell...
"Don't strain, it will
make your eye veins purple!"
He thanks me,
shaking soggy salmon
out of his mukluks.
I make peanut butter and jelly
for the kids lunches--
but not for my psychic.
She abstains because
it gives her
an awful scalp rash,
throwing off her visions.
I dispose of the rude chickens,
instead planning to sautee'
seven-up salmon surprise,
but wait--
Who planted daisies in
my stove burners?
Wading through knee-high
lemon grasses sprouting
through my Armstrong tiles,
I let the hermit crabs in--
they were scratching
at the door.
The eskimo has
left the building,
so I go to my bathroom sink,
spray whipped cream
under my arms
and prepare to shave.
I also need to find the Q-tips
because I'm quite annoyed
at the green tea
trickling from my auricles.
The windchimes in the back yard
play Clare de la Lune.
Green vines,
ripe with flowering silverware
sprout from the dishwasher,
nourished by steam.
All is in order.
I wrap the kids
in flour tortillas,
tucking them
into the bathtub.
They stare back at me
with goldfish eyes.
I get the sinking feeling
that I'm forgetting
something.
Hmmmm,
I knew I shouldn't have
opened my umbrella
inside.
I'll ponder this
another day
for today I have
a quite rigid
schedule.
I shrug
and glance again
at my to-do list.
Now, what on earth
should I cook
for dinner?
Lori Beal
Morning coffee brews
while the dinner chickens
revolt me by scratching
their chicken butts.
I glance out the window
at red gingham airplanes
flying in blue cotton candy
sky.
Rubbing my eyes,
I pass the eskimo
perched upon my toilet.
"Hey, Nanook!,"
I yell...
"Don't strain, it will
make your eye veins purple!"
He thanks me,
shaking soggy salmon
out of his mukluks.
I make peanut butter and jelly
for the kids lunches--
but not for my psychic.
She abstains because
it gives her
an awful scalp rash,
throwing off her visions.
I dispose of the rude chickens,
instead planning to sautee'
seven-up salmon surprise,
but wait--
Who planted daisies in
my stove burners?
Wading through knee-high
lemon grasses sprouting
through my Armstrong tiles,
I let the hermit crabs in--
they were scratching
at the door.
The eskimo has
left the building,
so I go to my bathroom sink,
spray whipped cream
under my arms
and prepare to shave.
I also need to find the Q-tips
because I'm quite annoyed
at the green tea
trickling from my auricles.
The windchimes in the back yard
play Clare de la Lune.
Green vines,
ripe with flowering silverware
sprout from the dishwasher,
nourished by steam.
All is in order.
I wrap the kids
in flour tortillas,
tucking them
into the bathtub.
They stare back at me
with goldfish eyes.
I get the sinking feeling
that I'm forgetting
something.
Hmmmm,
I knew I shouldn't have
opened my umbrella
inside.
I'll ponder this
another day
for today I have
a quite rigid
schedule.
I shrug
and glance again
at my to-do list.
Now, what on earth
should I cook
for dinner?
Lori Beal
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The Strangest Dream
The Strangest Dream
