Guilty Faced

white dog AmitaiAsif

Photo: Amitai Asif

 

The tail wagged a welcome and the tongue lolled excitement, but the head swiveled back to the mess.

Guilty faced.

A chewed up slipper lay dead by the remnants of the morning’s newspaper.

The throw from the couch draped itself over spilled dog food, one corner deep at drink from the water bowl.

Wet soil from the tipped over planter paw-printed itself on the floor, the forbidden-to-jump-on cream-colored loveseat, the rug.

The pooch looked around as if to find another culprit.

He yipped hopefully. Maybe you didn’t see …?

When subterfuge failed, the penitent tucked tail and proceeded to ‘hide’ behind the sheer curtain.

A moment passed.

A nose peeked out, a rueful paw over one eye.

“Are you maybe not mad anymore, person of mine?”

 

 

For The Daily Post

A Knotty Problem

knot DavidJFred

Photo: David J. Fred

 

 

She refused to retreat

In the face of defeat.

She pursed lips, furrowed brow,

Still the bead would not bow.

Pushed into the string’s knot

It slid off … yet she fought.

All suggestions were waived

She refused to be saved.

Five more minutes she spent

String nor bead would relent.

Just as frustration frayed …

Cookies came to her aid.

 

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Home Unlikely Home

Accessorize AtaraKatz

Photo: Atara Katz

 

A pot, a plate, a shelf, a hook.

A bed on wheels, food in a nook.

Unlikely home, perhaps, but look

At least you’ve got a place to cook!

 

 

For The Photo Challenge

What Are The Odds?

a moment in time ChagitMoriahGibor

Photo: Chagit Moriah-Gibor

 

In the fraction of time

Where taking flight

Meets the flash

An illusion exists

Defying speed

And wings’ slash.

 

(Worry none: No birds were harmed in the taking of this photo … )

For The Photo Challenge

Ode to a Little Dude’s Mood

1940-50 Philadelphia Phillies Patch

Photo: 1940-50 Philadelphia Phillies Patch

 

(Dedicated with a hug to a little dude in a mood … )

You fret

You toss

You turn

You snooze.

You pray your team

Won’t ever

Lose.

You wake up

Early

Hear the news.

You shout

You cry

You read reviews.

Time for some

Pancakes

To sweeten

Blues …

 

 

For The Daily Post

The Crank

Silver Gelatin Print

Photo: Vivian Maier (Girl Crying) N.Y. 1954

 

She huffed and she puffed and she stomped her small feet. She whined and she cried and she kicked the car seat. She refused to wear shoes, threw her coat on the ground. Made sure everyone heard her for miles around. She tossed food on the floor. Then asked for some more … Like a kid on a mission for the spoiled child edition.

Evening came.

Gramma called.

Mama handed the phone.

“Tell me now, little one, what on earth’s going on?”

“I’m a crank,” the child said in response. “Now Mama’s tired, all on my own.”

 

 

 

For more of Vivian Maier’s amazing photography: http://www.vivianmaier.com/

For The Daily Post

Jujus

magic all around you

Photo: Samantha Mars

 

She dragged her book bag up the stairs.

Step, bang. Step, bang.

“It looks heavy,” I noted.

“Yeah,” she huffed and paused to frown in the direction of the patchwork of princesses on the backpack. I found myself wondering whether she was directing discontent at her idolized figures not using their royal powers to, at the very least, summon genie help to manage gravity.

“Want me to help carry the bag for you?” I offered.

She raised an eyebrow as if the mere thought of my definitely-not-princess hands handling her bag was beneath the Disney figures that dignified it.

The first-grader lugged the bag another step and stopped, perhaps to reconsider if there are times when commoners’ help is better than none at all. “Yeah,” she nodded.

I walked down to take the bag from her. The thing was heavy!

“What do you have in there?!” I asked. “Rocks?!”

“Aha,” she nodded sagely, skipped a few steps up ahead of me and swiveled her head to look back at me. “Come faster. I want to show you.”

I lifted the bag (and an eyebrow) in her direction and she giggled. “Sorry… Thanks.”

Once upstairs she indicated I was to clear space for whatever that was, then ceremoniously unzipped the top of her school bag and pulled out a succession of boulders. She placed each with care onto the desk. Several pounds of them.

I waited. The lot looked to me like run-of-the-mill New York stones: mostly dark gray schist dappled with a bit of quartz glint.

She leaned back in her chair and waited. Clearly a reaction was warranted.

“That’s a lot of rocks!” I managed.

“Not regular rocks,” she admonished. “These have magic.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she proclaimed. “They have real magic. And gold, too. Inside.”

I tilted my head a bit to one side and nodded my interest.

She narrowed her eyes at me, weighing the merits of talking to grown ups about matters of magic and gold. “They can even make your wishes come true …”

“But … ” she regarded me before adding, a bit haughtily and perhaps to punish me for my lack of immediate awe, “you do have to believe in them, so they’ll only do the magic for me.”

 

 

For The Daily Post