Photo: Markus Spiske on Unsplash
Ode to the needed application
Of distinctive word formation
And appropriate derivation
(With Speech Pathology implications
For morphological miscalculation).
Because without the permutations
Of root words in combination
And grammatical allocation,
There’d be much missed in
Communication.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Morphology in 37 words
Note: As a Speech-Language Pathologist, this writing prompt would have been absolutely impossible to not take on! 🙂
“Why’d they do that?”
“‘Twas needful.”
Sheri twisted her skinny braid around her finger. It was the one benefit of having really fine hair. She could get it to loop five times while Marina only could loop hers twice. Long fingers helped, too. Marina’s were chunky. From Dad’s side. “Needful how?”
“Protect the tree, this does.”
“From what?” There was nothing in their end of the park.
“From whom, more like.”
Sheri unwound her braid and stuck the edge of it in her mouth.
“Mom doesn’t like it when you do that.”
“Mom isn’t here,” Sheri stated. Besides, her sister was just jealous because her own hair was too short to suck on. “Protect from who? And why?”
“‘Tis for me to know and for you to find out,” Marina regarded the ring of metal stakes, the tree, her sister’s face.
“You plain don’t know,” Sheri stomped, frustrated.
Marina smiled.
For Crispina’s CCC challenge #55
“I’m telling you, Nym. She isn’t coming back.”
“But her drinking vessel is here.”
They both knew that she never strayed too far from it or for too long. There was even some liquid left in it.
Nelly made a doubting sound that gave him an urge to scratch her. Instead, he sniffed and looked again.
And of course the drinking vessel was still there, unemptied. It was the kind designed to not allow them any actual sipping. Not that he’d want to. The stuff that went into it was odoriferous and generally undrinkable. It wasn’t even real blood.
Still, it would be nice if she didn’t lock her drinks that way. It was insulting.
He’d tried to dip and lick once, but the one legged vessel was too tall and wobbly, and it tipped and rolled and fell and broke into small bits of ice that cut his tender flesh when he’d tried to walk on it. If he’d wanted to taste blood there were better ways for it than being reduced to licking his own.
He never got too close to one again.
“Come, Nelly,” he soothed his anxious, clucking friend. “We’ll nap now. I’m sure she’ll return.”
Brugge, Belgium (Photo: Libby Penner on Unsplash)
Some call this city “Venice of the North,” but they don’t know the other direction this town goes, and it is not one of the winds.
I know, because I’ve seen it.
Seen what lies beneath the streets, glazed over by blind eyes of tourists snapping photos, dismissed by those who should know better yet still refuse to view.
For the ones beneath need acknowledgement to manifest. Not trust, recognition.
I know, because I don’t trust them. Not one bit. And yet they are there, plain as anything: The Upenders.
They’ve been here before people, and they expect you pay respects. Their mirage is reflected in the still waters of the canals, and when you let yourself go below the floor, beyond the basement, they’ll reveal themselves. If you won’t visit, beware. For when you least expect, they’ll rise to flip yours over, resentful of a willful ignorance of Upending.
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
There’s a serene kind
Of beauty
Not far into the
Park,
Where the geese,
Quite majestic,
Will parade and then
Park.
Photo: Anne Toet
Time had arrived
To make the shift
From frog
To handsome
Prince,
But then the kiss
When it was dished
Kept Frog’s
Amphibian
Bliss.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Fantasy
Photo: Monika Grabkowska on Unsplash
She looked so fraught
I thought she fought
For what she brought.
She apparently did not
But then still she almost forgot
To tell me of some fish she’d caught
And how distraught
The worms she bought
Were at the thought
That she decided that she ought
Just put potatoes
In the pot.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS challenge: “ght”
Photo: Herrmann Stamm on Unsplash
He does not like the new way the kitchen’s been done.
He does not like the curtains she’d chosen.
He cares naught for the way she turned the couch around
Or how she leaves the garage door open.
He will never get used to the stuff on her nails.
He detests hosting all of those book clubs.
He’s did not want his Foosball exiled downstairs
Or pink bottles to take over the bathtub.
Some days he thinks it had been better before
She showed up to give life a stir,
But she does make him laugh and he cannot ignore
The fact that he’s just nuts about her.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS prompt: Nuts
“Don’t you go spendin’ no money!” Momma Jean announced.
In a whirlwind of industrious determination, she began rummaging through shoe boxes and ancient suitcases, closets, and plastic bags, flinging this or that onto the table.
I didn’t dare to offer help. Once Momma Jean got like this, it was best to keep out of the way.
“Now!” She finally straightened, hair askew and dust-bunnies clinging to the edge of her house-dress. My inveterate neighbor was out of breath and in her element. “You tell me what that costume look like, and I make it for you. You win first prize.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Kadri Vosumae on Pexels.com
“Do you know?” she asked,
Ankles deep in gold leaves.
“Do you know what the earth
meditates upon in autumn?”
“Ask the acorns,” he said.
“Query the roots of the trees.”
“Would they not,” she returned,
“Tell only their thoughts?
Would they hear the earth’s song
Over that of their seed?”
“Ask the squirrels, then,” he sighed
Rake in hand, a wind urging
His work to proceed.
“Or the sky, or the clouds
Or your own heart
Beneath that old tweed.
Ask the earth
As it speaks to the autumn,
While the soles of your feet
Fill these bags
Top to bottom.”
For dVerse Tuesday Poetic: the question as poetry
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