Missing Letter Monday Repost No “N” – “That 1984 Closet”

That 1984 Closet

A bloke of the Big Apple
(Though actually from MI)
Shoves his closet
Full of all the stuff
His feels his date might judge him for.

Two weeks later,
His lover mistakes the hall closet
For the bedroom closet
As bed sheets are sought.
The flood is released.
(The flood of crap.)

Rackets,
Balls of every sort,
Umbrellas
(Both practical & silly, repaired & ripped),
A week’s worth of dirty clothes
(Two weeks old, what a smell!),
Several pairs of ladies’ drawers,
A throw rug,
Old books that were put through a hard life
(Paperbacks all, some thrillers, some philosophy),
The Atari 2600 & about a score of games,
Ugly pillows & crocheted throws
(Gifts from girls he had hardly met;
Though his celebrity faded by the mid-’80s,
He was quite the rock star of the ’70s),
Loose Christmas decor from years past.

All cluttered about the floor
With 1 dazed lover.
Dazed, but amused.

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First posted August 29, 2016.

(This took place in a fic a few days before the first post.  These characters still have rule over my headspace, btw…)

Missing Letter Monday No “H” Repost – “Adulterous Zeus”

“Adulterous Zeus”

“My wife doesn’t appreciate me,”
Zeus complained.
“You poor baby!”
Maia replied, smirking.

“My wife is terribly cruel to me,”
Zeus claimed.
“Awful, most awful!”
Danae exclaimed,
And sneezed.
(A gold allergy.  Surprising, no?)

“My wife doesn’t love me,”
Zeus insisted.
“A fool of a wife indeed not to love you!”
Semele answered.

“My wife will never be good to me,”
Zeus wept on Leda’s lap.
“But I’m good to you,”
Laconian lady Leda cooed back.

“Mom wants a divorce,”
Ares informed Zeus,
Once modern day dawned.

Zeus didn’t see it coming.

Everyone else did.

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Yup.  Still my favorite Missing Letter Monday post.  (Probably always will be.)

Originally posted 7/20/2015.

Missing Letter Monday – Repeat (11/30)

The Spirit of November

The Spirit of November is relentless.
He bellows for his dinner.
“Words!” he cries.
“More words!
“Give me 1,667 words for dinner!
“Give me 1,667 words tomorrow, too!
“Give me nothing less!
“Or else you suffer!”

Countless numbers write, write, write on,
To indulge his hunger.
Never enough.
It’s never enough.

I write.  I write.  I write on.
It’s never good enough.
He returns it with disgust:
“Better words!” he insists.
“Give me better words!
“Or else you suffer!”

I tell him those are the best I possess.

But he’s furious none the less,
Sending me to the dungeons
Of lousy-writer misery.

The Spirit of November, The Novel Writing Month [(c) Nintendo]

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How else would the spirit of November look, right?

(First posted: 11/30/15.  Serendipitous timing for both of this forbidden letter’s posts to come in November.)

Missing Letter Monday – No “Z”

Sisyphus

Ever wonder how it feels
To share the most lamentable fate
Of that famous Greek,
Sisyphus?

I found out.

Sweeping leaves,
On a blustery November evening,
With a teeny-tiny broom
I needed to bend over to use
But I couldn’t bend over
Because there were too many people.

Every little gustlet
Brought new leaves aplenty,
Returning the old,
And adding more.

But there was a big party that night,
And the entryway needed to look neat.

This is why I don’t have parties.
This is why I don’t like parties.

Because I am
(Apparently)
Sisyphus.

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Missing Letter Mondays – No “T” (Repeat)

Romans

Romulus and Remus,
Sons of Mars…or somebody…
Mama wolf should have devoured ‘em.
(For everyone else’s sake.)
Lucrecia should have killed her aggressor,
In place of herself.
(Maybe I’m excessively modern?)
Scipio Africanus…
Uh…dunno…
Hannibal rued coming across him.
(Hannibal was basically Phoenician, you know.)
Gracchi received a bum deal,
As well as vicious murders
From a “noble” mob.
(Plebeians’ heroes deserved finer!)
Julius Caesar…
Surprisingly likeable, all considered.
(His nephew much less so.)
Cicero?
Dislike is all I have.
(A whole class of boring speeches. “Dislike” is mild.)
Lucius Licinius Lucullus
A name of all “L”s! How fun!
(He enjoyed having his own fun…)
Marcus Aurelius,
Revered as a wise emperor, even now.
(His son? Ack. Simply “ack.”)
Hadrian made a fine wall.
(You know, in England.)
Julian, unfashionably pagan.
Horrible pogroms.
(Less horrible scrolls of philosophy.)

Who could miss Romans?
(Seemingly many.)

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(Original 10/12/15)

Missing Letter Mondays – No “N”

That 1984 Closet

A bloke of the Big Apple
(Though actually from MI)
Shoves his closet
Full of all the stuff
His feels his date might judge him for.

Two weeks later,
His lover mistakes the hall closet
For the bedroom closet
As bed sheets are sought.
The flood is released.
(The flood of crap.)

Rackets,
Balls of every sort,
Umbrellas
(Both practical & silly, repaired & ripped),
A week’s worth of dirty clothes
(Two weeks old, what a smell!),
Several pairs of ladies’ drawers,
A throw rug,
Old books that were put through a hard life
(Paperbacks all, some thrillers, some philosophy),
The Atari 2600 & about a score of games,
Ugly pillows & crocheted throws
(Gifts from girls he had hardly met;
Though his celebrity faded by the mid-’80s,
He was quite the rock star of the ’70s),
Loose Christmas decor from years past.

All cluttered about the floor
With 1 dazed lover.
Dazed, but amused.

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That took place the other day as part of my fic.  Thought it might switch over to this format well.

Missing Letter Monday – No “X”

Charybdis

Trapped in a spiral,
Spinning downwards,
Rushing, gushing
Drowning.

Boats floating,
Sinking,
Crushing.

Sailors frenzying,
Rowing,
Screaming,
Dying.

Scylla’s laughter,
Scylla’s feast,
Blood everywhere,
Turning the waters red.

It’s very salty,
But salt festooned with copper.
I don’t like it.
Blood doesn’t taste good.

That lying old man,
Quick-tongued,
Like his great-grandfather.
He convinced a lot of people.
Made them think they could get away.

There’s no getting away.
There’s no escape from this doom.
There’s no tree branch above my pool.

Odysseus passed this way but once,
Before his crew marooned him
On that island they thought was deserted.
(If they’d known about Calypso,
They would have stayed,
And forced him to sail on!)

I don’t like that he blames their deaths on me.
If he ever comes this way again,
I’ll eat him.

I don’t like the taste of old man flesh,
But if it’s his,
I’ll enjoy it.

Athene won’t like it,
But I don’t care.

Hermes probably won’t like it, either,
But I still don’t care.

Poseidon will love it.
I’m fine with that.
Maybe he’ll start hanging out here more often.
(Goodness knows, he’s not picky
When it comes to mistresses…
I might not mind
A little light adultery
And giving birth
To the child of a god…)

Scylla thinks she’s all that.
But she’s not as good as me.
She can only kill seven men at a time.
I can kill thousands,
If they sail close enough.

Though I’d rather they didn’t.
I’d rather they just stayed out of our strait.
Wood doesn’t taste too good,
And blood tastes worse.

Drinking half the sea
Is bad enough by itself.
Why do men have to get in the way?

Dying,
Screaming,
Panicking,
Rowing,
Chomped by Scylla,
Amid screams and laughter.

Life should be better than this.

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Well…that got weird.  And then it got creepy.  Pity; it actually started out pretty good.  I shouldn’t have gone inside her head…maybe I’ll do a version 2 someday where I don’t do that…

Missing Letter Monday – No “O”

“Spinal Tap”

Please leave my spinal fluid where it is.
The tests will all return negative results.
I’m sure that’s what will happen.

Thus it isn’t necessary.
Leave all my fluids inside me,
Where they reside.

Spending days in bed afterwards
Will be unpleasant and lifeless.
Sure, there’s Netflix.
And I’ll have an assignment that’ll need reading.

But I’d rather keep my fluids where they are.
That’s the ideal.

The tests will be negative.

Thus please leave my spinal fluids where they are.

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Missing Letter Mondays – No “I”

“The Party”

The megaron* at Mycenae sets the scene.
Agamemnon offers couches to the guests,
So many couches; no need to share.
But the red-headed son of Peleus objects:
“There’s one place too few!”
Patroclos mutters that he should go,
Of too small note for such great company.
“No way! You can’t leave!”
Patroclos’ dearest comrade demands.
“Normally, the couches are shared,”
Odysseus tells them,
A wry form upon the mouth.
“Then you’ll share my couch,”
Peleus’ son asserts, as he takes Patroclos’ hands.
Reluctant, the young man takes a seat,
Upon the couch of the pretty boy.
The son of Telamon laughs, and takes up a cup.
“Not yet!” Agamemnon remonstrances.
“We must pour for the gods.”
Drops are poured out neat,
And the gods assuaged.
Then the party can truly start.
“Many thanks to you all,”
Menelaos tells them, at a frown,
“For your help to restore my Helen.”
“Thank the oath,” the son of Telamon grumbles.
“But any honest man who fears Zeus,
And would see decency overcome rude cruelty,
Would gladly come to your help,
Even unbound by such an oath,”
Odysseus oozed, smarmy.
“Just as young Ach–”
“Hadda restore my name, after you shamed me,
Back on Scyros,” the boy growls.
“How much have you already had?”
Patroclos asks, and pulls the empty cup away.
“Your father would rebuke me
For such a drunken state!”
“Let the boy have all the drops he wants,”
Laughed the son of Tydeus.
“All too soon we cross the sea for Troy,
And leave all joy at our backs.
For now, let the boy enjoy what we have.”
“Such enjoyment forms the core of the event,”
Agreed old Nestor, and nodded that gray head.
“Let us all enjoy each other’s good company,
As long as lovely Selene travels the sky.”
Toasts were drunk to Nestor’s plan,
And all cheered as the party got underway.

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*Megaron = throne room/great hall.

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Oh.  My.  God.  So.  Much.  Harder.  Than.  Expected!

 

Missing Letter Monday – No “H”

“Alcides”

Strongest son of Zeus,
Bane of lions and boars.
(Drunken boor!)
Persistently targeted
By papa’s jealous wife.

Wooer of Amazons,
(And lover of pretty boys,)
Groom of two wives,
Sire of many sons.
(But no girls?)

Argonaut,
Completer of Twelve Labors,
(And sometimes 13,)
Killed by a centaur’s trick,
And a friendly pyre.

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Last minute posts are last minute posts.  “Clever” and “good” do not apply.