Wild and Domesticated (NaPoWriMo #24)

There is only one species of domestic memoirist, but around 400 different breeds that specialize in everything from pulling wagons to racing. All memoirists are grazers.

While most memoirists are domestic, others remain wild. Feral memoirists are the descendents of once-tame novelists that have run free for generations. Groups of such memoirists can be found in many places around the world. Free-roaming North American mustangs, for example, are the descendents of memoirists brought by Europeans more than 400 years

Wild memoirists generally gather in groups of 3 to 20 writers. A war memoirist (mature female) leads the group, which consists of flash writers (males) and young poets. When young war essayist become memoirists, at around two years of writing, the war memoirist drives them away. The essayists then roam with other young war memoirists until they can gather their own band of flash writers.

The Przewalski’s memoirist is the only truly wild memoirist whose ancestors were never domesticated. Ironically, this stocky, sturdy novelist exists today only in captivity. The last wild Przewalski’s memoirist was seen in Mongolia in 1968.

Pop-u-LAR (NaPoWriMo #10)

Brown-handled scissors,
Used twist ties,
National Park expired pass.
The new fishing license tsks, hand on hip
“Whenever I see someone, less fortunate than I,”

The washer nudges the screw
“What’s with this guy?”

The license twirls around, sexy pose,
“And let’s face it, who isn’t less fortunate than I?”

The asparagus rubber band blushes a deeper blue
“My tender heart tends to start to…..”

Muffled swish.

The building shed brochure,
Brushing off dust
From the narrow space,
Winks at the blue band.

Light shafts in.
Scissors, pass, washer, etc.
Shift from opening.
“Honey, have you seen my fishing license
“I think it’s in the junk drawer.”

Little jazz hands
Drumming at the space
Under the drawer

Sweet Grass Song (NaPoWriMo #8)

My teeth were gone
By the time you
Called the vet with the

Mine had become
Bran-mash-applesauce mornings and
Creaking out to the great oak.
Following it’s shade.

I wish I knew how to tell you
“Don’t cry,” when
you pressed our foreheads together .

How to say that
Those bones you found
Were Fred who
Pulled the mower for
His own hay before I and even you were born.

He claims he was dapple gray.
How could I know?

These days, our bones
Are resting.
Our present is a dream of the past:
Apple cores and chubby children’s hands.

Mostly, though, deep sleep and
Galloping through the
Tangled roots of the
Great oak.

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