As a Fowl Hath

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by Sharlyn @ Dancin' on Rainbows
Waltz on over for more great fiction, or add a link to your own.

As a Fowl Hath
By Beth LaBuff

Subjects in a kingdom with
A vastly different culture,
Were a flock of finely feathered fowl,
Ruled by a vulture.

The vulture had a press conference,
Announced some shocking facts,
Their infrastructure needed fixed,
He’d have to raise their tax.

To start with a committee had
To analyze decay.
It seemed that bumps and potholes
Plagued their landing strip runway.

The vulture used conscription
To draft a common loon,
His job— to raise tax revenue—
Find ways to do it soon.

Taxes charged— “as each fowl hath”
And based on what they wore.
Some birds would pay a little
While others would pay more.

Each fowl, taxed on its colors,
Whether tone or whether hue,
More colors— higher taxes
To compile new revenue.

A census was mandated
To count colors on each bird.
Single-file before the loon,
Much grousing could be heard.

Rich peacock, wealthy humming bird—
Or so the loon assumed,
And placed on them a premium tax
For iridescent plumes.

A shy goose in her gray down coat,
From fright, started to swoon.
She left a pile of feathers
As she molted near the loon.

Canary yellow, chartreuse, teal,
Cardinal red, and heather,
Sapphire, crow black, indigo—
To tally colored feathers.

The new tax program—a success,
The loon assumed free rein,
Became a little crazy and
Imposed more tax campaigns.

A mandate stated every fowl
Must pass a wing inspection,
Then openly display a tag
On their hindquarter section.

For every flight-plan filed,
A flight-plan tax was due,
Was payable at take-off
By every fowl who flew.

The robins, charged a wing and leg,
And sought to take up arms,
Because of sky-high property
Tax on their earthworm farms.

The mallard sought a tax shelter,
A duck blind— his escape,
Was forced to buy a duck stamp
And attached it with duck tape.

A warbler tax on twitterers,
A clean tax on birdbaths,
The loon became creative
With his loony tax-brained math.

Not content to tax the living
With their levies, so absurd,
The loon and vulture looked for ways
To tax the dodo bird.

Disenfranchised in their kingdom,
Fowl citizens— distraught.
The cuckoo vocalized the words
That other birds now thought.

Epilogue
Colors! Numbers! Visa verse!
They left the loon insane,
Contributed to his demise,
He’d overtaxed his brain.

His eulogy delivered by
The vulture’s raucous spiel,
Who seized the opportunity,
Not one to waste a meal!

***
© Beth LaBuff -- December 2009
written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge
Topic: It's a colorful world

***
Inspiration: 2 Corinthians 8:12
For if there be first a willing mind,
it is accepted according to that a man hath,
and not according to that he hath not. KJV

Barred Plymouth Rock Band

Fiction Friday is hosted today

by Sara @ Fiction Fusion
Skate on over for more great inspirational fiction.

Barred Plymouth Rock Band
By Beth LaBuff

Abutting an abandoned barn,
A crib devoid of corn,
With weathervane and cupola,
The rooftop, sagged and worn.

The corncrib was repurposed
By fowl society,
A chicken troupe, Barred Plymouth Rocks,
The white variety.

This granary was their concert hall
With only room to stand,
For nightly concerts were sold out for
For this uncommon band.

Bandleader of this feathered group,
This five-fowl poultry show,
A southern bird of Creole stock
Was dubbed Ole Chick’ Gumbo.

Ole Gumbo plucked the banjo strings,
On French horn — Cordon Bleu,
With Kiev on percussion,
And Lo Mein played kazoo.

The fifth fowl, in a washtub,
He floundered on dry land.
Sans feathers, Chicken from the Sea
His job—tuna the band.

White feathers ruffled as they crooned,
Laud for their chicken breed.
They danced till eggs were scrambled.
They sang for chicken feed.

Cordon Bleu stuck in his craw
His spare chapstick supply.
It came in handy, between songs,
When chicken-lips got dry.

And Kiev on percussion,
Brushed cymbals with his tail,
And when he had a solo,
Made chicken drumsticks flail.

Gumbo kept the songs up-beat,
His banjo on his knee.
He picked with pomp and circumstance,
His notes were extra crispy.

Misfortune struck one chicken,
A pox upon Lo Mein,
No longer able to kazoo,
He could not entertain.

The band was sympathetic,
In order to console,
They gave Lo Mein a paperback
“Beef Stew for Chicken’s Soul.”

Auditions held, to fill his spot,
A hog stood in their midst.
A rumor breathed to chicken ears,
“The pig’s a chauvinist.”

The pig squealed, “I am white meat, too,
And for this group well-suited.”
The hearsay disregarded,
The porcine was recruited.

Their chicken-band, Barred Plymouth Rocks
Would now sum-total three,
And pig, another white meat,
And one Chicken from the Sea.

***
© Beth LaBuff—November 2009

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
Topic: White

***
Inspiration: Proverbs 17:22
A merry heart doeth good like a medicine… KJV

The Farmer and His Ladye

Friday Fiction is hosted by
Karlene @ Homespun Expressions.
Be sure to stop over there to read great fiction,
or post a link to your own writings.

The Farmer and His Ladye
by Beth LaBuff – December 2009
Topic: Brown

(a Celtic-style folk song with triolet refrains)

One dreary dull wan winter day, a farmer took some thought
To how his bach’lor life lacked love, he’d never tied the knot.

Companions of the farmer were one churlish rooster bird,
Plus one milk cow, an old Brown Swiss, comprised his cattle herd.

REFRAIN
Each morn ‘fore dawn, the rooster crowed
To rouse the dozing sun.
Then farmer woke in his abode,
Each morn ‘fore dawn, the rooster crowed,
Proudly he woke, with doodle ode,
The cattle herd of one.
Each morn ‘fore dawn the, rooster crowed
To rouse the dozing sun.

The farmer boldly wrote an ad, then posted it that day.
His entreaty went overseas, one life he hoped to sway.

“Livestock farmer with a cow and rooster seeks a wife.
Enjoy fresh air, live close to God, envision rural life.”

REFRAIN
A ladye faire answered the ad,
Left life on English lea.
Her dress adorned and with lace clad,
A ladye faire answered the ad.
Her skin ‘twas faire, but she was glad
To traverse ‘cross the sea.
A ladye faire answered the ad,
Left life on English lea.

The farmer never owned a barn, only a cattle shed.
And every day scooped out the place where cow and rooster fed.

Outside the window of the shed, the fertilizer pile,
Where scoopings from the stall were tossed, to mellow for awhile.

REFRAIN
The umber mound outside the shed
Into a mountain grew,
And on the field in spring he’d spread
The umber mound outside the shed.
“We’ll grow fine crops next year,” he said.
And with each shovel added to
The umber mound outside the shed—
Into a mountain grew.

The rooster was an ornery bird and mean as mean could be.
If looks could kill, then trouble brewed for ladye from the lea.

He saw an opportunity, his motives were hostile,
He chased the ladye from the lea, she fell on umber pile.

REFRAIN
Now covered with the umber mess,
The ladye from the lea.
The farmer rushed, saw her distress,
Now covered with the umber mess.
He hid his smile, while love confessed
To her, despite umber debris.
Now covered with the umber mess,
‘Twas ladye from the lea.

Her indignation, righteous, for the rooster grieved her sore.
She, in determination bold, took on the chicken chore.

The rooster thought he ruled the roost, though gravely wrong was he.
She chased him round the shed then had a feather-plucking spree.

REFRAIN
One feather for her farmer’s cap,
Two feathers in her lace,
Three feathers pilfered, in a snap,
One feather for her farmer’s cap.
Outsmarted rooster, in a trap,
She ruled the rooster on that chase.
One feather for her farmer’s cap,
Two feathers in her lace.

Then farmer, who farmed from his youth, and walked behind a plow,
Taught ladye faire from English lea, to milk the Brown Swiss cow.

Both sun and breeze kissed ladye faire. She helped her farmer man.
The lace upon her dress, now stained; her skin, now umber tan.

REFRAIN
And now she is a ladye tanned,
Of lately, English lea.
Forsook the lea for foreign land,
And now she is a ladye tanned.
A farmer man pled for her hand.
And dauntless she, welcomed his plea.
And now she is a ladye, tanned,
Of lately, English lea.

***
© Beth LaBuff – December 2009
Written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Inspiration from:
Zechariah 13:5 – I am a farmer;
the land has been my livelihood since my youth.

Big-Game's Big Game

Fiction Friday is hosted by Vonnnie @
My Back Door
Head over there for great inspirational fiction.

Big-Game’s Big Game
By Beth LaBuff

In the heart of the savanna,
In the dry season they came.
The folks on a safari sought
To covertly spy game.

Dressed in their khaki field jackets,
They hid among the plants,
And all things for their trek were held
Within their cargo pants.

Among the group, a jovial chap,
A red-head named Eugene,
Photographer of wildlife
Came slathered in sunscreen.

One thing the tourists did not know,
This was a staged charade
Of the lion, rhino, hippo,
Warthog, zebra cavalcade.

The big-game had agreements
That were drafted for their cause.
Each play and drill was outlined
And recorded as by-laws.

The toss to start the big-game’s game
Employed their mascot quail.
And when he landed on his head,
The call was yelled out, “Tail.”

The lion and the hippo
Commenced the premier play.
The lion’s rush was blocked, fans cheered
This grand defense display.

The humor of the big-game’s world
To species can transcend—
Positions that the rhino played
Were nose guard and tight-end.

The next play had the hippo and
The rhino in a sweep.
All things considered, they did well,
Both landed in a heap.

The second quarter’s big-game plan,
The zebra had to scramble.
The warthog snarled and snorted as
He charged from ‘neath the bramble.

One thing the big-game did not know,
A panther came to play.
He’d never read their by-laws
He just entered in the fray.

The swarthy streak of feline fur,
His unleashed speed revealed.
The zebra ascertained, “Illegal
Motion on the field.”

The panther angled ‘cross the field
To intercept the pigskin.
He clipped the warthog on the nose
And sent him in a tailspin.

The black cat’s interference
Put the game in overtime.
The call, “illegal cat downfield”—
A big-game by-law crime.

The warthog cut, then circled back
Across savanna’s green.
The action got a little close,
They almost clipped Eugene.

He broke out in a profuse sweat.
His face took on a sheen.
Lucky for him, his cargo pants
Contained surplus sunscreen.

The big-game saw the crowd’s response
So they began to scheme,
They hoped to sign the panther,
A free agent, on their team.

The panther, meanwhile, quit the game.
The teammates looked around.
He absconded with the warthog
Who was nowhere to be found.
***

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge October 2009
Topic: black

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine... Proverbs 17:33 KJV

It Doesn't Get Much Better

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by
Sherri @ A Candid Thought.
Be sure to stop over there for fabulous fall fiction!

It Doesn’t Get Much Better
By Beth LaBuff
Topic: Retirement

Sunday
The morning sun shone lustrous
On a charming Cape Cod house,
Seated in the dining room,
The Mr. and his spouse.

He sipped his steaming Eight O’Clock.
His mouth sanctioned a grin.
He pondered both, retirement
And his years-of-service pin.

As he perused the Tribune sighed,
“It doesn’t get much better.”
They, arm in arm, took off for church
With Bibles and her sweater.

Monday
He broke the fast before the sun,
Though no alarm was set.
His brain still time-zoned, nine to five,
Some things—hard to forget.

His day stretched out before him,
He had an inspiration,
He’d help the Mrs. ‘round the house
To show appreciation.

And in his fervor pointed out
Art, crooked on the wall,
A crystal glass with smudges, while
Dust bunnies roamed the hall.

He hovered while she vacuumed,
With cleanliness—obsessed.
He checked for dirt on window sills—
Employed the white-glove test.

Tuesday
The town library’s many books
Would help him find a hobby.
He carried home a cookbook on
How to Prepare Kohlrabi.

And Tennis for the Seniors Set,
Ten Steps to Play Guitar,
Gardening for Imbeciles,
and Maintenance for Your Car.

He knitted on her project
From two till three o’clock,
But read the pattern upside-down—
Knit sleeves into her sock!

Wednesday
A tennis outing with the boys.
She sighed in her relief.
A morning detached from her spouse,
Her respite would be brief.

The score was love to forty
When their game came to a halt.
He toppled o’er the base line,
A penalty—foot-fault.

The balance of the day he spent
Reclined upon his chair
While she applied an ice pack
To the bump ‘neath his gray hair.

Thursday
He urged his spouse to take a break
Then lit the barbecue.
Their pergola went up in flames
Thus went his grill debut.

The bad news, with the flare-up,
The steaks were grilled pitch-black.
The good news for the novice chef,
His eyebrows would grow back.

Friday
A junket with the boys out to
The lake, with pole and bait.
To hook some walleye, perch, or pike,
To grace his dinner plate.

He brought the pungent stringer home
And cast it in the sink.
To have a go at cleaning fish
‘Bout drove her to the brink.

Saturday
He changed the auto oil, but
It splattered o’er the lawn.
The next time that she drove the car
“Check engine” light flashed on.

Sunday
Their Cape Cod seemed to shrink that week.
It bound her like a fetter.
She’d scream out if she heard again,
“It doesn’t get much better.”

He sipped his morning Eight O’Clock,
Pondered past week’s enjoyment.
She snatched the Sunday Tribune ads
To contemplate employment.

***

© Beth LaBuff -- September 2009

inspiration from:

Proverbs 16:31

Gray hair is a crown of splendor...

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

The Case Against a Sugar Maple

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by

Joanne at An Open Book

Head over there for links to more great fiction.

The Case Against a Sugar Maple
By Beth LaBuff

Topic: Winter

In a clearing of a forest,
In the gusty frigid air,
A small arboreal assembly
Launched a civic woods affair.

‘Twas a hearing, in this clearing,
Of a sugar maple tree,
To ascertain her state of mind,
To gauge competency.

Witnesses were singly summoned
Forth and testified.
The conifers and evergreens,
Compelled by law, complied.

Presiding o’er this hearing was
The magistrate, a fowl.
And all esteemed the wisdom
Of the worthy great horned owl.

The first to testify, blue spruce,
“She’s a pathetic sight,
High atop a branch she keeps
A tethered kite in flight.”

“Perhaps she has a syndrome
Or is daft, to some degree.
Her trunk is thick, her branches dense.
She seems out of her tree.”

“Your honor, I have knowledge of
Some things we can’t condone.
She runs a house for boarders though
For business, she’s not zoned.”

“When frigid weather hit, birds flew—
Eviction of her tenants!
For this and other crimes we must
Insist this tree do penance!”

“Without a permit, rodents came.
They brought some nuts and fruit.
A hollow branch— her doggie bag
Where squirrels stashed their loot.”

A charge of “addled” pierced the chill.
Her verdict appeared dim.
As if to validate their claim,
Her kite looped ‘round a limb.

The owl reminded witnesses,
His words abrupt and blunt,
“You can’t pronounce her guilty,
Assume she’s innocent.”

Then douglas fir confided to
The court, his voice austere,
“I’ve witnessed bats fly unimpeded
In her upper sphere.”

“Masked bandits came with banded tails,
Were harbored from the law.
She should be hewn for firewood
Before the first spring thaw.”

“One final thing to seal our case,
A proof you can’t ignore,
She doffed her crimson autumn coat—
Littered our forest floor.”

As ending arguments were heard,
In blew a balmy breeze.
Soon buds appeared on maple’s limbs
She sprouted bright green leaves.

To their surprise, the robins then
Returned to build their nest.
The plaintiffs, without arguments,
Receded to the forest.

Owl hooted, “Whooo’ll accuse you now?
There’s none left in our midst.”
She clapped her limbs together.
The owl sighed, “Case dismissed.”

© Beth LaBuff -- August 2009

inspiration from:

Isaiah 55:12 -- NIV

"...the mountains and the hills will burst into song before you,

and all the trees of the field will clap their hands."

John 8:10 -- NIV

"...where are they? Has no one condemned you?"

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Ale From Two Citruses

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Catrina @ A Work in Progress
Click on over for great summer fiction.

Ale from Two Citruses

by Beth LaBuff

(with a nod to Charles Dickens' "Tale of Two Cities")

Oh, worst of times, like constant drips—
His quarrel-monger wife,
So on the rooftop corner
He chose to live his life.

His health had been affected.
His life brimmed with despair
And just behind his cowlick,
He’d lost most of his hair.

The word acrid could best describe
Her personality.
Likewise, the word distressed described
His frail mentality.

Critical mass point had been reached.—
He’d salvage life and house!
His first step to accomplish this—
He’d renovate his spouse.

His perplexed thoughts upon his plight,
To ease his situation
He googled into cyberspace
To gather information.

On the keyboard, keywords typed
Were “Bitter,” “quarrelsome.”
He placed his faith, his hopes and dreams,
Then prayed for the outcome.

To his surprise, a recipe
Purported forth a cure.
An ale of odd ingredients,
The listing, quite obscure.

Take two teaspoons of bitter orange,
Add one sweet lemon rind.
Blend with ascorbic acid
And sucrose – white, refined.

Add moonbeams, two troy ounces.
The potion, then, should glow.
Fold in club soda, form a paste.
Apply to her left toe.

The new dilemma of his quest—
How to apply this cure?
Baptize her left extremity—
Sprinkle the elixir?

So stealthily, while she reposed,
He drew near with the potion.
He held his breath, with trembling hand
He dabbed it on, like lotion.

Oh, best of times, his life now that
His mission was complete.
His wife, now so congenial,
His rose, she seemed so sweet.

Her charm and temper pleased him.
Then he saw her puzzled eye.
She scrutinized him toe to head.
He feared things went awry.

His sweet world turned to saccharine.
She schemed, her inspiration—
She googled “cowlick,” “hair-loss”
To anoint his situation.

***
This poem is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

is entirely coincidental.

***
inspiration from:

Proverbs 21:9
Better to live on a corner of the roof
than share a house with a quarrelsome wife.

Proverbs 27:15

A quarrelsome wife is like a

constant dripping on a rainy day.

© Beth LaBuff -- June 2009

written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge
Topic: Bitter and Sweet