Laughing at the Days

The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street

2011-12-09T10:30:00.004-07:00

The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street

by Beth LaBuff

'Twas the eve 'fore Thanksgiving on Cranberry Street,

Our cottage was brimming with victuals and sweets.

The pumpkin pies cooled, as had marshmallowed yams,

And raisin bread slices awaited plum jam.

The turkey was nestled all snug in its pan,

A five a.m. stuffing— accorded the plan.

The lists on the counter would free-up my head.

With tasks for each hour, I climbed into bed.

When out on the porch I heard clunkings and bams.

I ran out the doorway, then tripped on canned Spam!

Now what kind of prank had entangled my feet?

What lunacy lurked here on Cranberry Street?

For hundreds of cans lay in haphazard heaps,

Who sent this fool Spam? Am I still fast asleep?

Did Cranberry Street have a luncheon meat war?

I entered my cottage, securing the door.

Befuddled, I sat in my swivel desk chair,

I pondered the front porch; I whispered a prayer.

I switched on my laptop, my brain in a stew;

I thought to read emails for something to do.

Then what to my listening ears was THAT sound?

My inbox was flooding with emails— inbound.

More rapid than vultures, from whom and from where,

Converged on my inbox, left messages there.

Prolific as rabbits, more forthcoming mail

Assaulted my thinking—I feared to exhale.

These emails could cause such outlandish fixations—

Proposing that Spam be the pride of our nation!

Suggestions: That canned Spam would pair well with tea break,

At Christmas time— canned Spam in lieu of a fruitcake.

Have roasted stuffed Spam served on Thanksgiving Day,

Tie ribbons on Spam and attach to bouquets.

Then flanking my email were ads from cafés.

Each advertised dishes like Spam Fudge Parfaits,

And touted the flavor of Simmered Spam Stew,

Or boasted the glories of Cubed Spam Fondue.

While haunted by roasts of our Thanksgivings past,

Now, luncheon meat cans on my porch had amassed.

I feared for tomorrow, for our turkey meat.

Such strange things had happened on Cranberry Street.

I may eat Spam pudding and suffer this scheme,

I may add some Spam to my coffee with cream.

I may grill Spam steaks on the Fourth of July,

But don't dump your Spam in my sweet pumpkin pie.

I swiveled my swivel chair, lost deep in thought.

This whole Spam fiasco had left me distraught.

It rested on me, so I must find a way—

I couldn't let Spam be the rule of the day.

And there, a solution for streets out-of-kilter,

Alleging a swift comprehensive spam filter.

I added my addresses—email and house,

Then dispatched it posthaste with a click of my mouse.

I'll never know how that this task was completed—

But all the Spam cans on my porch were deleted.

The filter-fix helped purge our porch of Spam meat—

Put life back to normal on Cranberry Street.

***

—with apologies to Clement C. Moore, Dr. Seuss, and Hormel—

***

Spam © Hormel Foods LLC

***

If you enjoyed reading this

you will find more great reading

by clicking the following link.

Friday Fiction is hosted this week

by Vonnie at My Back Door

The Hermit Crab's New Shell

2011-09-01T18:33:00.009-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted by

Sara over at Fiction Fusion.

Head that way for more inspirational fiction,

or add a link to your own.

***

The Hermit Crab's New Shell

--with a nod to "The Emperor..."--

By cutting out her plankton snacks

An urban legend states,

A hermit crab, by dieting

Had scaled down her weight.

Her toned-up exoskeleton

With dwindled fatty cells,

Necessitated acquisition

Of a slimmer shell.

The shop she chose to patronize

Was Decapod Boutique.

She'd clams to barter for a shell

To show off her physique.

Inside the shop, all eyes on her,

That gave them pause from work.

At once she was converged upon

By two aggressive clerks.

They sized her up from cheliped

To abdomen to claw,

Then grabbed some shells suspended from

The hangers on the wall.

The first shell for perusal was

A modest a-line shell,

Her thoughts—Improper dry-cleaning

Had left a briny smell!

The next shell was a bit risqué,

Très scant –décolleté.

When "scandalous" escaped her mouth,

They whisked the shell away.

The third shell's prior owner had

A heart with "MOM" tattoo

Emblazoned 'cross the backside that

Could not be hid from view.

The next one, a bit worse for wear—

For wrinkles lined the shell,

Apparently 'twas slumbered in

By former clientele.

'Twas then that one clerk winked an eye

As she began to tell

The attributes and glories of

"The shell to end all shells."

"A shell that was exquisite,

'Twas of antiquated fame.

A shell that sensed its wearer's mood

And warranted acclaim."

But there was one disclaimer,

"Though an ancient work of art,

The only crabs that see this shell

Are crabs with cheerful hearts."

They sashayed as they hauled it in,

'Twas plastic-wrap encased.

With pageantry and circumstance,

The clerks were stoic-faced.

Then hanging ties, unknotted by

The sales clerk entourage,

But was this just a shell game

Or an optical mirage?

She squinted thrice then scrunched her eyes

And dread began to swell,

Was not her crab heart cheerful?

For she couldn't see the shell!

Then they commenced to help her—

Incredulity dispelled.

They pulled and tugged and shoved on her

To wedge her in the shell.

Not sure if it was fitted straight,

She tried to shift the shell,

Not only could it not be seen—

It couldn't be felt, as well!

She could not let them ascertain

Her crabby heart lacked cheer,

Though obviously the reason—

That much was pretty clear.

She paid the price in clamshells

Then departed the boutique.

But breezes filtered through the shell,

'Twas felt by her physique!

She scanned the eyes of passersby,

In shock, they turned away.

And mothers shielded children's eyes.

They quickly went their way.

She thought, They harbor malice!

No cheer, their heart's possess!

It's clear my shell can not be seen.

It left her in distress.

Oh, somewhere hearts were cheerful,

Though here, they were appalled!

'Twas vocalized by one young crab,

"She wears no shell at all!"

***

The woman Folly is rowdy;

she is gullible and knows nothing.

Proverbs 9:13 HCSB

The Brigadier and the Merchant's Daughter

2011-06-24T22:53:00.005-07:00

Friday (slightly delayed) Fiction is hosted by
Rick over at Pod Tales and Ponderings

The Brigadier and the Merchant's Daughter
by Beth LaBuff – June 2011

The sun was a fierce inferno that blistered the barren way.
The wind was a dervish dancer that mesmerized her prey.
The sagebrush clung to the parched sand, atop the desert floor.
And the brigadier came drifting—
Like a tumbleweed roamed—drifting—
The brigadier came drifting, up to the merchant's door.

His mount was a roan that carried the faded Johnny Reb.
The gray forage cap of a soldier was slouched upon his head.
A minié ball from a musket of a blue-coat Yankee squad
Had shredded his arm at Shiloh—
It shattered his soul at Shiloh—
When they buried his arm at Shiloh, beneath the sullied sod.

His eyes were occluded windows and his thoughts lodged faraway.
The dust caked beneath his kerchief, sweat stained his worn chambray.
He passed through the door then halted, for stocking the shelves with lace
Was the merchant's comely daughter—
Rose, the merchant's daughter—
The merchant's only daughter, coal wisps enwreathed her face.

His heart met its Appomattox, was besotted at first sight.
It was reveille to his spirit and cessation of soul blight.
The battle smoke that had haunted, now wafted from his life.
He'd entered to purchase coffee—
He bought hardtack and coffee—
Then clutching hardtack and coffee, he beseeched her to be his wife.

She noticed his faded gray cap and his sweat-stained chambray weave.
She examined his dust-caked kerchief and queried his empty sleeve.
His eyes sought hers while they pleaded, she sensed the sorrow there.
Then the merchant's comely daughter—
Rose, the merchant's daughter—
With a nod, the merchant's daughter—she tossed her coal-black hair.

The drifter added a purchase, a lace-trimmed wedding gown.
Then he married the merchant's daughter while the parson was in town.
In the shadow of a mesa, they picnicked at high noon.
They ate hardtack with coffee—
On their makeshift honeymoon—
And the wind was a dervish dancer for the bride and the one-armed groom.

Her pledge of love to the drifter emancipated his heart,
Held sway by the wind-blown dancer, they saw a serpent dart.
It struck with the speed of a bullet in the heel of his comely bride.
Its fangs were laden with venom—
As the bridegroom eyed the puncture—
Like a bayonet to his own soul, his heart within him died.

He reached for his muzzle-loader, with one arm loaded lead.
He aimed then he pulled the trigger, He shot the rattler—dead.
The sand of the wind-blown desert seeped through the bridal lace
Of the gown of the merchant's daughter—
Rose, the merchant's daughter—
And the wind danced with coal-black tresses across her ashen face.

He made one final purchase, as the sun was ebbing down.
Then he carried the merchant's daughter to the plot at the edge of town.
The strike from the deadly viper had stilled her coal-black locks.
He buried his love at sunset—
Entombed his heart at sunset—
He buried the merchant's daughter in a rough-hewn pinewood box.

They say on a summer's noonday, on the blistered barren way.
When the wind is a dervish dancer that mesmerizes prey.
When the sagebrush clings on the parched sand, atop the desert floor,
That the brigadier comes drifting—
Drifting—drifting—
The brigadier comes drifting, up to the merchants door.

His mount is a roan that carries the faded Johnny Reb.
The gray forage cap of a soldier is slouched upon his head.
He walks through the door then he stops short, for stocking the shelves with lace
Is the merchant's comely daughter—
Rose, the merchant's daughter—
The merchant's only daughter, coal wisps enwreathe her face.
***
—with apologies to Alfred Noyes – The Highwayman—

© Beth LaBuff - June 2011

eBook review of "Light Farm Works"

2011-04-26T14:17:00.004-07:00

Shelley Ledfors has so graciously reviewed my eBook, Light Farm Works on her blog "Indi-eQuality."
She has just launced her blog to "be a helpful site for those who read, write, edit, design, format and enjoy top quality, clean fiction e-books!"

Please visit Shelley's site [click the button above] and let her know what you think.

Third and Main

2010-10-07T21:27:00.004-07:00

Fiction Friday is hosted by

Sara Harricharan at Fiction Fusion.

Click the titles there for links to great
inspirational fiction.

Third and Main
By Beth LaBuff

My friend and I hastened our steps,
The sky was threatening rain.
The intersection, dimmed by clouds
At downtown — Third and Main.
We passed a granite monument,
Inscribed to mark the plot,
“This town burned down in ’33
When lightning struck this spot.”

Concealed by the monument,
A peddler lay in wait.
He sized us up as gullible
And hoped we’d take his bait.
His cheekbone gripped a monocle
That amplified his eye,
His spine was stooped and ‘round his neck
He wore a black bowtie.

His monocle examined us.
My neck raised prickled hairs.
His trenchcoat lined with eyeglasses
He rasped to hawk his wares.
His odd array of sunglass frames
In darkish gray-toned hues,
And crescent-shaped moonglasses for
“Night-gazing lunar views.”

“For sportsmen hunting rhino we
Have camo-horn-rimmed frames.
And opera glasses that viewed ‘Faust’,”
Another of his claims.
He flashed night vision goggles
“On murky nights, you’ll see.”
His terms were “cash or barter and
Your credit’s good with me.”

My friend and I were spellbound,
He’s a shyster! screamed my mind,
A counterfeit, his glasses—fake.
I’m sure he thinks we’re blind.
His bowtie bobbed. He babbled on,
A smugness on his face.
With pomp and ceremony
He drew out an ancient case —

With ornamental sequins
And brocade upon the sides,
It’s clasp, no longer functional,
Was make-shift ribbon-tied.
I held my breath expectantly
To see what was enshrined,
He slowly eased the sequined lid,
The inner case — silk-lined.

Inside, exotic glasses,
A scarab bridged the nose,
And it appeared that hieroglyphs
Were stenciled on the bows.
“Though optics and illusions,”
The peddler-man had said,
“A future view, ten seconds worth—
To see what lies ahead.”

My friend picked up the glasses
And set them on her nose.
She gazed around at Third and Main
And then her features froze.
She ripped the glasses from her face
And hurled them at the man.
She grabbed my arm and propelled me,
So then, of course, we ran!

Again, the hair prickled my neck,
Stopped dead amidst our dash
When almost simultaneously
We heard a lightning crash.
We turned to see what happened—
A fire-bolt from the sky.
A monocle— all that remained—
That and a black bowtie.

It’s said that “Lightning won’t strike twice!”
I don’t believe that claim.
We saw it strike the second time
That day at Third and Main.

***
Job 37:15 (NIV)
Do you know how God controls the clouds
and makes his lightning flash?

***
written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff -- July 2010

Voice of the Maker

2010-08-20T03:17:00.004-07:00

Fiction Friday is hosted by Vonnie @ Polliwog Pages
Stroll on over for more inspirational fiction.

Voice of the Maker
by Beth LaBuff

A car door slammed, then with a lope
Scampered a carefree lad,
The little guy with skinned-up knees
Was visiting Granddad.
The days ahead held promise with
Adventures to unfold,
You can’t just sit and wait on life
When you’re six years old.

The farmhouse sprang to action,
‘Twas fair-weather for the day,
They packed a lunch, then out the door
And they were on their way.
The little legs took twice the steps
To match the Granddad’s stride,
And Granddad’s heart, though weakened some,
Beat with a family pride.

Adventures started with a trek
Upon an earthen road,
Across the bridge then up a hill,
At length their pace had slowed.
‘Twas there upon a milkweed,
A caterpillar crawled,
He paused a bit and raised his head,
The two looked on— enthralled.

“What is he doing, Granddad?”
Inquired the little guy.
-
“He’s listening for the Maker’s voice,”
Was Granddad’s wise reply.
-
“And what’s the Maker telling him?”
-
“The Maker says that soon
He’ll need to find a steady branch
Then make his silk cocoon.”

Quite typical of six-year-olds
The next word posed was, “Why?”
-
Granddad, with his knowledge,
“He’ll become a butterfly.”
-
The boy thought on the process
Then breathed a whispered sigh.
He stared down at the dirt beside
Then something caught his eye.

The six-year old bent skinned-up knees
And stooped down to the ground,
He grasped a dark red pebble,
One quite smooth and round.
His childish fingers picked it up
And rolled it in his hand,
He stuffed it in his pocket,
Then rose again, to stand.

A chicken hen scratched near the two,
The boy studied the bird.
He wondered as the chicken paused
What had the old hen heard?
And as she fluttered to the coop
On feathered-chicken leg,
He knew that God was telling her
‘Twas time to lay her egg.

They journeyed on, more slowly now,
Then finally had to rest
For Granddad was all out of breath,
His palm pressed to his chest.
They settled ‘neath an apple tree
Upon the meadow grass,
They ate their lunch and waited for
His episode to pass.

When Granddad’s breath came easier,
Once more upon their way,
They saw a cow off by herself
Nearby the fresh mown hay.
“Now what would God say to a cow?”
The boy muffled a laugh.
-
Then Granddad said, “He’d tell the cow,
‘It’s time to drop your calf’.”

As they walked they came upon
An odd array of rocks,
Somewhat stacked atop each like
Haphazard building blocks.
Granddad told the little guy
About the Bible story,
The donkey and the palm leaves and
The people’s praise and glory.

He told about the Pharisees,
(Words penned by Dr. Luke)
To silence the disciples
They requested a rebuke.
How Jesus told the Pharisees
Amid hosanna-shouts,
That if the people quieted
The rocks would then cry out.

The wheels inside the young child’s head
Spun ‘round in concentration,
Then in his pocket deep he reached
And pulled forth his donation.
He put his pebble on the pile
And then he thought about
Just how amazing it would sound
To hear the rocks cry out.

***

Just days after their journey
Found Granddad sick abed,
Reposed upon a patchwork quilt,
The boy perched near his head.
The open window near the bed
Enabled evening breeze
To cool the ashen weathered brow
And boy with skinned-up knees.

“What are you doing Granddad?”
He eyed the pallid face.
-
“I’m listening.” The Granddad said,
Cheered by the child’s embrace.
-
“And do you hear the Maker’s voice?”
-
Words whispered with a quaver,
“The voice that I am listening to—
That of my loving Savior.”

“And what’s the Savior telling you?”
He shifted on the bed
Then leaned to hear the Granddad’s voice,
-
“’Come home,’ my Savior said.”
-
Then youthful hands clasped work-worn ones
Until the final sigh,
And through the window, on the breeze,
Entered a butterfly.

***
Inspiration from:
Job 39
Does the eagle soar at your command…? Verse 27
Do you know when the mountain goats give birth…? Verse 1
NIV

***

©Beth LaBuff -- July 2010
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Incident at The Black-Caped Shadow Grill

2010-07-30T13:05:00.006-07:00

Maybe this is a little too graphic for some,

and perhaps I need to add a disclaimer like,

"The views expressed in this poem are not necessarily those of the author." :)

***

I think I will just add a "warning."

***

WARNING:

The following poem deals with the subject of vampires.

...BUT, IT IS JUST A DREAM!"

--as always, thanks for reading!

--Beth

Fiction Friday is hosted today by Rick (Hoomi) at
Rick's Pod Tales and Ponderings
Head over there for Rick's excellent sci-fi!
You will also find links to other great fiction pieces!
***

Incident at
The Black-Caped Shadow Grill
By Beth LaBuff

I settled in my easy-chair
To dissipate my tension,
I closed my eyes then wakened in
An alternate dimension.
But surely it was just a dream.
The blame — I had a hunch,
Was caused by Beef Chipotle
That I scarfed down at lunch.

And in my dream, a neon sign
That flashed, “Open All Night.”
I clenched my collar ‘round my neck
Then peered through muted light.
Words painted on a window,
“The Black-Caped Shadow Grill.”
I entered in faint-heartedly,
Ignoring dank and chill.

My eyes skimmed the interior,
The clientele — dismissing,
The worn plank floor was gouged in spots
With many slivers missing.
Then focused on the patrons with
Red lips and black attire,
And I, the only human in
The diner of vampires—

I yielded to a shiver,
I saw their fangs and winced.
I’ve heard, “Vampires are shape-shifters.”
Frankly — I’m unconvinced.
To take the form of animals,
To flit about as bats,
I spurn the theory vampires
Can transform into rats.

Then seated near the kitchen door,
My eyes compelled to look,
Were locked into a stare-down with
The bloodstained-aproned cook.
His manner disconcerted me.
His eyetooth glinted gold.
His hairline formed a widow’s peak.
He made my blood run cold.

A menu pressed into my palms,
I welcomed its intrusion.
I scanned the list of beverages
Entitled— “Chilled transfusions.”
“We’ve drinks to please your palate,
Our patrons all agree,
We’ve even stocked ‘O negative,’
Along with ‘A’ and ‘B’.”

“Our famed, ‘Thicker Than Water,’
On-site, this beverage brewed
In our blood-pressure-cooker—
Pairs well with any food.”
“And for the youngsters, ‘Veggie-Freeze’—
The blood squeezed from a turnip—
A blend of wholesome plasma
Served frozen in a cup.”

“The meats we grill are all served rare.”
The menu’s guarantee—
“A red and juicy center,
We pledge they’re garlic-free.”
“And seared to seal the juices in,
The ‘Special of the Day,’
With coriander seasoning—
A porterhouse fillet.”

The creature sitting next to me,
His tone and manner—curt,
I heard him hiss, “One special with
“Blood pudding for dessert.”
Ten minutes passed before a
Harried waiter served his food,
I thought it looked a little charred,
That wouldn’t help his mood.

He cut into the well-done steak,
He said it tasted blander
Than any fare that passed his fangs,
“It’s missing coriander!”
He jumped up with his steak knife,
Eyes bored the kitchen door.
He started hacking wooden stakes
From off the wooden floor.

He raged into the kitchen while
Behind him trailed his cloak,
Then just before he skewered the cook,
Well, that’s when I awoke.
My wife was gently jostling me.
She said, to my relief,
That she’d be serving chicken
And not sirloin of beef.

Still settled in my easy chair,
I swear this is the truth,
A rat peered out and sneered at me,
I saw his golden tooth!
They say, “Vampires are shape-shifters.”
Although it goes against
The core of what I once believed,
But yeah, now I’m convinced!

***
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff -- July 2010

***
inspiration:
Daniel 4:5
I had a dream that made me afraid.

Sun-Block

2010-06-25T09:29:00.004-07:00

Fiction Friday is hosted today by Laury @
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart
Head over for links to more inspirational fiction!

Sun-Block
by Beth LaBuff

According to quaint solar lore,
Upon a sunspot crater,
A colony of immigrants
Lived near the sun’s equator.
As former Saturn citizens,
They each possessed two brains,
A fore brain and an aft brain lived
Within each skull’s domain.

Sun energy that radiated
From a solar vortex,
Made inspiration flow and fill up
Each cerebral cortex.
The colonists were writers,
Each were stylized with their form,
The synergy between their brains—
A solar-powered brainstorm.

The mentor for their writing group,
And leading citizen,
Was Stella who wrote poetry
In her solarium.
She kept a sundog for a pet.
She called him Astral-Sol,
He ate moon pies and drank sun tea.
Before each evening stroll.

Each solar day began just like
The solar day before,
And solar energy infused
The sunspot writer’s core.
Until that day! — ‘Twas overcast,
The weather turned for worst,
The sun’s corona had a
Solar flare flare up and burst.

The solar flare disturbance
To the sunspot dweller’s brains
Impeded brain synapses and
Caused solar flare brain-sprains.
And inspiration ceased to flow,
An intellectual shock,
When residents upon the sun
Can’t write, it’s called sun-block.

And so severe the malady,
They called in a physician
Who ranked it, “third-degree sun-block,
A non-lethal condition.”
The solar lore recounted
How the colony declined,
“The worst instance of sun-block
For all of Solar-kind.”

The solar flares continued,
Ergo; Stella couldn’t write—
No currency for moon-pies
For her sundog’s snack at night.
“Each fore brain and each aft brain
Fought each other,” said the lore,
“Drove sunspot crater citizens
Quite wacko with head-war.”

Then much to everyone’s relief
And answer to their prayers,
A merchant starship orbited,
He came to ply his wares.
A peddler from Andromeda,
A dealer in space junk,
Wielded a flare-extinguisher
Pulled from a cargo trunk.

So Stella and the colonists
Used local currency,
They paid the man in gamma rays,
A sun commodity.
They utilized extinguishers
To end creative drought,
Once sprayed, the solar flares smoldered
Then sputtered and went out.

Without the flares the sun-block ceased
The cloudy skies departed.
The brain synapses recommenced,
Creativeness — jump-started.
Their fore brains and their aft brains
Were kicked into high gear.
Each writer produced volumes,
Had success in their careers.

Then Astral-Sol ate moon-pies,
Strolled a street called Sunnyside,
And every solar day that dawned
Was Sunday sunspot-wide.

***
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
©May 2010 -- Beth LaBuff
Topic: inspiration/block for the writer
***
inspirational verse:
a merry heart doeth good like a medicine
Proverbs 17:22 KJV

Ode to a Grecian Vase

2010-06-17T17:08:00.006-07:00

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by

Hoomi (Rick) at Pod Tales and Ponderings
Sail on over for links to great inspirational fiction.

Ode to a Grecian Vase
by Beth LaBuff

The attic of a cottage home—
Converted writing-space,
Contained a manual typewriter,
A Grecian marble vase,
Disheveled shelves of lit’rature,
With steel desk amidst—
A slapdash-decorating-style-
With-a-retro-twist.

The occupant of attic’s room
Was Aristotle Tate,
His spouse of twenty-some odd years,
A fashionista — Kate.
She scrutinized the clothing trends,
Consumed with what-to-wear,
And often she would gaze upstairs,
But rarely ventured there.

She stockpiled multitudes of shoes
To compliment her clothes,
Her nail polish color was
A frosted-lacquered rose.
In contrast, Aristotle wore
Clothes from his high school days
While writing underneath the eaves
In attic’s hideaway.

Occasion’ly for research
He went fishing near a glen,
Then later wrote of Vikings
And of valiant naval men.
Once with a meal, as heart-burn flared
The novel he began
‘Twas ‘bout a poisoned monarch,
Sayonara In Japan.

When writer’s block assaulted him
He’d take the marble vase,
And in the veining, pictures saw—
An ancient emperor’s face,
Or headless torsos, gruesome gnomes,
A pirate’s mizzenmast,
Or profiles of aristocrats,
State leaders from the past.

And every time his marble vase
Came to the writer’s aid.
It conjured visions in his mind,
It quelled writer’s blockade.
Between his research and his vase,
They fed imagination,
His writings were prolific,
Brimmed with edge and inspiration.

While he was out she ventured where
She’d seldom been before,
Bravely the stairs ascended,
Then through the attic door,
She stared at all the mishmash
Within his office space,
Her blood pressure soared skyward
When she eyed that ancient vase?

Now why did Aristotle own
A plain outmoded vase?
In keeping with her character,
To purge things from their place,
Without remorse or second thought,
Rose-colored lacquered nails
Pilfered the Grecian marble vase
To auction at a sale.

On his return from research
And ascension to his room,
The absence of his marble vase
Made Aristotle fume.
Unmindful, Kate was searching through
Some ads from Très Chic Store,
So Aristotle worked on his
New novel—Third World War.

***
inspiration: Ephesians 4:26 NIV
Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry…

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
© May 2010 -- Beth LaBuff
topic: the writer's life

White Paper -- 12-Point Font

2010-06-11T06:38:00.003-07:00

Fiction Friday is hosted by
Sara @ Fiction Fusion
Pop on over for links to great inspirational fiction.

White Paper -- 12-Point Font
by Beth LaBuff

A bungalow on Jackson Street
Was painted spinach green,
The home of fabled Chef McKnight,
Famed for seafood cuisine.
The Chef was “Auntie” to three boys
Lads -- Nate, young Paul, and Dwight,
Who often would a weekend spend
With her, to her delight.

The chef compiled sizzling books,
Volumes of recipes,
That utilized ingredients
Like Brie and Cottage Cheese.
The latest cookbook she composed
Was called “Scottish Cuisine,”
Had recipes like Cullen Skink
And Mussels Aberdeen.

Her manuscript met guidelines
With careful preparation,
White paper – type - a 12-point font—
Exact specification.
One final task— the recipes
Awaited her revision,
Amount of each ingredient
Required strict precision.

That weekend, at her bungalow
Her nephews came to stay,
Before her final edits,
She sent them out to play.
They toted all their baseball gear,
To an adjacent lot,
But Nate ran back inside the house
‘Cause home plate—they forgot.

With Nate back out, she locked the door,
Searched for her manuscript,
But it was nowhere to be found,
It caused her heart to flip.
She searched all through her bungalow
Went up the stairs, then down,
She wasted forty minutes,
With her looking-all-around.

Her nephews, in the meantime,
Played a lively game of ball.
And Nate shagged flies at short-stop.
The ball was pitched by Paul.
A pop-up fly flew over Paul
And then sailed over Nate,
Then Dwight raced ‘round the bases
And slid into home plate.

To celebrate his homerun
Dwight jumped into the air,
Then did a stomp dance on home plate,
Left sneaker footprints there.
Then Paul threw out a curve ball
A whiff and miss by Nate.
To let out his aggression.
He walloped on home plate.

And though the nephews never asked,
Or meant to desecrate—
Her manuscript--conscripted
Into service as home plate.
White paper and the 12-point font
Went unobserved by Dwight,
Then page 18 escaped its bonds,
A breeze propelled its flight.

It floated o’er their baseball game
It drifted high then low,
Then page 18 did loop-d-loops
Over the bungalow.
Though Paul had hit a home run,
‘Twas almost caught by Nate,
Oblivious the boys were when
The page escaped home plate.

Then hunger in their stomachs
Eclipsed their game so that
Back to the bungalow they trudged
With home plate, ball, and bat.
They threw their gear upon the floor,
Their Auntie was dismayed
Until she saw her manuscript
Intact, though a bit frayed.

White pages appeared dog-eared,
The 12-point font withstood
The brunt of energetic boys
Who gave it all they could.
Then Chef McKnight without delay,
The envelope addressed
And sent her cookbook manuscript
Posthaste to Cookbook Press.

***
The critic for Food Magazine
Reviewed Scottish Cuisine,
“A treasury of ethnic foods,
Like rich Newhaven Cream.
Ingredients were missing, though,
At least that’s how it seemed,
There was no call for mussels in
The Mussels Aberdeen.

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
© May 2010 -- Beth LaBuff
Topic: The Manuscript

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

A new style, fashion, flair, look!

2010-06-10T12:49:00.003-07:00

I'm excited to show-off my new look. Ella's picture's at the top will ensure that you Laugh at the Days or will at least leave you with a smile. I'm grateful to Marita "Mari" Thelander for her expertise in designing and making these changes for me! Thanks, Mari!

Worthy of the Pulitzer

2010-06-04T11:13:00.002-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted by Yvonne Blake @ My Back Door
Stroll on over for links to inspirational fiction.

Worthy of the Pulitzer
by Beth LaBuff

A small town, Dismal City,
In the center of the state,
Never had excitement,
Life was doleful and sedate.
The local town newspaper
Called the Dismal City News,
Was filled with drab and boring stuff,
Had nothing to amuse.

The paper had one writer,
A columnist – a hack,
He drafted stories lacking zest,
His Christian name was Zach.
Zach drove an old Ford pickup,
A dent pressed in the fender,
His faded jeans stayed on his waist
Held by a lone suspender.

Dismal City saddened Zach
‘Cause nothing would occur.
His dream—to write a story
Worthy of the Pulitzer.
An article or simple poem
Like Shakespeare, Poe, or Keats,
A story that could make folks cry
Or glue them to their seats.

Zach pondered his dilemma
Then jumped into his Ford,
Headed south on Dreary Lane,
The speed limit, ignored.
Drove past the city limits,
The story—It could wait,
Then ‘cross his path a chicken strolled.
It almost met its fate.

That’s when the story came to him!
His mind worked to devise
A story so sensational,
One sure to win a prize.
With journalistic expertise
He used each writing tool—
Hyperbole when needed—
Stretched writing-ethics-rule.

The article that went to press
Was titled, “Pullet’s Quest”
The byline underneath: “by Zach”—
A feather for his nest.
“The pullet craved adventure—
Apprehension? — there was none.
She trekked across a barren land
Beneath a searing sun.”

“…Was stalked by swirling dust clouds,
No water for her thirst,
Danger, her companion while
The rough terrain traversed.
And then a grim encounter,
Her life flashed ‘fore her eyes,
A massive metal monster
‘Bout led to her demise.”

“…She plunged head-first, away from harm
And narrowly escaped,
She bruised her chicken liver and
Her beak and wattle scraped.
Then predators eluded
‘Cause she camouflaged her comb,
Then traipsed a million miles
‘Fore she found her way back home!”

Zach’s story – “A sensation!”
Said Associated Press,
Put joy in Dismal City,
Zach reveled in success.
And he became a hero—
The Dismal City Bard!
They changed the name of Dreary Lane
To Zachary Boulevard.

About Zach’s pullet story—
What was the inspiration?
And how did Zach create this tale
Of poultry ambulation?
Exaggeration, adjectives? —
A garnished writing-mode?
Simply— Zach embellished how
“The chicken crossed the road."

The story Zach concocted
While driving in his Ford,
Was granted, from the Egg Council,
The ”Pullet-zer Award.”

***

Inspiration:

Proverbs 17:22 KJV

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff -- April 2010

Topic: The Writer's Skill/Craft

Phantom of the Reptile

2010-03-18T21:40:00.006-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by
Christina Banks @ With Pen in Hand
Be sure to head over for links to more great fiction,
or add a link to your own.

Phantom of the Reptile
by Beth LaBuff

A seashore near the ocean where
The breakers scattered foam,
A turtle dwelt with two small friends—
The sandy beach their home.
“Benevolence”—their motto,
A Marine Society
Of turtle, clam, and hermit crab—
Companions by the sea.

The turtle’s shell – beguiling—
Chartreuse with flecks of puce,
But flawed, she had a seal-leak,
Her shell, a trifle loose.
Her leak issues let in a draft
When ocean breezes blew,
The gusts that wafted ‘round felt like
El Niño coming through.

Just two weeks past the little group
Ceased daily occupation,
They gathered with the turtle for
Her birthday celebration.
They all partook of birthday cake—
Some kelp steeped in sea brine,
To celebrate her sixty years.
(In turtle years, that’s nine.)

The turtle then proceeded to
Unwrap her gifts as planned.
The clam presented turtle with
A coarse brown grain of sand.
The sentiment read, “Keep this sand
Positioned near your heart,
In time your irritations change—
A pearled work of art.

Inside her shell she tucked the sand,
Though contact wasn’t pleasant.
Then hermit crab, with shifty eyes
Presented her his present.
To her surprise the second gift
Opened that afternoon,
A shiny sleek harmonica
To play a turtle tune.

With cake and presents finished,
They bid each one farewell.
Two special gifts from two rare friends
Were tucked within her shell.
‘Twas later on that evening
She basked in ocean’s breeze,
Then noise issued within her shell,
A harsh and jarring wheeze.

It gave the turtle such a fright
A rasp sprang from her beak,
It sounded somewhat like a “Phbiss!”
That’s turtle-speak for “Eek!”
Well mercy me! the turtle thought.
Her turtle eyes grew wide.
She bravely sought the noise’s source,
She pulled her head inside.

The jarring, wheezing dissonance,
Refusing to be quelled,
Chords ebbed and flowed around inside
And echoed in her shell.
The discord and cacophony
Had left the turtle daunted.
And in her mind she was convinced
Her turtle shell was haunted!

Her head and turtleneck popped out
For what was she to do?
Her quandary was astounding,
Put her in a turtle stew.
Afraid to tuck her head inside
Where once it used to dwell,
She thought perhaps she’d hire one
To exorcise her shell.

A fortnight since her birthday,
And two weeks since she’d slept,
She had a plan to use the clam.
Herself— she was inept.
The clam, squeezed in her turtle shell
Armed with a D-Cell light,
He hoped to find the origin
Of turtle’s awful plight.

Then what he found inside her shell,
The noise secret—unlocked.
He couldn’t wait to tell her,
Was sure she’d be shell-shocked—
‘Twas through her leaky turtle shell
When wafted airy breeze,
It blew through her harmonica
And made the breathy wheeze.

The hermit crab confessed his scheme,
He’d coveted her shell.
He hoped she would evacuate,
Give him a place to dwell.
The turtle, though a trifle mad,
Revenge did not demand.
To show ‘twas no hard feelings,
Gave him her grain of sand.

Benevolent Society—
Was weighed—found to be wanting.
The hermit crab, sand in his shell,
Still for a new one—hunting.

***
Thou shell not covet thy neighbor’s house.
Exodus 20:17
(paraphrase and emphasis mine)

written for a FaithWriters.com writing Challenge
Topic: "Eek!"
© Beth LaBuff -- March 2010

Catfish on a Hot Tin Roof

2010-02-25T18:26:00.015-07:00

Friday Fiction is being hosted by
Shelley @ The Veil Thins
Head over there for links to more great fiction.

Catfish on a Hot Tin Roof
(ballad of a bottom-feeder)
By Beth LaBuff

Through the middle of a cornfield
With its ripe and golden grain,
‘Round a waist-high prairie meadow
Wound a pot-hole riddled lane.
‘Twas there a shallow pool
Where a sign read, “Zoned – No wake,”
(Named with hopeful aspirations)
Was the pond called Mammoth Lake.

The pool, at its broadest point
Was scarcely ten feet wide,
And deep down in its shallow depths
A catfish did reside.
An educated catfish
For he’d memorized the rules
To graduate—top of his class
At M-L Catfish School.

The rules simply put were
Rule ONE— “Turtles are taboo,”
And “If it shines, don’t bite it,”
Was rule NUMBER TWO.
And if perchance th’ unthinkable,
You find a hook you’ve bit,
Then NUMBER THREE will save your fins
Just “Flop, then twist, and spit.”

Last June, the day was hot enough
To make a catfish sweat,
Something occurred this catfish
Wasn’t likely to forget,
A pickup truck came rolling to
The pond with boat in tow.
The boat was launched on Mammoth Lake,
The anchor dropped below.

Five feet from shore the boat bobbed in
The middle of the lake,
And in the boat, a tackle box
Was labeled “‘Zekiel Flake.”
Zeke wore his lucky fishing shirt
A rip upon his sleeve.
Where late last fall a fish hook caught
And corner-tore the weave.

An ice chest, also in the boat,
Was handy for the day.
He reached inside and grabbed some lunch—
On rye – P-B & J.
He set the sandwich on one knee
And when ‘twas aptly blessed,
He grabbed a portly earthworm
And then he closed the chest.

Zeke took a bite of sandwich,
And then threaded the hook
Straight through the earth worm’s belly
‘Til positioned in the crook.
He tossed the worm rig overboard,
Then cleaned his hands of dirt,
Another bite of sandwich then
He smoothed his lucky shirt.

The worm began to wiggle and
Continued his descension,
When near the catfish hovel,
Caught the catfish’s attention.
The catfish knew the rules ‘cause
He’d learned them long ago.
But as he watched he was enticed
By wriggly earthworm’s show.

The worm was pleasing to his eye,
And in his mind he thought,
If on the tail I nibbled, I’d not
Break the rules, as taught.
I’ll brush it with my whiskers
While the hook and worm I view.
The more he watched, the more he
Schemed to bend rule NUMBER TWO.

The catfish took a nibble,
Then the bobber took a plunge.
The pole ‘bout lost within his grasp,
Zeke Flake was forced to lunge.
His peanut butter sandwich flew
And lost most of its jelly.
It flipped, bounced on his lucky shirt
Then landed on his belly.

Then Zeke Flake tugged upon the pole,
Securely set the hook,
The catfish—sins before him—
Rued the day the bait he took.
Zeke’s mouth watered for fish sticks,
Heard the sizzle in the pan,
Adrenaline pumped through his veins
And then— something unplanned…

Rule NUMBER THREE! the catfish thought,
To “Flop, then twist, and spit.”
He sputtered out the fishhook
Then he turned his tail and split.
And Zeke thought sure he heard a “hiss”
Or possibly, a “meow,”
Besides the hook, the catfish spit
Pond water on Zeke’s brow.

Relief then coursed through catfish veins.
His plight, at one time grave,
The catfish and his whiskers
Had averted a close shave.
Old Zeke, bereft of dinner,
Spat upon his lucky shirt.
He rowed to shore and then he flung
His tackle in the dirt.

Then with relief, Zeke Flake recalled
More lunch— P-B & J!
The sandwich in his hand surpassed
The fish that got away.
The catfish vowed his fish lips would
Not eat worm meat again,
He’d only dine on plants, he’d be
A vegetarian.

***
My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.
Proverbs 1:10 KJV
***
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
Topic: "Phew!"
February 2010

As a Fowl Hath

2010-01-14T19:17:00.012-07:00

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

2010-01-07T14:28:00.013-07:00

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

2009-12-10T21:58:00.003-07:00

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

2009-11-12T21:06:00.009-07:00

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

2009-09-25T11:55:00.010-07:00

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.

***

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

2009-09-18T13:27:00.005-07:00

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.”

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

2009-07-10T11:08:00.015-07:00

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

The Pelican Grief

2009-06-25T12:53:00.022-07:00

(For Friday Fiction)

The Pelican Grief
By Beth LaBuff

Within an Eastern seaboard town—
A salt-air weathered hut
With large displays of seafood
Sold from Beaker’s Fish Market.

The pelican proprietor,
With his unique physique,
Would stock the shelves with seafood
Hauling fish within his beak.

Patrons in this seaboard town,
To satiate their hunger,
Bought, salmon, shrimp, and snapper
From their pelican fishmonger.

One day while fishing off the wharf,
To stock his shelves anew,
He ran into an albatross
And caught the fowl bird flu.

And with the flu, a fever rose
Then goose bumps, wheezing, chills.
The Doc’s advice, “Get bird-nest rest.”
He prescribed some vile swill.

Recovery time, though minimal,
The bird flu left him weak,
Affecting his ability
To haul fish in his beak.

So Beaker’s Market floundered,
A fiscal loss incurred.
His shop showed a resemblance to
Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

The market’s shelves were empty.
The patrons wailed louder.
“No lobster, shrimp, or scallops,
And no clams for our chowder!”

His loss of strength, the empty shelves—
Two desperate situations.
He needed brawn to fill the shelves
With catfish and crustaceans.

On self-exam, his abs were mush.
Then he let out a wail.
Worst fears confirmed, for cellulite
Was dimpled on his tail.

With lunges, curls, and crunches—
A cardio work-out.
His glutes grew firm and sturdy,
His muscles, fit and stout.

Once more the shelves were loaded
With perch and halibut,
And business boomed just like before
At Beaker’s Fish Market.

New items added to his shelves,
Like chips and tartar sauce.
Soon came a line of airborne fowl—
Filet of albatross.

***

inspiration from: Proverbs 102:6 KJV

I am like a pelican of the wilderness,

I am like an owl of the desert.

***

written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge

Topic: Empty and Full

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Sherri at A Candid Thought
Be sure to stop there for links to great summer fiction.

The Sackbut Player's Solo

2009-06-04T19:43:00.009-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Karlene at Heart and Soul

Be sure to stop over there for more inspirational fiction.

The Sackbut Player’s Solo
By Beth LaBuff – April 2009
Topic: Up and Down

The concert hall’s grand elegance
With velvet seats and lacquered wood,
And silence echoed off the walls
In hushed anticipation.

A poster promised classics from
L. van Beethoven’s repertoire.
The concert time was eight o’clock,
Announced the invitation.

“Come hear the modern debut,
An historic instrument
Unearthed near ancient Babylon,
A recent excavation.”

This four-stringed sackbut had survived
With two strings missing, two intact.
Harp from Nebuchadnezzar’s band
And Daniel’s generation.

The sackbut player’s grand entrance,
He held the cherished artifact.
A gasp rose from the audience,
A spellbound fascination.

But where to seat the sackbut? –
The dilemma of this age.
Among the flutes? … one flautist, though
Did flaunt his aggravation.

The maestro wildly waved his arms.
Musicians readied for their song.
An upbeat, first …the downbeat, next,
Con brio orchestration.

At center stage the player stood,
His instrument, he cradled.
The string he plucked was rusted through
And snapped from oxidation.

‘Twas the middle of the coda,
A shocked silence filled the hall.
The sackbut player’s starched white shirt
Was drenched with perspiration.

A flush crept up the maestro’s face
His anger …seven times hotter.
A handkerchief cooled down his brow
And saved him from cremation.

The sackbut player’s head hung down.
The flautist glowered, showed contempt.
And through a sneer he snidely said,
“Don’t quit your day vocation.”

When it was feared the song had failed
Sackbutist’s fingers slowly plucked
The fragile sole-surviving string,
Grateful for preservation.

A mellow note, melodious,
It soared and drifted ‘round the hall.
Not heard for three millennia,
This musical sensation.

The audience burst out, jumped up,
With accolades and praises.
Down in their seats they plunked again
For encore’s presentation.

But with profuse applause, a draft.
The music drifted off the stands,
The hasty grab for music sheets
Left discombobulation.

In the confusion, songs were swapped,
The parts redistributed.
Musicians puzzled o’er new notes—
A heart-sick palpitation.

The flautist’s shock showed in his eyes,
He blamed the sackbut player,
And in derision hurled at him
A frothed expectoration.

Despite the classics’ muddle
And the mixed-up sour notes,
The sackbut’s voice resounded
To the listeners’ elation.

Moonlight Sonata, Ode to Joy,
The jumbled songs’ cacophony.
Anachronistic re-debut,
A modern fascination.

One thing the world may never know,
Did “Sackbut’s Ode Sonata”
Cause Beethoven to roll over?
There’ll be no exhumation.

Note:

It is believed that the “sackbut” of Biblical times (Daniel 3—KJV)

was a triangular stringed musical instrument. It is also translated “lyre.”

***

written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge

***

inspiration from:

Daniel 3:5

That at what time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp,

sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of musick,

ye fall down and worship the golden image that

Nebuchadnezzar the king hath set up. (King James Version)

Peking Duck

2009-03-19T22:50:00.021-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by

Dee at My Heart's Dee-Light
Spring over there for more seasonal fiction.

Peking Duck
By Beth LaBuff – March 2009
Topic: Asia

In an undisclosed location
Somewhere in China’s wall,
A most uncommon baker
Cooked from dawn to post nightfall.

This surreptitious baker
Used fortune and good luck
To craft world-famous dishes,
His name was Peking Duck.

So skilled in Asian cooking
This waterfowl’d become.
The multi-tasking Peking Duck
Could wok while chewing gum.

His specialty was cookies,
Though he stressed over the crumbs,
Which led to frequent meltdowns –
The China chef Syndrome.

To some he was a legend,
A mystic cooking fable.
He sold his fortune cookies
With the Great Wall Cookie label.

His ancient oven used by those
Within his family tree,
Before this duck was Egg Foo Young,
Before Ming’s Dynasty.

His copy of the recipe
Recorded in his scrawl
Was written down graffiti-style—
Handwriting on the wall.

No need to keep this recipe
Secured behind a lock,
The secret won’t be advertised
Because the “walls don’t talk”.

His prized obscure ingredient,
Stored in a flour sack,
And stirred in with a chopstick
Was the semi-precious “quack”.

A special tool, to seal the edge,
Chef Peking Duck devised.
He’d step down squarely on the dough
His webbed foot utilized.

He’d puzzled o’er the crescent shape,
Persistence would prevail,
He took the flattened cookie
To mold it ‘round his tail.

When family honor—saving face
Had caused blood-ties to thicken,
His second cousin, twice removed,
The noble Kung Pao Chicken…

The chicken wrote a letter—
Requisitioned the republic
And petitioned that the new year
Be “the year of Peking duck”.

***

Somewhere … inside a restaurant
Were signs “No MSG,”
And “Specials of the Evening” were
“Lo Mein and Chop Suey.”

The music’s plinky melody
In pentatonic scale,
Where chairs and tables artfully staged
With strict feng shui detail,

And waitresses and waiters with
Their hair in braided queues,
Served egg rolls to the patrons
And distributed menus.

Each meal would not be complete
Without dessert’s addition.
Each patron got a cookie
That was fashioned per tradition.

A Great Wall Cookie cookie
That compelled a smile to crack
‘Cause when they broke it open
It exhaled a little “quack.”

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Inspiration from:

Daniel 5:5 NIV

Suddenly the fingers of a human hand appeared

and wrote on the plaster of the wall,

Proverbs 31:15, 18 NIV

She gets up while it is still dark;

she provides food for her family ...

She sees that her trading is profitable,

and her lamp does not go out at night.

General Bullregard -- A North South Tale

2009-02-26T16:26:00.015-07:00

I'm excited to host Patty Wysong's Friday Fiction this week.

At the bottom of this post is Mr. Linky. Add your name

and a link to your fiction, then click on other links

to read fiction by some excellent writers.

Thanks for laughing at the days with me.

General Bullregard -- A North South Tale
by Beth LaBuff
Topic: Don't cut off your nose to spite your face.

Back in the fall of sixty-three…
Or was it sixty-four?
There was a minor skirmish that
‘Bout caused a barnyard war.

South feedlot yard on Shiloh Farm
Was where they kept the bull.
His name was Pierre Bullregard --
For short -- The General.

Fenced inside north pasture hills,
The sheep would safely lay
Beside the still creek waters,
With no worries that they’d stray.

North pasture hills and south feedlot
Were separated by
A current wielding ‘lectric fence
That stood ‘bout three feet high.

The General would often graze
Next to the ‘lectric fence.
His tough old hide got many zaps
Before he gained some sense.

Some days he’d walk the fence line
And some days trot -- for fun.
He carved a furrow in the ground --
A trail we called Bull Run.

That day of infamy that left
The General so distraught --
A sheep was grazing near the fence
Next to the south feedlot.

The General from across the fence
Was thinking, Muttonhead.
Then sheep’s eye locked with bull’s eye,
And “Baaaaaaaad,” the sheep’s mouth said.

“How dare that sheep from ‘cross the fence
Accuse me with that word!”
Sheep bleated out that “Baaaaaad” again
And “Baaaaaaad” The General heard.

Instead of letting bygones be
At night he counted sheep.
Then “Baa-Baaaaaad” echoed through his mind
And drove away his sleep.

Like chewing cud, his anger was
Regurgitated bile.
His all-consuming thoughts ’bout sheep
Envisioned things hostile.

The bull was livid and revenge
Became his sole obsession,
Payback for a misconceived
North pasture sheep aggression.

He pawed the ground then charged the fence
His eyes were seeing red.
And steam expelled from out his nose
And dust shook from his head.

He shorted out the ‘lectric fence.
Sparks crackled in the air.
His hair was singed, but in he slipped
Though none the worse for wear.

So blinded by his anger
He chased the sheep that day,
Till men in white coats were called in
And carted him away.

Folks said he went to market.
Some said he bought the farm.
Perhaps he cashed his cow chips in --
He ain’t been ’round this barn.

inspiration from: Psalm 23:1-2 NIV
The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters.

© Beth LaBuff -- February 2008
written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's ...

2009-02-18T19:13:00.016-07:00

This week Fiction Friday is hosted by
Vonnie at My Backdoor Ministry

Stop over there for more avant-garde fiction.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's ...
by Beth LaBuff

Topic: Australia

Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree,
Merry merry king of the bush is he.
Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra,
Gay your life must be!
--Australian Folk Song by Marion Sinclair--

In the bush-land of Australia
A diverse Society
Met each week at three o’clock
To brew their billy tea.

Each member of this Aussie guild
Were seated ‘round a bog,
The wombat and the bandicoot
The sheep and dingo dog.

The crocodile sidled up
Next to the Kangaroo.
The emu and the rabbit
Came from the Uluru.

The kookaburra, merry in
The Eucalyptus tree,
The koala and the lorikeet
Treetop society.

Each member reaffirmed an oath
In lingo, fierce and strong.
They pledged the preservation of
Their outback billabong.

Until one diabolic day
That twirled them for a loop,
A devil from Tasmania
Came to infiltrate their group.

He pointed out the differences
‘Tween haves and the have-nots
Them that have the pockets
And them that haven’t got.

He incited racial hatred
With zoologic prejudice,
A billabong dissension—
Down Under outback fuss.

The koala and the kangaroo
Had the pocket attribute
Likewise the dervish devil,
The wombat and the bandicoot.

When the meeting terminated
Haves left and headed home.
The have-nots lingered at the swamp
To empathize and moan.

Then derogatory comments
With a hissed, “marsupial,”
As speculation mounted what
Their pouches might conceal.

“Perhaps they stash a boomerang—
Protection in the outback,
Or maybe a $5 note
To buy their Cheezels snack.”

“A self-contained doggy bag
For when they’re dining out,
Or perhaps to tote their lipstick
While on a walkabout.”

Kookaburra fueled the spark
Tas-devil helped create.
The mates – urged to get pockets.
The devil’s advocate!

They brain-stormed ‘bout their have-not plight
Their words – highly explicit.
They’d each construct a pocket-pouch
And then would retrofit it.

The kookaburra’s wisdom solved
Their tacky-sticky problem.
To glue the pockets on themselves
Required old gum tree gum.

The crocodile insisted that

His pocket be astride
His nose, but as he focused
His eyes became cross-eyed.

The emu had his pocket glued
Upon his feathered chest,
Where inside he could bury his head
When he became distressed.

Rabbit’s grand idea to grow
The bunny population,
Pockets-to-nurture-rabbits,

He could overrun the nation.

The dingo glued an ample pouch
On ‘bout shoulder-height.
He filled his spacious pocket with
Some Aussie Vegemite.

Next week at three o’clock when
The group convened again,
Each one had a pocket.
Glued to feathers, fur, or skin.

The have-nots then became the haves.
Attained marsupial status.
But their pockets were ill-fitted
And declared “preposterous.”

When prejudicial comments flew
The new-haves weren’t amused.
To remove their added pockets
Faux-supials felt behooved.

Backwater from the billabong
Removed the gum adhesive.
The have-nots said they’d had enough
And swiftly made their leave.

The Society disbanded.
The effort, understaffed.
The water was depleted
...And the kookaburra laughed.

Author’s note: While this story may seem far-fetched,

the kookaburra insists it is fair dinkum.

Inspiration from:

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house,

...nor any thing that is thy neighbor's.

Exodus 20:17 KJV

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Tutankhamen -- Romance on the Nile

2009-02-11T11:02:00.011-07:00

Tutankhamen -- Romance on the Nile
By Beth LaBuff -- March 2008
Topic: Homespun Wisdom -- Every dark cloud has a silver lining.

Adrift among the bulrushes
Upon the river Nile,
A lily pad meandered --
An aquatic floating isle.

The lily pad’s lone occupant
A bullfrog -- Tutankhamen,
Would sun upon yon’ lily pad,
Then swim, then sun again.

Life, unharried, drifted out
Amongst the river folk,
Speaking when the spirit moved,
His solitary “croak.”

Tut came from royal bloodlines.
His lineage -- traced with pride
To kindred frogs in Pharaoh’s halls,
On his mummy’s side --

Four thousand generations back,
Give or take a few,
To frogs in Egypt’s kneading troughs
And those in oven’s stew.

His lily pad, with leak issues,
Drooped on it’s starboard side.
It caused Tut’s leg to ebb and flow
And dangle in the tide.

His marinated frog leg
Showed dire discoloration --
A sickly sort of sallow xanthous
Chartreuse combination.

How does one hide a mismatched leg
Or cloak humiliation?
His personal plague, thorn in the flesh --
Disgraceful situation.

Tut hopped to town to seek out shops
So that he might compare
The price to stabilize his pad
With leak and droop repair.

The knowledgeable merchant
Insisted that he knew
Precisely what his pad would need --
New gutters, paint, and glue.

Tut juggled all his purchases
As he hopped out the door
To a “Thank you, please come back again"
From Bart’s Botanical Store.

Before he’d taken twenty steps
He lost his gutter grip.
Paint then glue and gutters flew
And that caused Tut to trip.

His flailing leg flashed like a light,
Stopped traffic on the road.
And caught the eye and interest of
One Cleopatra Toad.

Miss Cleo’s fairy tale world
Desired hoppy bliss,
With visions of a frog turned prince
After a magic kiss.

Enamored with Tut’s garish leg,
‘Cause printed in black ink
She’d read in Fashion Magazine,
“Chartreuse is the new pink.”

Epilogue

A cloud burst on the lily pad
New gutters were in use.
Two amphibians, eight total legs --
Seven green and one chartreuse.

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff -- March 2008

Go West Young Man

2009-02-02T19:50:00.027-07:00

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by
Sherri Ward at A Candid Thought

Be sure to stop over there for more cutting-edge fiction.

Go West Young Man

by Beth LaBuff

Topic: The USA

In Old English, on the sheepskin
Conferred from Mid-State College,
Joe Peacock proudly eyed his name
And reveled in his knowledge.

He headed home on gravel roads,
Past the dirt road junction,
With grandiose ideas to
Increase the farms production.

With eagerness to implement
New methods and techniques,
But on deaf ears his concepts fell,
Were squashed down, so to speak.

Self-righteous anger boiled to
A discontented state.
Old farmers with archaic ways—
That would not be his fate.

A deft smooth-talking salesman,
Whose snaked tongue dripped with oil,
Filled young Joe with promises
Of western fertile soil.

“A progressive farmer should not
Stay here when I’ve land to sell.
Go west, young man, and leave this farm.
Just bid the past farewell.”

Sans common sense with a sound mind,
Joe bought the proffered land.
Paid the con with currency
Then shook his clammy hand.

Joe took his old green tractor
And a wagon for the load,
Donned a sign, “Westward or bust!”
Then throttled down the road.

Drove through “What Cheer” in Iowa,
In Colorado – “Hygiene”,
Aye-yi-yi! – the names of towns!
What were “town fathers” thinking !?!

One evening’s stop at a cafe
On his cross-country tour,
He went inside a restaurant
And ordered soup du jour.

He puzzled o’er the “mystery meat’s”
Stringy perpetual chew.
The waitress mumbled, “jackrabbit”
How gross! Hare in his stew!

As on he traveled he recalled
Sage council from Bugs Bunny,
“Hey doc, be careful that you don’t
Turn left in Albuquerque.”

At length his destination reached,
His eyes surveyed his land.
His mind – pow’rless to comprehend
And slow to understand.

“Hoodwinked!” the word came to his mind.
He pondered what he’d done.
His farm was situated in
The Grand “abyssal” Canyon!

He tossed his sheepskin in the gulch
And then …he had a notion.
He’d contour farm the canyon
To stop the soil erosion.

inspiration from: Philippians 4:11

Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned,

in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff – January 2009

The Christmas Goose

2008-12-26T11:01:00.013-07:00

Fiction Friday is hosted by Patty at Patterings
Be sure to head over there for some new and some recycled fiction.

The Christmas Goose

The old farmhouse exuded glee –
Unbridled expectation,
While youth and elders strategized
Their Christmas celebration.

The merriment that overflowed
Infected fowl and beast.
In the barnyard peace ensued
And acrimony creased.

Except… that is, one envious pig
Got up his porker dander
When he observed the peacock strut
Of one illustrious gander.

The gander overheard the cook,
Whose silvered-tongue was loose,
That if he plumped-up, he’d become
This seasons Christmas goose.

The whole farmhouse, both young and old,
At once began to pander,
Feeding this and bits of that
To fatten up the gander.

To be the Christmas goose MUST BE
The wish of every gosling.
For every inch his waistline grew,
More lustrous grew his goose dream.

With each applause and patted-back
And lofty gander praise,
The pig’s hate exponentially grew
For all the gander’s ways.

Pig quipped, to put him in his place,
“They’re going to cook your goose.”
Then added, while his nose-ring bobbed,
“You’ll simmer in your juice.”

And then to emphasize his point
They waddled to a window.
From underneath they overheard
The children’s voices flow.

With sing-song voice they patty-caked
A chant that made him shiver.
“Pluck the fowl, discard the tail,
Take out his goosey-liver.”

“Add peppercorns, season to taste,
Then truss him up with kite string.
Cook will roast the Christmas goose that’s
Crammed with chestnut stuffing.”

Then goose-bumps on the gander flared.
His face grew flushed, then paled.
A plan began to formulate
So he’d not be de-tailed.

With not a moment left to spare,
He donned clothes from the clothesline.
When cook went out to dress the fowl,
He hid behind the grapevine.

The cook, with kids and jealous pig,
Searched far— all o’er the place
What started as a hunting crew
Wound up a wild-goose chase.

With nary a gander sighting
Of hide, nor hair or feather,
Cook then whipped up a Plan B –
The children thought ‘twas clever.

Epilogue

The gander near the window crept,
When deemed the coast was clear.
The children’s chant – a second verse?
Was music to his ears.

“Green-bean casserole, candied yams,
Pumpkin pie, and custard.
We’ll pig out on Christmas ham
That’s spiced with cloves and mustard.”

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
Topic: Christmas Cooking/Baking
© Beth LaBuff -- October 2008

Carol of the Bulls

2008-12-25T11:46:00.011-07:00

Carol of the Bulls
by Beth LaBuff
Topic: Christmas carols/caroling

They sheltered in the weathered barn,
Their custom at end of day,
Added scents to mingle with
The stover and baled hay.

A microcosm of barn-life
That mirrored humanity,
Spats and greed festered and fostered –
Livestock disunity.

Like pots that called the kettle black,
Hogs beefed about the sheep smell.
They claimed their stench was nigh unto
An overflowing landfill.

The chickens hatched their plan for nests,
Pulled wool over sheep’ eyes,
Nests within the feeding troughs,
To hoard the hay supplies.

Old rooster was a barnstormer,
Who flew and goosed the duck.
The pig who watched these birds in flight
Had dreams of fowl potluck.

Then at the darkest midnight hour,
Since evil’s head had reared,
Though the window of the barn
A Christmas star appeared.

In that magic mystic moment
A lowing sound occurred.
It started in the pen where bulls
Milled near the cattle herd.

Then added to the lowing bass,
A countermelody.
A newborn lamb released his voice
With guileless harmony.

Their carol grew to a crescendo,
Livestock dissension ceased.
Lion and lamb peace resumed
For feathered fowl and beast.

In the barn a song arose
With mixed creation flavor,
A tonal sacrifice of praise,
A fragrant-smelling savor.

inspiration from:
Hebrews 10:4-7
4because it is impossible for
the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins.
5Therefore, when Christ came into the world, he said:
"Sacrifice and offering you did not desire,
but a body you prepared for me;
6with burnt offerings and sin offerings
you were not pleased.
7Then I said, 'Here I am—it is written about me in the scroll—
I have come to do your will, O God.'

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge
© Beth LaBuff -- October 2008

The Devolution of Planet eX-whY-Zee

2008-12-08T22:09:00.019-07:00

Fiction Friday

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by
Shirley McClay at Sunny Glade

Be sure to visit for cutting-edge fiction.

Author's Note:
If the theory of evolution is possible,

then reverse evolution (or devolution) must also be possible.

Today I am posting a TRUE STORY for Fiction Friday,

may the powers-that-be forgive this indiscretion.

This true account is the story of a superior race that begins to devolve.

Here are the facts...

The Devolution of Planet eX-whY-Zee
by Beth LaBuff
Young Adult Genre

Ten trillion billion years ago
On planet eX-whY-Zee
Dwelt 50 million comrades --
An advanced humanity.

The citizens were sacrosanct,
Professing to be wise.
And every action that was done
Was right in their own eyes.

Events began to happen
That man did not foresee.
The cause? …‘twas global warming
Or a planetary freeze?

Maybe the ozone buildup
Caused an air pollution trap.
Or aliens used their ray guns
To melt the polar cap.

Eight trillion billion years ago
Man’s shoulders start to stoop.
A tail soon develops
And his arms begin to droop.

Six trillion billion years ago
Cro-Magnon’s cave is home
Where pterodactyl soar
And the brontosaurus roam.

Four trillion billion years ago
Monkeys become bees.
Man becomes a monkey and
The bees become small fleas.

Two trillion billion years ago
A single life-cell group
Mutated then transitioned into
Thick primordial soup

One trillion billion years ago
There remained some dull green fuzz.
A little bang transpired then
From something …nothing was.

***
9th grade Science Class --

Students, please review these facts. There will be a test on Monday.

Inspiration from:
Romans 1:20-22 For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse. For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened. Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools.

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Forgive Her Trespasses

2008-12-05T09:54:00.011-07:00

Fiction Friday

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by

Yvonne Blake at My Back Door

Be sure to visit for inspirational fiction!

Forgive Her Trespasses
by Beth LaBuff
Topic: Christmas Lights

A couple – married forty years,
The secret to their bliss?
Through the house and down the hall
An unseen line exists.

Two rooms were separated by
This line of demarcation
One chamber “his,” the other “hers”
For spousal isolation.

In her room, a rocking chair
With cushioned floral print.
A knitting basket perched nearby
With yarns of pastel tint.

In his room, a den of sorts,
And homage to his passions,
Where guns and mounted trophy heads
Were tributes of his actions.

She had, while settled in her chair
Resplendent inspiration—
Clandestine entrance to his room
For Yuletide decoration.

She hauled her stash of trimmings
To his hallowed, leathered lair.
Strands and strings of blinking lights
While he was unaware.

His south wall held a mounted bass,
Hung from its mouth, a lure.
She held a bauble to its fin
And tied it there, secure.

Great Uncle Albert’s picture hung
Next to the baubled bass –
She added chaser lights that lit-up
Clockwise round the glass.

She turned around then gazed upon
The wall that bordered east
Where smack dab in the center
Was a shoulder-mounted beast.

The beast was angled oddly,
His head wrenched, facing south.
She lit a Christmas candle
And placed it in his mouth.

The north wall held a bird in-flight
From Canada – a goose.
The goose-in-flight was wall-mates with
A mammoth head of moose.

Then up above, the light fixture,
Were cast-offs from some deer,
She hung some blinking snowflakes
From the antler chandelier.

Extension cords hid ‘neath a hide
Of pronghorn mammal fur.
She plugged the cord with three prongs in
A two-prong adapter.

Wrapped in the Yule moment,
A decorating whirlwind,
Multitudes of Christmas lights
Plugged end to end to end…

And still, she kept on adding lights—
Obsessed, compulsive urge.
Until the lights blinked off, then on—
Electric power’s surge.

AC/DC, watts, and amps,
Ungoverned energy,
By adding more the room maintained
High-powered synergy.

Finally, the last beast had been graced
With bulbs and decoration.
Back stealthily, she crossed the line
To gender segregation.

Expectancy for his return,
Excitement on her face,
She thought she heard a tiny “pop”
Perhaps … the fireplace?

A beep began to issue from
The sensor on the wall.
Smoke seethed from underneath the door
Then spewed into the hall.

Aghast, she peered across to see
Her husband’s char-broiled shotgun.
Who knew the room’s propensity? —
Spontaneous combustion!

The print of Uncle Albert
Shot high into the air.
It then became impaled upon
The antler chandelier.

The north wall saw excessive heat.
The goose – incinerated.
And on the floor a pile of ash,
Ill-fated moose — cremated.

With fried bass on the south wall,
She then rotated east—
Shocked electrocution of
The shoulder-mounted beast.

The leaning candle in the mouth,
That had been left ajar,
Made the beast appear like he
Was smoking a cigar.

They planned on eating out that night,
Cheeseburgers with some fries,
Instead, they opted to stay home.
For “Bar-B-Q Surprise”.

Inspiration from:

Forgive us our trespasses... Matthew 6:13

Serengeti Subterfuge

2008-11-28T11:11:00.017-07:00

Fiction Friday

Fiction Friday is hosted this week by

Hoomi at Pod Tales and Ponderings

Be sure to visit for avant-garde fiction.

Serengeti Subterfuge

by Beth LaBuff

Topic: Charade

In the darkness rife with night sounds,

‘Neath an umbrella tree,

Crouched young Paka* of the woodlands –

Serengeti sovereignty.

Paka Leopard was courageous

As he thrived upon the plain.

In Serengeti’s rank he neared

The apex of the food chain.

He hoped for an appearance,

Kept his respirations quiet,

Craved a meal that conformed to his

High protein – low-carb diet.

With the tardiness of dinner

And scratching of the bramble.

His thoughts began to wonder

While his brain began to scramble.

Paka had a revelation,

“My spots are so cliché,

I’ll change my spots, expunge them

To blend in among my prey!”

He borrowed spot remover

From a clean safari guest,

Who’d hoped to spot a spotted cat

While spotless on his quest.

With spots obliterated,

Spotless Paka formed a plan,

To mingle with the monkeys

And blend in among their clan.

In order to pull off this hoax

He learned some monkey antics

Like eating ripe bananas

And monkey speech semantics.

With just a smidge of exercise,

Plus a scoop of guile,

He practiced swinging from the trees

His tail — faux prehensile.

The whole charade was scrutinized

By a watchful gnu,

Who faithfully transcribed it

From his hidden gnu’s eye view.

The gnu was an informer

To the Brotherhood of Apes,

Who voiced their stern distaste on

How events had taken shape.

The monkeys weren’t bamboozled

By Paka Leopard’s cheating.

They called each head of household to a

Monkey business meeting.

The Brotherhood of Apes

Then posted union views,

Saying “Leopards can’t be monkeys

‘Cause they pay no union dues.”

And with the union’s statement

That was posted in a hurry,

No hakuna with matata

Made Paka start to worry.

To reverse a spot remover

Became his chief concern.

And all the wishful thinking

Wouldn’t make the spots return.

Accounting of this tall charade

Might be a bit askew.

We asked around before we found

Just what the old gnu knew.

It seemed that Paka Leopard

Then simmered in a stew,

Till he found a place that could replace

His spots with ink tattoos.

*Swahili for cat

Inspiration from:

Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard its spots?
Jeremiah 13:23 (NIV)

written for a faithwriters.com writing challenge

Le Curator of the Shed

2008-11-20T16:47:00.029-07:00

Fiction Friday

Fiction Friday is hosted by Patty at Patterings

Be sure to stop there for avant-garde fiction.

Le Curator of the Shed
by Beth LaBuff
Topic: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

‘Twas just an old abandoned shed
Decaying in the dell,
Inside were treasures of all sorts
That time had bid farewell.

Objects d’art were hung with twine
And carefully displayed,
Buckets, leather harnesses,
Steel plows, and rusty spade.

Then the pièce de résistance
In room’s center could be viewed.
It was most carefully guarded --
Le sac of dry cat food.

Asleep within this gallery
On sculptured hay bale bed
Was the steward of these items --
Le Curator of the shed.

At first glance he appeared to be
Chat noir -- a cat of black.
The second glimpse revealed to all
A white stripe down his back.

Few animals dared to trespass in
Le Curator’s domain,
Especially if their nose could smell
And they possessed a brain.

‘Twas greed that gripped Le Curator
With plans to boost his stash.
He snuck up to a refuse heap
To sift through other’s trash.

That’s when the fracas happened,
A thief came forth to steal,
He had a mask and banded tail
And planned to snitch a meal.

Time the brigand bided when
Le Curator left his shed,
The bandit came and havoc wrecked
Then in the dark he fled.

Grievous sight met beady eyes,
There’d been a bold incursion,
And Le Curator regretted
His scavenger excursion.

The thief defaced the gallery
And through the twine he chewed.
He kicked the buckets out the door
And stole le sac of food!

Inspiration from:
The thief comes only to steal... John 10:10 (NIV)

Go to the Ant, Thou Slug

2008-11-18T17:21:00.004-07:00

Laughing at the Days, a paraphrase of Proverbs 31:25.

She is clothed with stength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.

Go to the Ant, Thou Slug

by Beth LaBuff

Betwixt svelte emerald spikes of grass,

Within the loam they thrive en masse,

And toil to lay-up treasured foods --

An ant hill colony.

Martha Ant, a lively worker,

Never was a slacker-shirker,

Gathered foodstuff for her queen --

She served most faithfully.

A strange encounter, Monday late,

While foraging ‘neath garden gate,

A caller sought out Martha Ant

One question on his mind.

His name was Rusty Vander Slug.

He voiced his query to the bug.

“Wise Ant, why do you stash and hoard

The provender you find?”

“I’ve watched you scurry, laboring,

Never changing your routine.

Your drive I cannot comprehend --

Nor logic can perceive.”

Then Martha eyed the gastropod,

She saw no trace of a façade.

His enquiry was most sincere

With no thought to deceive.

With prudent words, Martha explained,

“With summer’s store we’ll be sustained.

Of deprivation -- meager fare,

We’ll be delivered from.”

“With winter’s peril, ravaging,

We have in stock insect cuisine.

So for the morrow we’ll not fear --

We’ll laugh at days to come.”

***

Inspiration from:

Proverbs 6:6 - Go to the ant, thou sluggard;

consider her ways, and be wise. (KJV)

Proverbs 30:25 - Ants are creatures of little strength,

yet they store up their food in the summer. (NIV)

Proverbs 31:21 - When it snows,

she has no fear for her household. (NIV)

Proverbs 31:25 - She can laugh at the days to come. (NIV)

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Topic: confident