Big-Game's Big Game

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

Big-Game’s Big Game
By Beth LaBuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It Doesn't Get Much Better

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

© Beth LaBuff -- September 2009

inspiration from:

Proverbs 16:31

Gray hair is a crown of splendor...

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

The Case Against a Sugar Maple

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by

Joanne at An Open Book

Head over there for links to more great fiction.

The Case Against a Sugar Maple
By Beth LaBuff

Topic: Winter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Beth LaBuff -- August 2009

inspiration from:

Isaiah 55:12 -- NIV

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

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

John 8:10 -- NIV

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

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Ale From Two Citruses

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

Ale from Two Citruses

by Beth LaBuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

is entirely coincidental.

***
inspiration from:

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

Proverbs 27:15

A quarrelsome wife is like a

constant dripping on a rainy day.

© Beth LaBuff -- June 2009

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

The Pelican Grief

(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

© Beth LaBuff -- June 2009

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

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

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

© Beth LaBuff -- March 2009

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

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 ...

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

© Beth LaBuff -- January 2009

written for a FaithWriters.com writing challenge

Tutankhamen -- Romance on the Nile

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

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