50 Word Stories: Meooooowwww!

I'm most excited when the cat stops meowing, if a lawnmower crossed with a glockenspiel can be called that? This is because I've booted him beyond the range of my hearing. You might think this harsh, evil even, but I assure you, it's not. I'm always wearing my softest slippers.

Sounds Like

This white noise surrounds and consumes. There is an overstated necessity to its infernal clutter, a relentless pace. I don’t want to plug my headphones in, turn on an app of falsity to find the relaxation I desire. I should sooner stick my head in a lake and shout at the fish. Is it so wrong to wish for birdsong, crickets playing their violin wings, the barking of an exuberant puppy? I think not. I hope not. There is nothing wrong with the sounds of life, I’m not saying that. I only wish they’d leave me alone long enough to make that decision for myself. If they do, I’ll lay back and listen to the sound of the rain on my window, the sun sizzling in the sky, or snow falling in whispers. If I’m very lucky, I might even listen to the most beautiful sound of them all: Silence.

Caw War!

 There’s a crow in this picture,
 Yet he seeks to deceive.
 Motionless, he stands
 Pretending to be a branch, or twig.
 When I turn away, he caws,
 A crow’s laugh at my ineptitude.
 He may have won this round,
 But when the sky lightens,
 I shall have my revenge.
 Oh, yes, my friends,
 For as the blue reveals him,
 I’ll caw back so loud that he falls from his perch.
 I shall have the final laugh.
 I have it all planned from my hospital ward window.

Ballad of the Crow

To be a crow on witching night
And caw at all and give such fright
Such blessed change from normal fair
When people just do not so care
As in the light of normal day
That rusted voice just grates away
And forces all to rant and rage
At timeless call, at ruckus caged
So sing my heart out all the night
And in said fright I’ll take delight
That in this one night of the year
The sounds I make cause only fear

(Image courtesy xdesktopwallpapers.com)

A Crowded Ride

This is a post inspired by a chat with my good friend, Spumoni Caddo. Check out spumonicaddo.wordpress.com for some wonderful poetry.

It was unordinary,
An unusual scene,
A milling of children
As if in a dream.
For weeks I’d had
Peace on my own
Now all that I dreaded
Invaded my home.
But when I say home
I really mean bus,
A long thing with wheels
And no usual fuss.
So many faces
Such uproarious noise
Some of it girls
But mostly it boys.
This signalled a countdown
That I’d start right now
Till holiday time
And peace here somehow.
Please don’t get me wrong
I love little kids,
Just not on my travels,
I want to get rid.
England, you shout!
No, the U.S of A.
Where bus rides are happy,
Kids have room to play.
Well, I haven’t got much choice,
In fact,
I’ve got none.
So I’ll sit here all quiet
And pray them begone.

(Image courtesy iss.schoolwires.com and Google images)