Digging Up Bones

Or maybe “Skeletons In the Closet.” An old bone won’t have much meat on it and if it’s too far gone, it won’t make a good base for a stock either. Going through an old notebook last night, I found a brittle femur that I’ll offer up in a second.

For some reason, my grandmother always said I would become a teacher. My opinion differed from her’s. I was going to be a marine biologist or an “artist” of the special effects or comic book variety. She was right, even though she never saw me become a teacher. I miss her advice now that I could appreciate it. Maybe she read some of my first poems.

One of my first comes straight from the heart of an English nerd. My main influences at the time were Edgar Allan Poe (and I won’t share the horrifyingly bad lost-love poems modelled after his), Shel Silverstein, Langston Hughes, Lewis Carroll, Edward Gorey, and Charles Addams. All writers and artists I still love today. They are in no way at fault for what follows.

The Dinner of Terms

Place and Time
decided to dine.
Plot excused himself.

Setting and Mood
prepared the food,
creating an atmosphere.

Rhyme and Rhythm
were caught in a schism.
Conflict was bound to erupt.

Myth and Fable,
related and able,
ate more than anyone else.

Climax and Theme
had crumpets and cream
and were followed by Resolution.

Resolution
came to a conclusion.
It went well with dessert.

Idiom and Irony
were made honorary
at the fanciful Dinner of Terms.