The best of intentions

Excitement of a new love,

that electrical sense of his nearness

Seeing each other, never tiring

Talking long into the night about everything…about nothing

Hot breath on her neck, his heartbeat beneath her hand,

whispering love words in the darkness, can’t get enough of each other.

Starting their life, later than most, dreaming of their shining future.

Then…unfortunate diagnosis,

long months of denial, anger.

Worsening pain…crippling,

sending a too-young body into decay.

Fighting each day to stay working, to stay normal,

body betraying him and every turn.

The label of DISABLED is too final.

“Come play with me, Daddy” answered with a disheartening,

“I can’t right now, buddy.  Daddy hurts.”

Kills to hear it as much as it does to say it.

But the fight becomes futile,

reluctant acceptance of the inevitable.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Multiple doctor, hospitals, opinions

More treatments, trying…waiting

Bottles of pills, line the bathroom counter

Hatred and resentment in each one.

Fear of the outcome, with drugs…or without.

Is the “help” helping…or hurting?

With each passing year of this decade, destruction, of a body and a marriage.

Holding hands in the night is all that is left of their passion.

With each disappointing setback, frustration of a desire denied.

Like remembering a long-lost love that you cannot reclaim,

but are reminded of daily, feeling cheated.

No one understands the dulling side effects of this disease,

the dream ducks behind the clouds of reality.

Trifecta: Week Twenty-Nine   Decay: to fall into ruin

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What I should be doing instead of this

Oh cruel, dirty dishes, mockingly piled in the sink

Your crusty food stuck and foul, rotten stink.

You think you have me bested, you miserable fool

Meet your match, my dishwasher from Whirlpool!


Trifextra: Week Eighteen : write a poem of your own in either 33 words, 3 lines or 3 stanzas.

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Local grocery store checkout…on Tuesday…4:30pm…

“No.  I said no.”  Seriously, putting all that candy right there.  Right at fucking kids’ eye level.  I hope someone roasts in hell for that idea.  Come on, let’s go people.  I need to get out of here.
“Please, mommy, please can I have one? Pleeeeeeeeese.”  Three year-old manners at their best.  Puppy eyes, long lashes batting…begging.
“No, honey, sorry.  It’s too close to suppertime.  Now I don’t want to hear another peep about it.”

These are the magic words, like open sesame or abracadabra, because it produces a reaction like no other.   The next sound heard is definitely not a peep.  Rather it’s an uncontrolled blend of hysterical scream and high-pitched cry like no sound on earth.  Think rabbit in a trap.  In labor.  With one stuck sideways.  As a grizzly bear gnaws on its neck.  Before the last word is out of my mouth, the little darling is in the throes of a wild tantrum. Everyone looks, some with disdain, some with sympathy. There’s nothing quite like it to make you feel like the worst parent in the world.  Wanna live on the wild side?  Take a three year-old to the grocery store, a little hungry, a little tired and say the magic word.

Trifecta: Week Twenty-Eight  And now we’re back to the one-word prompt.  This week, we give you:   Wild (adj.)  not subject to restraint or regulation; uncontrolled; also, unruly.  Emotionally overcome;also, passionately eager or enthusiastic.

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A four letter word

My sweet five-year-old baby boy.

My adorable brown-eyed, long-lashed, dimpled baby boy.

This sweet, cute, lovable, cuddly baby boy has a favorite word.


Actually, a favorite subject.


Apparently, any business (in a five-year-old mind) that goes on in the “unmentionable” area is fair game for conversation. Now, don’t get me wrong, some potty-humor is funny. The first thousand times. You can only hear a farting sound so many times before it makes you want to strangle the sweet little face that’s making it.  At first, it was just replacing strategic words in conversation.

 Like “Mommy, can I have hotdog and  a butt for lunch?”

Or in commercials for the auto parts store on the radio, “O, o, o, o’reilly…auto-farts”

But – no pun intended – you know it’s getting out of hand when he tells perfect strangers, “Wanna see my butt –while sticking it out to them?” or “You have a big, fat butt –insert fart sound.” or ” I had butt for lunch” and finally “I wanna marry your butt.”  That last one he told my best friend, Amy, who was really no help in the matter since she was telling him how her butt was cuter than his butt and laughing hysterically as he made all his fake (and real) fart sounds.  Thanks, dearie…paybacks are hell.

I have tried to replace some words like, booty for butt, toot for fart and private for pee-pee and just plain outlawing diarrhea.  Except when he refers to Diarrhea of a Wimpy Kid, that one I just can seem to correct.  Oh well.  He gets it honest.

 Only 2 1/2 months until Kindergarten.

 My apologies in advance.

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Mumblings in an airport

…”one bag.  I told her, just one.  It’s an overnight trip for chrissakes!  Who needs more than one freakin’ bag?  Her that’s who.  Doesn’t bother her ’cause she has me.  Her pack mule.”

Trifextra: Week Seventeen For this weekend’s Trifecta, we return to a photo prompt. Your task is to use the photo below as inspiration for a story or poem of between 33 and 333 words.

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I blinked

A mother of boys, afraid to blink –

one’s seventeen and wants to be gone…

one’s eight and won’t hold my hand…

one’s five and starting school soon…

remembering my babies…a blink ago.

Trifextra: Week Sixteen Your challenge is to write anything you want, in whichever form you please, so long as your response is exactly 33 words and includes the word “mother.”

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That grin

I still don’t know how I got him.  This man I married.  From the start, an enigma to me.  A serious-looking man-boy, whose face would transform with his grin.  I had seen him several times, he came into the place that I worked.  My co-worker drooled over him.  Everyone in town knew him.  He was a fighter, a tough guy.   He hung out at the bars in town, so,  I wouldn’t have known him.  I thought he was good-looking, too good-looking for me.  He didn’t speak much so I couldn’t tell if he was stuck-up or just shy.  But that grin did something to my insides every time.  But it was the wrong time, wrong place in time.  Flash forward several years later, my bad marriage ended and a friend with a “perfect” guy to set me up with.  I nearly fell over when she told me who.  I remembered all the meaningless encounters from years past and figured, heck, why not?  He showed up and I saw a flicker of recognition and then, that grin.  I love that grin.  We talked all night, oblivious to everyone else.  Nothing was off limits  – our past relationships woes, his giving up his partying ways, working his way up in his job, how I felt starting over at thirty.   His brown eyes, with their long tangled lashes, would look at me and make me shiver.  I hoped the feeling was mutual.  He was a hard-working man, in charge of many others, but with a voice that could speak so softly, so sweetly at times, he didn’t even need to touch me.  That night was just the beginning.  Months flew by, talking everyday, seeing each other most.  Oh, yeah, the feeling was mutual!  Then the big question…the big day…a few kids…twelve years later…his grins still do it for me.

Trifecta Writing Challenge:  Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.  You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.

enig·ma noun \i-ˈnig-mə, e-\    3: an inscrutable or mysterious person

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