Loss of a Legend

Oh, my! I just learned that dear Hobbo passed away in August. For those who don’t know, he was a writer of some rather clever poems. I considered him as good as Ogden Nash or Shel Silverstein and thought to hear he’d been published. Instead, we learn he’s passed on.
His sons give an apt tribute, the way I’m sure he’d wish.

Goodbye, old friend.

For those curious, the following are just a few of his poems:

The Wordsmith
Twenty six letters
Are all that it takes
For the thousands and thousands
Of words that she makes.

She picks one or two
A dozen or so,
The nub of a poem
And she’s raring to go.

That’s not quite right,
Finds a good synonym,
This is not what I meant,
Opposite, antonym.

Not to forget
The syllable count,
Add one in there,
Take this one out.

Get all that right
And the rhythm is wrong,
Sort it out and it’s
Finished, mais non.

Before any of these
So called, latter stages,
She first needs a subject
To grace those blank pages.

The fraudulent chef
My, have you seen
how thin that chef looks?
I’ve a feeling he’s been
cooking his books!

Pronunciation denunciation
You’ll become a pariah
if you call it Yorkshire
and people will sneer
if you dare say Yorkshire
but the girl from Minorca
pronouncing it Yorkshire,
I will cover in kisses
and take for my Mrs.

Man on a bus
A pear-shaped man
in his pear-shaped clothes,
stuck his pear-shaped thumb
up his pear-shaped nose.
Put two pair-shaped bogeys
stuck to pear-shaped hair
in his pear-shaped mouth
where he ate the pair.

All poems copyright ©Hobbo

Welcome Back!

School’s back is session, autumn’s in the air, and I’m back to blogging. As per usual, here’s your numbered breakdown of how I’m going to make this work:

  1. Terrible Poetry
    Where would we be without the Terrible Poetry Contest? I’ll be running this once a month, every other month, as per my:
  2. Blog Schedule
    Using the brilliant, intelligent, organized, brilliant Kat as inspiration; this old blog will follow an every-other month format. I’m going to post every day for September, November, January, March, and May. There will be short stories, re-posts, quotes, poetry, terrible poetry, games, Friday photos, and responses to prompts.
  3. Life
    is ridiculously packed to the brim while less-important tasks like sleep sit molding at the bottom. We’ll see how this format works. Any encouraging aphorisms and/or life secrets are encouraged.

Thank you. I look forward to reading your works again.

©2022 Chel Owens

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

It’s about that time again: when I realize that summer vacation is here and whatever meager seconds I’ve had for blogging have already been claimed.

I’ve been at this WordPress gig for five years, officially so on June 24th. Happy Blogiversary to me and all that. I recall my trepidation at its opening: Would anyone read what I wrote? WHY WON’T ANYONE READ WHAT I WROTE? If I start now, by what point will I have a book contract? How can I finagle rights to the script and choice of actors so they don’t pick Hayden Christensen?!

Clearly, I’ve yet to write my book.

But I’ve made friends (thank you!).

I’ve lost friends.

The world turned weird during a pandemic and during a heated election.

I’ve popped out two more children, admitted to being LDS and even wrote about it, and …have lost the joy I used to feel for blogging.

So, for now, we’ll call this au revoir. Knowing me, I’ll be back. Ish. Thank you for reading. I can sincerely say I love you all.

Photo by alleksana on Pexels.com

Write something amazing while I’m gone, and don’t be afraid to share it.

—–

©2022 Chel Owens

And, go listen to “Ted and Trudy,” performed by Matt. Thanks, man.

Golden Shovel Poem, for the Terrible Poetry Contest

Matt’s given us a very interesting challenge for this week’s contest, one that I think will allow for some great variations. I felt confused at first read, so did what I always do when confused: went for it one step at a time.

The instructions are to take a famous poem:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

Now, I’m supposed to take the end word or words of the poem:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

Next, keep the end words in order. I’ve done that.

I need to give credit to the poet. This poem is “In Flanders Fields,” by John McCrae.

Lastly, the poem does not need to be about the same subject. In fact, it needs to be about the family pet. So, let’s do the hardest part:

In my opinion, cats all blow
They’d harvest humans, row on row,
    And preen their coats; watch birds in sky
    Not caring, since we cannot fly.
Then, try to trip us, down below.

I saw a dog, some days ago.
He smiled, relieved, his eyes a-glow,
    Loved and just loved; keen to lie
        In summer fields.

Your dog will never be your foe: 
He’ll fetch a stick from hands you throw
    And beg; whene’er you hold it high.
    He’s crushed when his dear masters die.
Not like a cat, preferring catnip grow(s)
        In summer fields.

Now, I think this could be even easier. No one said I had to follow the exact meter of “In Flanders Fields.” I could’ve written:

Roses are blow
Violets are row
Life is so sky
When I’m here with fly
In fields

Kinda catchy, isn’t it? Now it’s your turn! Go ahead!

©2022 Chel Owens

Friday Photo -on a Saturday

One idea I’ve had to fill the week is sharing a photo. In my ‘travels,’ I see odd, quirky, funny, or sweet. Why not show you?

The alliteration works better on a Friday, so ignore that it’s really Saturday.

Believe it or not, this was hanging from the roof of a rather humble, indoor archery range.

This is a taxidermied turkey (thanks, Norah). …but, why?

©2022 Chel Owens

The First-Ever 2022 Blog Update!

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

I’ve been absent lately, in an unofficial fashion. Since this has been due to life and its overwhelming responsibilities -furthermore, since no one has gone looking for me in a panic- I can only presume that: either everyone is equally engaged, or everyone understands that I am not only engaged but have married and sired six children.

If you are feeling like panicking, this post is meant to deter that.

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

I am still alive. My family is alive and kicking. I’ve come through the holidays, have declared a word, and have been mentally planning what to do for this blog.

I intend to include:

  • More creative stories, although they may be short.
  • More off-the-cuff posts as was my wont before COVID-19 hit.
  • Poetry, naturally.
  • Reviews of favorite books and movies.
  • Updates on COVID-19 conditions, as necessary.
  • A contest, or many. I’d love to award literal prizes.
  • Quotes. I love me my quotes.
  • Guest posts. PLEASE!
  • Wrap-ups of my Tour of Utah and mystery series, and promises I’ve made to bloggers to read their works.

If you made it this far, maybe you’d consider helping:
1. What would you like to read? Why do you come around here?
2. Would you be a guest blogger?
3. Would you be a guest host for a contest or writing prompt?
4. Is there anything I haven’t listed that you’d like me to write about?

Thank you for joining me on consider the current chaos.

Good Ole Bill…. Thanks, GIPHY

Hopefully, I’ll squeeze out a plan for the year and get back with you. In the meantime, please do answer my questions.

©2022 Chel Owens

Do You Sense What I Sense?

Said the husband as she burnt the ham
Do you smell what I smell?
(Do you smell what I smell?)
It’s charred, it’s charred; the oven’s all alight
With the men here to fi’re fight
With the men, here, to fi’re fight.

Said the slow man to his pride and joy
Do you taste what I taste?
(Do you taste what I taste?)
A smoke, a musk making us both wheeze
With eyes red and nose set to sneeze.
With eyes red, and nose set to sneeze.

Said the man to whom he’d vowed to cling
Do you feel what I feel?
(Do you feel what I feel?)
A fire, a fire burns the whole household
Let us run out; stop, drop, and roll
Let us run out; stop, drop, and roll.

Said the firechief to neighbors, stopped to stare
Listen to what I shout!
(Listen to what I shout!)
The man, his wife really aren’t that bright
They thought smoked ham needs firelight
Now, their house is qu-ite the sight!

And to ah-all, have a good night!

Photo by F. Hektor on Pexels.com

©2021 Chel Owens