Purrr-fectly Feline

I pity anyone who doesn't give my little girl some candy tonight.

Mee-Wow!

The final poem for Scary Poetry Month

Well, this is it. The last poem in honor of Scary Poetry Month. I'll admit none of them have been all that scary, including this one:

Halloween

By Tracy Farr

Halloween, jelly bean,
give me some or I'll be mean.

Put them here inside my sack,
Give me lots or I'll attack.

Eat your foot, eat your leg,
Hear you scream, watch you beg.

I won't stop until I'm done,
Halloween, yum yum yum.

My Saturday-morning goal

On this beautiful Saturday morning, I have but one goal:

To fry up the most perfect pair of sunny-side-up eggs my tummy has ever known.

I will not be sharing a photo of my eggs with you because the simple act of recording them on film, in my opinion, would somehow make them less perfect.

Instead, I will eat them with hot-buttered toast, drink a tall mug of freshly-brewed coffee, and contemplate on the goodness of the day.

Life is short.

Our time is best spent on doing things that matter.

Witches deserve their own poems

Okay, here's another poem, about another witch, in celebration of Scary Poetry Month, even though my poems haven't been all that scary.

The Witch by the Bay

By Tracy Farr

There’s a witch by the bay casting spells at the fish.
See them dance in the air, watch them spin and then twist
just like young ballerinas leaping high, to and fro.
A ballet on silvery toes.

And the witch dances, too, with incredible grace.
Watch her sway, pirouette and then leap into space.
How her feet never seem to alight on the sand
is a mystery I don’t understand.

Then the witch swings her arms and the fish disappear,
and she turns in a flash, for she knows I am near.
In a blaze she is gone, and to my dying day,
I’ll remember the witch by the bay.

Another Scary Poetry Month poem

The Witch of Pelican Bay

By Tracy Farr

On Tuesday,
I saw the old witch of Pelican Bay
lift a crooked finger
toward a stray dog
that just so happened to linger
a little bit too long,
digging in her garden.

In a puff of smoke,
that old witch
turned that old mutt
into an old rat,
and her old black cat
ate it whole.

She then lifted her eyes and finger toward me,
mouthed the word, “Scram,”
and since I like myself just the way I am,
I did.

An Invitation to Dine

And here's another little poem in honor of Scary Poetry Month 2011:

An Invitation to Dine

by Tracy Farr

I really don’t know why I have a vulture on my shoulder.
Maybe it’s a little crazy, maybe it’s a little bolder
than the other birds I see; they’re all just circling ‘round my head.
Or could it be it thinks that I am dead?

And now that ugly creature’s poking holes into my cheek
as if it’s digging for some uncooked treat that it can’t wait to eat.
Is it searching for a maggot or a black and bloated tongue?
Answers to these questions, I have none.

A hundred hungry vultures now have landed on the ground.
I see them creep toward me without warning, without sound
the sky goes black and red, and I no longer care for earthly things.
My everlasting soul has taken wing.

Let's Go Shopping

A Limerick By Tracy Farr

I once saw Big Foot at the mall.
The monster wore nothing at all.
He was looking for spats,
Leather jackets and hats,
But all that he tried were too small.

Goodbye to an old friend I never really knew

I don't remember Tim's last name.

Tim was my barber. He cut my hair for almost 20 years. And even though it got thinner and thinner on top, Tim could still find a few hairs that needed to be looked after.

Tim knew where I worked, he knew my family, he knew about my motorcycle/banjo/goat/airplane addictions, but better yet, he knew exactly how I liked my hair.

But I hardly knew anything about him, and now he's retired -- off to do whatever it is that retired barbers do -- and some guy named Tom has taken his place, and I don't know what to think anymore.

Tom seems to be a nice guy, and I probably should give him a chance, but change is hard.

I've given some thought to letting my hair grow long (the one or two that CAN grow long), be the hippy I always wanted to be, just in honor of my old friend, Tim.

More than likely I'm going to give my hair-cutting business to Tom.

Tom, my new barber, whose last name I forget.

Elaina

A sonnet by Tracy Farr

In the light of the moon I see a girl.
It’s Elaina, my love from long ago.
She’s rising from a mist that doesn’t stir.
Where she comes from, I do not want to know.
Her lips are stained a rosy shade of dead.
Her cheeks, no longer pink, are moonlit white.
Her raven hair streaks outward from her head.
Her once green eyes are blacker than the night.
With no sound she screams at me a question,
“Why did you have to leave me there to die?”
Speechless, I recall my indiscretion.
Oh selfish, careless, heartless youth was I.
She’s come to take me; where, I do not know.
Likely, to places I’d rather not go.

Now for something different

I had this thought this morning:

Our bodies are made up of cells that live and then are cast off. When our bodies can't create or repair those cells, we die.

Is it possible that we, as individuals, are just cells to a collective human body? And when humanity can no longer create or repair us, then humanity will die?

And if that is so, is it possible that humanity itself is just a cell to a greater body that is beyond our comprehension to understand?

I thought about all this as I was driving to work this morning -- before running over a curb.

So let this be a lesson to you:

Don't Think and Drive!

The Hazardous Laugh

By Tracy Farr

My friend Harry is so hilarious,
He makes me laugh my head off three times a day.

Most times I find it down circling my feet,
But this time it's rolled clean away.

How Low Can it Go? Part 4

Speaking about the Texas drought -- I took this photo of Lake Bob Sandlin (the cove behind our house) on Wednesday:



To give you a more overall few of the whole thing, I took this one, too:



We had some Texas rain sometime ago, but not enough to help the lakes -- and they keep getting lower, and lower, and lower, and...

Want to compare photos of the lake? Go HERE.

I'm a Zombie

It's Scary Poetry Month 2011, and here's a Zombie poem.

I'm a Zombie

By Tracy D. Farr

I'm a Zombie, yes I am.
I don't eat chicken, can't stand ham.
I only like to dine on meat.
Noses, livers, brains and feet.
I like it raw, from child or man.
I'm a Zombie, yes I am.

Growing Pains

Okay, here it is, my first poem in honor of Scary Poetry Month 2011:

Growing Pains

By Tracy D. Farr

My Daddy is a werewolf,
My Grandma is a ghoul.
My Mother is a Zombie Queen
who likes to spit and drool.
My sister is a gremlin,
And my brother is a bat.
I have a million cousins who
infest the house like rats.

But me, I'm just a normal kid,
I am not strange or scary.
Except I have just one big eye
And a tongue that's really hairy.

A month of scary poems

Hey, this is October, and that means it's once again "Scary Poetry Month."

In honor of the month, I shall endeavor to present you with a spooky, scary, creepy poem each and every Tuesday and Thursday. Fortunately for me, this is Saturday, and I still have time to come up with some spooky, scary, creepy poems.

While you're waiting, see what I wrote for "Scary Poetry Month 2010."

Okay, so most of them are not so scary.