Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Friendly Fire / Death and Donald Duck's Nephews Come in Threes / free verse

Wanda Morrow Clevenger makes no excuses. It is what it is.


Friendly Fire

Chrissie rhymes with pissy and hissy fit and coo-coo

for cocoa puffs and from what little I saw of her smiling

mugshot she sure could get her hackles up; whatever

you do, don't call her 'miss' (that makes her real mad) and

if you address her as 'missus' you better be wearing a cup.


I had seen this brand before, behind door #2, Medusa fresh

from the hair salon, way on back in the show me yours and I'll

show you mine days where getting snatched bald for sticking

your head out of your fox hole was considered friendly fire;


the admin banned her from the group, she whined on her wall,

some defamation thrown in for artistic integrity

―an objective observer rushed to console.




Death and Donald Duck's Nephews Come in Threes


Voices wielding armchair philosophy agree

I should shake off the funk and step away from the flake;

save your skin, they chorus, rip off the band-aid―

guiltless unfriend

one quick shriek and the deed's done


time has tethered me to neurotic undertow, and besides

she fears facebook, will never join; her ex might find her


after 30 years is he looking for you, I asked, her

changing the subject


and she is afraid of dangle earrings

a cousin forever ago ripped open an earlobe with a hairbrush, and

everyone knows death and yawns and Donald Duck's nephews

come in threes


she told the ex she married a pro baseball player, traded up,

moved out of state―

she doesn't admit but fears getting hung in this lie


and she is afraid of tampons too; the voices rolled their eyes then

I thought I heard one fall off a chair laughing.



free verse


that one poetry contest I got suckered into that time

I swear was rigged to eliminate the riffraff, and I had

placed some lines with a journal or two but nothing

near this triolet pleiades sonnet sonsabitch feather quill

me a cinquain whilst I flash my pantaloons at the Pope

plucking love me or not dewy damn daisy petals


and I told those judges straight out, oh hell no


  1. I can really sink my teeth into these words & my mouth gets all juicy.