RIDDLE ME THIS // Six Word Story #81

Dear Reader, the solution to the riddle in our previous post was ‘throat’. (Our congratulations to Jaya Avendel for getting it right!) Can you guess this next one?

1265542358_ornamentBurns without fire, extinguishes without water.

© All rights reserved 2020

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Stream’s Song by Lascelles Abercrombie

Make way, make way,
You thwarting stones;
Room for my play,
Serious ones.

Do you not fear,
O rocks and boulders,
To feel my laughter
On your broad shoulders?

So you not know
My joy at length
Will all wear out
Your solemn strength?

You will not for ever
Cumber my play:
With joy and son
I clear my way.

Your faith of rock
Shall yield to me,
And be carried away
By the song of my glee.

Crumble, crumble,
Voiceless things;
No faith can last
That never sings.

For the last hour
To joy belongs:
The steadfast perish,
But not the songs.

Yet for a while
Thwart me, O boulders;
I need for laughter
Your serious shoulders.

And when my singing
Has razed your quite,
I shall have lost
Half my delight.

Public Domain Poetry

water supply (the rise and fall of jack & jill inc.)

jack and jill wanted to be good little entrepreneurs
so they went up the hill to sell a pail of water
but no coin was made ’cos no one wanted to climb
that big ass hill in the summer to buy water with a metallic aftertaste
that hadn’t been chilled or bottled or had a wedge of lime affixed to
so jack and jill came grumbling back down
and died in a cardboard hovel from dehydration and harsh market realities

© All rights reserved 2016

Water Cure


“I don’t want to.”

“Drink, I say! You look very thirsty.”

“But… Hey, what are you doing?!”

Streams of water pour on me. I try to face away… I try to cry foul… but my voice drowns in the streams.


I splutter. I cough. A gray dusty clot, almost weightless, lays inside my empty head. Dehydrated words are tied in a bunch like Chinese tea.


I choke. I’m full of water. The words start to spin in the whirlpool and swell. The words take shape and color. The gray dusty clot unfolds inside my head… blossoms… and slowly fills the entire space. Now there’s nothing except a big moist poem here. My head is full of the poem, like a tiny teapot with beautiful blooming tea.

“Well, my girl… Now… do you realize how much you were thirsty?”

“Screw you…”

I wipe my wet face and cuss mildly. She smiles and says something… but I don’t listen to her. I open my laptop. WP Admin, Posts, Add New…

© All rights reserved 2015

Love for Love

Why can’t you get it,
you weedy-brained gardener,
with a rusty can
dripping with dirty water
full of stinking pesticides?

I feed on poison.
My roots become sturdier.
I feed on poison.
My mucus becomes denser.
I feed on poison, dumbass!

You never got it,
you weedy-lived gardener.
The only poison
that’s mortiferous for me…
Pure water. (He had sweet brains.)

© All rights reserved 2015

My special thanks to Tony Single
for his endless patience
and profound knowledge of irregular verbs!