Poe, Drusilla, Freud, Crows, a Few Ravens, and Five Ridiculous Haiku

I don’t always make haiku jokes. But when I do, Bashô wants to jump out of his grave… possibly into a pond. Are you giggling yet? Um… no? Tough crowd *cough*. Maybe you could grin with me for a bit? Why? Well, because a few days ago, my physical torturer said that I could get back to exercising. That makes me grin a lot… and grinning is contagious, my Wicked Luvs. Didn’t you know? Also, I received some yummy gifts from some even yummier friends (no, I didn’t eat them), and that, too, brings a smile to my face. Here is the booty, preceded by mildly hysterical haiku:

“Black!” shrieked the raven.
“Just like your mother,” slurred Freud,
tweaking, nevermore.
Poe, Drusilla, Freud, Crows, Ravens, and Haiku (1)

Wee crows soothe the witch,
and man keeps out of her way—
no frogs jump in pond.
Poe, Drusilla, Freud, Crows, Ravens, and Haiku (2)

Dead daisies and keys—
not to open your heart, that
Dru does with her teeth.
Poe, Drusilla, Freud, Crows, Ravens, and Haiku (3)

Headless in the woods,
Marie Antoinette Addams
plots bloody murder.
Poe, Drusilla, Freud, Crows, Ravens, and Haiku (4)

Above autumn leaves,
wee Drusilla’s grin suggests—
tonight, one will bleed.
Poe, Drusilla, Freud, Crows, Ravens, and Haiku (5)

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I’ve already thanked everyone for their gifts. But I want to send a second giant, “Thank you!” to Stacy and Emma. That way, I get to remind you that Magic Love Crow (Stacy) and Little Gothic Horrors (Emma) make wonderful art that brings all kinds of bright to the heart. Fly by their cyber-homes and let their muses put huge grins on your face. 😉

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Wee (just in case) Notes:
– Sigmund Freud had a cocaine problem.
– “An Old Pond” (frog poem), by Matsuo Bashô
Drusilla Amarantha Tepes, the Only… has been known to bite. Her tales are listed on my Stories page, under “Camp Cute, Creepy (and quite conveniently) Remote”.
– Wednesday named her doll after Marie Antoinette, condemned to death by guillotine.
* “Wednesday” print (a gift from Emma) is the work of Michele Lynch.

One of Her Own

Yesterday, while I waited for my neurologist at the Department of Veterans Affairs Medical Center, an old Marine with a prosthetic leg and a killer grin, said to me, “Hey, Devil Dog, so what she turned you into? She [the Marine Corps] made me a lean, mean, one-legged fighting machine.” He roared, and I joined him with a few complicit cackles.

I’ve been thinking about the old-timer’s question, asking myself, What did a decade of service in the Marine Corps turn me into? The poem below is part of my response:

“One of Her Own”
She didn’t make me.
I was a warrior
(baring teeth and growling)
before she touched my heart
and broke a few bones.

She didn’t make me;
but in her arms
I found my sharpest edges.

No, she didn’t make me.
I was already my Self.
But…
she did look at me,
while chanting, “You are
one of the Few, the Proud,
one of my very own
forevermore.”
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One of Her Own, by Magaly Guerrero
if you are one of “The Few. The Proud. The Marines.”
then Happy Birthday!
*you look so freaking good for 240 years!*

linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads,Tuesday Platform