round, sweet
pink, firmly soft
easy on the eyes
heaven on the lips
let me fill myself with
your summer scent
with all the beauty
you possess.
Peach, people!
Month: June 2015
Opulent
blue green opal tucked
within rings of solid gold
october’s gemstone.
fiery flashes
sparkling illumination
bright dalliances.
delicate wire twists
displaying earth’s opulence
captured in one stone.
slipped on slim finger
a ring for all the ages
smooth and elegant.
Daddy and the Perfect Bag
Every day I spend a little time thinking about my Daddy. I don’t plan to; it just happens. He was quite a guy, and he impacted our lives in many ways.
Studly Doright and I were privileged to have Daddy live with us the last few years of his life, and it was a great experience for all of us; although, I’m sure Daddy often thought we were nuts. That’s ok, he was a little nuts, too.
Daddy loved golf and was in part responsible for Studly playing. But, by the time he moved to Melbourne, FL, where we lived at the time, Daddy’s COPD prevented him from hitting the course as much as he’d have liked.
He still played a few times, though, even earning a “Closest to the Pin” trophy in a charity tournament. Man, was he proud of that trophy! Any visitor to our home was invited to gaze on it in awe.
Long after Daddy stopped playing he would sit out in our garage imagining courses he’d played in years gone by and putting together the perfect set of clubs for a round of golf there. Often Studly would go looking for one of his clubs only to find it taking up space in Daddy’s “dream bag.”
“Gerald,” Studly would ask, “Have you seen my 5 wood?”
“Yeah, it might be in my bag,” Daddy would say. “I was thinking of number 4 at the Floydada Country Club. I thought I could reach the green with that 5 wood.”
Even now that Daddy has been gone for many years we still go looking in his bag anytime a club is missing, just in case he needed it for that perfect round.
Miss you Daddy. I hope you’ve got just the right clubs for whatever course you’re playing now.
Are We There Yet?
Where’s my wine? My bed?
Father’s Day Post #3: Life is Full of Fine Surprises
Lovely tribute from redswrap.wordpress.com
One day my husband had no children and the next day he was the stepfather of an 11-year old girl. It happened that fast, overnight.
None of us knew what we were doing.
We just lurched. We lurched from getting along well enough to detesting each other and wishing an Annulment Angel would appear and make everything a hazy, long ago memory. My daughter’s eye-rolling matched my own ambivalence, having married a man I’d only known five short months after living as a single person for a very long time. The phrase ‘what was I thinking’ was on perpetual echo in my brain. The two of us, my daughter and I, had made a life. It was occasionally short on cash and clouded by unpredictable and undependable relationships, but otherwise we had our routine. We had our tuna casserole and we were fine.
My daughter also already had a father…
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Interstate Parking Lots–a Sonnet
more than 800 miles stretched before us
upon leaving home early this morning
with 300 strong horses to serve us
we conquered the road, 4 wheels a’turning
but summer’s freeways hold pitfalls galore:
roadwork, collisions, detours, and potholes
soon our horses could stretch their legs no more
the brakes were applied more than our throttles.
with technology we looked to the skies
and soon plotted a course for our horses
our new path allowed those miles to fly by
thanks to heaven for satellite choices!
our route now is open; traffic is clear
the steeds are running in their highest gear.
Studly Doright is responsible for much of this poem, most of which was composed as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic on I65.
She was beautiful
Lovely! Reblogged from reaching meadowlane.wordpress.com
Road Trip
two bikes in the back
of an old blue pickup truck
red striped straps hold firm.
a long way to go
Fayetteville, Arkansas, bound
settled in the cab.
bypass truckers’ stops
favoring mom and pop shops
plain country cooking.
Good conversation
with a real good man, my man;
wonder if he knows…
that these shared journeys
mean much more to me than where
this old road might go.
Not our truck. Not our bikes. But you get the idea!
Bassackwards
I was slow getting up and around this morning. The digital clock on Studly’s side of the bed clicked over to 8:05 before I even crawled out from under the covers. The cats demanded treats immediately, so I obliged them before eating breakfast. After a hot shower I looked through my closet for something to wear. Normally this is an easy task, but we are leaving on a motorcycle trip tomorrow, and I didn’t want to wear anything I’d need to pack.
After a bit of consideration, I pulled on my purple Haunted Mansion t-shirt and an old pair of JAG denim capris. At one time, these capris fit me perfectly, but they must’ve shrunk or something because their patented elastic band doesn’t seem to have much give anymore. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the 20 extra pounds I’m currently sporting. Okay, maybe it has something to do with the weight gain, but they just felt completely wrong. Since I had no need to go into town I didn’t change out of them and got down to business.
The morning was spent doing laundry and figuring out how to stuff everything into my smallest bag to make room for my riding gear. After rolling and folding, packing and planning, I went out to take water to the men who were putting the brick on Studly’s shop and chatted with them for a minute or two before heading in for a bathroom break.
After taking care of business I went to the sink to wash up. Taking a look in the mirror I realized why my pants felt wrong. I’d pulled them on backwards. The back pockets were right there as evidence. Sheesh. It’s a good thing the brick layers had my car blocked in. There’s no telling how many people in Tallahassee might have witnessed my blunder otherwise.
One question. How wealthy does one need to be in order to employ a stylist? I think I qualify as someone who desperately needs one. I’m sure the bricklayers would testify on my behalf.
Peace, people!
Weary
more deaths.
we mourn
we cajole
we raise
our fists
in anger and
despair.
cries of
never again
ascend to
the heavens,
and yet
more deaths.
Praying for Eyebrowz 