Two cats
live in
our home,
Two cats
who never
venture
outside.
One is black,
the other
black and
snowy white.
However,
the stern cat who
meows
incessantly
from the
patio’s French
doors is a
watchful visitor.
She makes
certain that
the captive
cats (for
that is how
she views
them) are
well loved
and cared for.
She represents
Cat Protective
Services.
He speaks the truth so eloquently. Can you feel the pain? Read more at poesypluspolemics.com.
“Headache”
Painting by Tony Madden
From fineartamerica.com
dueling hammers
rain blows
compete to send pain
into spaces
that echo and cradle
the mind
they throw sparks
sharp and hot
blazing spearpoints
of light
pierce the pools
of the eyes
the mad battery
splitting the seams
of the skull
where the intellect
cowers in fear
of its very survival
against this
malicious barrage
disturbed most of all
by two terrible questions
whose hands
hold the hammers
and why
John Steinbeck’s short story, The Chrysanthemums, is one of my favorites and the inspiration for this poem. I’ve linked to the story below, and if you’ve never read it, I hope my poem encourages you to do so. I really hope it doesn’t discourage you! That would be awful!
Eliza’s Fate
She looked forward
to the small pleasures
after all:
ladybugs and
budding flowers,
the songs of
passing birds,
the smell of lilacs
in the spring.
What else was
meant for her
she’d never know,
but perhaps
this was it.
Most days she
thought nothing
of the lacks
in her life.
Most days she just
went through the motions.
Most days she felt
it was enough.
But.
Other days she
privately railed
against the sameness.
Other days she cried
silently in the kitchen.
Other days she felt the
absence of color.
When he rode through,
that stranger, speaking
in a familiar way,
her need clawed raw and
subversive. Embolding.
What if today? Maybe he?
She dared the unthinkable
opened herself to him.
Like chrysanthemums,
of little consequence.
http://thereycenter.org/uploads/3/4/3/2/3432754/the_chysanthemums-steinbeck.pdf
What a beautiful post! Read more at redswrap.wordpress.com
On the road to Grand Marais, there are two houses I’ve loved. Twenty years ago, when we first started driving up M-77, both houses were worn and in need of repair. Every time we passed, I would check on their progress.
The first house was reclaimed and improved. It got a metal roof which I thought was wise since our own house in Grand Marais, the one built after a fire destroyed our first house, had a brown metal roof that I knew would never burn. The first house got new windows and was painted a radiant white. Geraniums in pots sat on the porch in the summer and there were sometimes actual people sitting there looking across the way at their barn, still weathered and grey but sturdy and tidy.
But the second house seemed unattended. Anything could happen to it, lying there just vulnerable to catastrophe.
I loved…
View original post 319 more words
Great artists
work in
a variety of
media:
construction
paper and glue,
glitter and
fingerpaints,
thumbprints in
tempera.
They do not
concern themselves
with brush stroke
techniques or
fickle critics,
their only goal
a smile from a
proud recipient,
a place reserved
on the fridge.
Peace, people!
For many of my friends tomorrow marks the day parents long for, children dread, and teachers anticipate with a mixture of nervousness and excitement: The First Day of School.
Having taught I still have nightmares of the first day back. In these I’m usually standing in the middle of my beautifully decorated classroom trying to control 27 kids with hand gestures and fervent pleas to sit down while they run about in fevered chaos destroying all of my hard work.
The first day, so critical to the rest of the year, always left me flummoxed. When I taught elementary school, the first day was usually over by noon and still I struggled to find ways to fill those four hours.
We practiced all of our procedures (how to line up to leave the room, how to request permission to use the restroom or the pencil sharpener, the proper heading for student class work, etc.). We got to know one another. We wrote our names in our textbooks and completed information cards. All that took roughly one hour, or one and a half if I spoke s-l-o-w-l-y.
I was much more suited to the middle school model. On that first day kids came in, we set our expectations, did a quick name game, and boom! It was time for the next class. I repeated that scenario three or four more times and day one was over.
Teaching tested my sanity, and I’m certain no one really misses my presence in the classroom, but I know some terrific educators at all levels. Some are starting at new schools this year, others are trying on new grade levels, while others are quite happy to be in the same school and grade they’ve been in for many years.
To each and every person who works with children, thank you and best of luck. Have a great school year.
Peace, people!
Here’s a repeat of the post I published a year ago.
When our son was born, my mom decided that she wanted to be called Grandmother. Not Granny or Grandma, Nana or Mimi. Grandmother. Well, that was all well and good, but our son had other ideas. Jason didn’t talk early. We began to wonder if he’d ever talk at all, but by three he had a decent vocabulary. Try as he might, though, he could not say Grandmother or Grandaddy. What emerged was something that sounded a lot like Gingy, so my parents, for better or worse, became Gingymama and Gingydaddy. And, since he was the first of the grandchildren, it stuck.
Daddy’s 81st birthday would have been yesterday, and since yesterday’s post was on the sappy side I thought I’d have my children and nieces and nephews post their memories of their Gingydaddy.
Jason texted, “Him rescuing me from the side of a mountain…teaching me to pee without unbuttoning…
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heavy hearted
heavy handed
heavy on the sauce
heavy stories on the
down low,
heavy eyes
break your soul
why’s everything have to
be so hard?
so heavy all the time?
wanta lighten up
but everything’s just so
heavy.
Peace, people.
Hovering
somewhere
between up
and down,
uneven ground
upsetting my
equilibrium.
One moment
I’m giddy,
filled with
exuberance,
capable of
great feats;
significant.
The next turn,
my anxiety takes
over, holding
me back, bringing
me down, struggling
to stay relevant
on life’s stage.
Peace is found
where I hover
one foot in
ecstacy the other
in agony, teetering
on the brink and
trying to stay me.
Peace, people.
This seems to be the year that places we’ve visited have shown up on the Golf Network. First the British Open was played at St. Andrews and now the PGA Championship is being held at Whistling Straits in Kohler, Wisconsin.
Four years ago Studly Doright and I decided to celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary over spring break rather than wait until late July. During the summer months he’s always wrapped up in his company’s budget process and a vacation scheduled around July 30 (our actual anniversary) would take him away from the office when he most needed to be there.
We lived in central Illinois at the time near Champaign. Studly brought home some brochures on tropical locations, but for some reason I got the idea that we should drive up to Kohler, Wisconsin, about an hour north of Milwaukee. He was thrilled that we wouldn’t have to fly to our destination and told me to make plans.
Kohler is the home of the Kohler Co., an American manufacturer of faucets, toilets, shower heads, sinks, tubs, and much more. There are two hotels owned by subsidiaries of Kohler: The American Inn and The Inn on Woodlake. Both are part of the Kohler family and are outfitted with the most elegant and state of the art bathroom fixtures.
But what interested me most was the Kohler Waters Spa. As soon as Studly gave me the go ahead for the Kohler trip I arranged for us to spend a day enjoying the spa.
It was by far the highlight of my trip. I even talked Studly into a couple’s massage. That’s something I’ll never do again! Throughout the whole massage I felt certain his massage therapist was doing a better job than mine. Talk about stressful! In spite of that our day at Kohler Waters Spa was a hit.
There’s not much to do in Kohler in early March. We did tour the Kohler Design Center to look at the amazing array of faucets and such, but the golf courses weren’t open, so we spent a lot of time watching movies on the television in our really lovely room.
Then, as luck would have it, the weather turned very cold, snow began to fall, and before long we were in the middle of a full blown blizzard. Right–it’s Wisconsin. I should’ve expected winter weather. Those tropical destinations began to look pretty good. What had I been thinking?
After three days we decided to cut our vacation short and head south. We did stop and spend a day wandering in Milwaukee. We toured the beautiful Harley Davidson museum there and then found a nice hotel for the night. Not American Inn nice, but nice all the same.
At least in Kohler we didn’t have to worry about hordes of spring breakers partying ’til all hours and running around in skimpy bikinis; although, there might have been a couple of guys parading around without their knit hats and gloves. That’s what I call living on the edge.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 