I know what it’s like to be
unfriended
boycotted
disenfranchised
I know how it feels to be
on the outside
looking in
separate, not equal
I know what they mean when they say
I’m a bleeding heart
liberal
hippie
I understand they don’t mean that
as a compliment
in a pleasant way
with respect.
It hurts when old friends pile on
hurling epithets
hurting feelings
disregarding my rights
But I won’t back down because
my voice counts
I’m not stupid
I won’t be silenced.
Drag me down to your level
Hold my face under water
Until I gasp for relief
A mockery of sin’s daughter.
Slow the drum’s beating
Thump, thump, and roll.
Shame hangs on the shingle
Silence fills the hole.
Ride on into a bad dream
Fail me not in the gloom
A nightmare’s path undecided
Woven into the loom.
I’m going to admit to starting out this first day of my sixties feeling a little sorry for myself. Yes, I’d enjoyed a surprise birthday weekend with Studly on the gulf coast, but today was the DAY and I had nothing going on. No party. No family here (except for Studly). No cake. No dancing. Poor pitiful me.
My long time friend, Hunny, turned 60 on the third of this month with a flourish. Her kids threw a surprise party and there was live music and her grandbabies were in attendance. I might have felt a twinge, ok, a rush of envy, knowing there was no way I was going to be feted in such a manner.
But on my way to work this morning I got a FaceTime call from our youngest grandchild who sang her special version of Happy Birthday. Then in the office at the school where I’m working a second grade boy told me he thought I was pretty. Just out of the clear blue sky. When I thanked him and told him that today was my birthday he said, “Well, that explains everything!”
Throughout the day I’ve received hundreds of birthday greetings from friends on WordPress and Facebook, and each one makes me smile. I also have two gifts to open later tonight and Studly has promised to take me to dinner.
On my way home from work I was listening to John Fugelsang’s show and his guest, one of my favorite poets, Taylor Mali, read his poem, My Deepest Condiments. It was as if this poem was meant just for me today. So I’m feeling pretty awesome. No more pity party. It’s great to be 60.
Here’s Taylor Mali. Enjoy.
http://youtu.be/P8NF6WJw50k
Peace, people.
‘Twas the night before sixty
And while tossing in bed
I considered my body
From my toes to my head.
My arches have fallen
My calves ache with fatigue
Poor ankles are swollen
Oh, where’s the Aleve?
My thighs nicknamed thunder,
Hips ache all the time.
Stomach pooches with abandon,
Breasts droop, it’s a crime!
My neck’s crepey like a chicken’s
My face wrinkled like a Sharpei’s
But brown eyes still a’twinkle
While brown hair’s turning gray.
The changes have been gradual,
And not overnight
Thank goodness I’ve had time
To deal with the fright.
Today’s the day I kiss my fifties goodbye. I’m really looking forward to this decade. If it weren’t the middle of the week I’d go out dancing until 2 a.m., drink my companions under the table, and run naked through the streets singing “Born to be Wild” at the top of my lungs. Good thing it’s Wednesday.
http://youtu.be/xm5DPlNCmtk
Peace, people!
I snapped these at the Destin Seafood Festival on Saturday evening. Studly Doright and I had no idea that the festival was taking place and just stumbled onto it by happy accident. Unfortunately, Studly doesn’t eat anything that lives in water and I’d eaten such an incredible seafood omelet at brunch that I wasn’t even a bit tempted.
I’ve titled these “Oh, to be Hungry!” and “Dream Buffet,” respectively.
I have a spoon for every need:
slotted,
bouillon,
curved and
Chinese,
cutty,
demitasse, and
dessert,
egg spoon,
grapefruit,
even a spork,
And yet all I require
Is a proper tool
with which to eat
my ice cream.
Three different times on Thursday I passed a garden area adjacent to the school at which I’m working. This garden featured the most gorgeous purple flowers. If I knew anything at all about plants I’m sure I’d be able to tell you their names, but I don’t, and I can’t.
Each time I walked by I thought to myself, “Those gorgeous flowers for which I have no name would make a perfect snapshot of the day on my blog,” but twice I didn’t have my camera with me and once my arms were loaded with testing materials.
Finally at the end of the day I found an opportunity to slip outside to take a photo of these breathtakingly beautiful plants. Alas, I was too late. Each of the blossoms lay wilted on the ground.
Now I have no idea what happened. Perhaps some group of ornery elementary students couldn’t help themselves and dashed the flowers to the ground. Maybe aliens were responsible for their demise, shooting death rays from the depths of space thinking to annihilate life on earth, but succeeding only in killing certain flowers. In that case we dodged a bullet, wouldn’t you agree?
But maybe it was just that time in the flowers’ lives. They’d reached the pinnacle of their collective existence and then simultaneously expired depriving me of a lovely photograph and the world of their fragrant beauty.
You know there’s a moral to this story, right? Stop and snap a photo of the unknown purple flowers. Gosh, that might just catch on.
Peace, people
I call this one, “The Thinker.”
Gather up your skirts young ladies
Then gather near the hearth,
Step in neatly, close the distance
Take your stand and do your part.
Bring your woolen projects with you,
knitted sweaters and worsted socks
Sidle up to fire’s hot embers
Careful of your flowing locks.
Take a sip of ruby brandy
deep and rich as baron’s blood
Maintain a rhythm slow and steady
Heady as a fragrant bud.
Knit one quickly and then pearl two
Change the pattern with a twist,
Catch a wayward thread untethered
Gathering wool with a fervent wish.
I call this one, taken inside a bathroom stall inside the Gulfarium at Ft. Walton Beach, FL, “FYI.”
Praying for Eyebrowz 