Mother, in your life
did we honor your efforts?
Not nearly enough.
Only when you left
could we see your worth, your love
so ingrained was it.
Do we mark our breaths
or the beating of our hearts?
You were everything.
We give you this day
however insufficient
filled with all our love.
I miss you, Mom.
https://www.facebook.com/leslie.h.noyes/posts/10207965981321722
When God speaks I hear
Love others as yourself
Judge not
Fear not
When some hear God
They say He wants them to
Run for office
Exclude others
Discriminate
I really doubt that’s
God talking.
We learned young that there is no fairness to life, it takes money to make money, or
Something along those lines. I try to tell that to children who have nothing,
Those whose families cannot provide medicine or proper health care. They listen
With big eyes, nodding. Their congressmen tell them they’re leeches.
Perhaps mum shouldn’t have had that one more mouth to feed. Sitting in their
Judgement seats, deciding who deserves to be healthy, who gets birth control,
Who thrives, who wilts. If one has the means the pearl has been pre-harvested
From its calcified cocoon, sitting plump and pretty to be strung on a necklace of
Achievement. While others dive deep, repeatedly, tirelessly in search of reward,
Often reduced to dashing their oysters against the rocks of their existence.
On Facebook a friend and I were discussing food insecurity in the U.S. I related the following true story:
When I taught sixth grade one of my students, Charlie, was caught stealing from another teacher’s file cabinet. He only took candy bars, even though she had money in her purse. When we began questioning him we learned he was hungry.
His stepdad had gotten a raise and they no longer qualified for free or reduced lunch.
My principal was pretty astute. She brought Charlie’s little sister in and learned that the family decided she’d get to eat lunch.
I kicked myself for not noticing that Charlie wasn’t eating.
It turned out that Charlie was being neglected. He went to live with his grandmother in another state. Sent me a photo of himself smiling, with chubby cheeks.
Until that experience I just didn’t have a clue.
Every time I hear that a politician wants to cut food stamps or do away with the free or reduced lunch programs in schools I think of Charlie. Our current Speaker of the House, Republican Paul Ryan, would have us believe that the free lunch programs in schools are a drain on our society. I say, let him try living the life of a hungry sixth grader for a year.
“In 2014: 48.1 million Americans lived in food insecure households, including 32.8 million adults and 15.3 million children. 14 percent of households (17.4 million households) were food insecure. 6 percent of households (6.9 million households) experienced very low food security.” From Child Hunger Facts and Statistics.
bright flame draws the moth
fleeting flicker captivates
brief celebration
plumage speaks volumes
come to me sweet lady bird
dance within my wings
bright blossoms to bees
irresistable teases
purple siren call
vessel clean, bone dry
scrubbed until nothing
of substance remains.
colors long faded, rust
brown in the deep bowl
long dormant orange-red
stripes run horizontal
on a sad blue-tinged,
chipped background.
perched on a shelf behind
a small glass pitcher
and an oval turkey platter
brought out for special
occasions calling for
authentic Mexican salsa
the hot stuff made with
jalapeños and cilantro
chased with cold Corona.
Swim if you will with mermaids three, Barbara, Irena, and finally me.
We swim together in the warmest seas, as the scent of salt air floats in the breeze.
Our tails undulate in time with the waves, while we frolic and sing all of the day.
Fish bubble our names and swim by our sides, slips of bright scales into the tide.
Alas at day’s end our tails start to shrink, and legs sprout anew, shiny and pink.
Then off we go to our respective lives to masquerade quietly as respectable wives.
Sunday morning wake up call, a pair of paws pat my face
Up, hurry up, we need a treat and then they’re off in heated race.
Pull on favorite Sunday wear, faded sundress and flip flops,
Splash some water on my face, run a brush through my mop.
Stumblebum into the kitchen, set coffee on to brew,
Putter bleary-eyed to the place where the felines sit and mew.
By their urgency one would think they’d not eaten in days,
Their respective weights dispel that lie in unambiguous ways.
Coffee’s perked, a cup is poured, I grab my current book,
And slip outside to honeysuckle’s welcome in my sheltered nook.
Ripples slide across the lake, while a tiny lizard scampers,
My cats examine its every move in hopes that they can batter.
And I sit and sip my coffee with a splash of Irish cream,
As breezes rustle through the pines and invite sweet daydreams.
Peace, people.
Thor and Embla slowly
Walking
Holding hands in the
Gloaming
Wrapped up in their
Forbidden love
They languished ‘neath
Yggdrasil.
He bent his head
Tenderly
Cupping her face.
Tearfully
She clung
to his broad chest,
Embla cried to her god
Do not leave,
She sobbed.
Odin, help me!
Embla begged.
Do not tear
Us apart!
Mighty Thor
Has claimed my
Mortal
Heart.
With a nod of
All-father’s
Shaggy head
Sleipnir was
Summoned
To carry them
Woman and God
Into Helheim’s
Cold halls.
Ask and Embla were the first mortals created by the gods according to Norse mythology. While I’m sure Embla was faithful to Ask, surely she could’ve been forgiven a tryst with Thor….or maybe not. Hels was the destination of the dead.
Interesting, is it not, the similarities in Norse and Christian mythologies? Ask and Embla (Adam and Eve), Helheim (Hell).
What a commotion she makes when her sister goes missing
Even though when they’re paired there’s often much hissing
Rooower! Rooower! Scout calls as she wanders
Come out! Right now! Where are you? She ponders.
When finally lured from her best hiding place
Patches stretches long, with disdain on her face.
Dear sister, Patches yawns, I was here all along
Why did you disturb me with your strident song?
But Scout is oblivious having now claimed
The comfortable spot on which Patches had lain.
On this cold, snow laced night party crowds skirt ’round a long-limbed girl.
Who is she? Standing on the sidelines, looking lost, unfound. Nobody claims her,
No one takes her hand. But there are no tears on her plain featured face. Perhaps
Smudged traces of those she’s wiped away in a weaker state. Those private times,
Few and distant. If she could find the courage and a quarter the lost girl would
Call home. Maybe this time they would welcome her voice. Maybe this time they’d
Honor her choice to be herself, not what a piece of paper and a doctor declared.
Praying for Eyebrowz 