I created something there on stone strewn grounds
Scattered the remains across the fields
Shook my fist at an orange sky
My works crumbled in the making
Two figures approached
Appraising, frowning, drowning
I tried to explain how the piece should look
My entreaties were not sufficient for the cause
Melting words in a melting world
Pompeii
Thoughts for our day celebrating freedom. Read more from alotfromlydia.wordpress.com.
https://twitter.com/real_farmacist/status/1014191403440713728?s=12
To celebrate the 4th of July
Congress took sabbatical all this week
Meanwhile 2000 migrant children cry,
Kidnapped, they do not understand, or speak
The language their captors question them in
Ordered to court and put before a judge
Witness this, America’s latest sin,
Our President— a racist with a grudge
This GOP party, power hungry, obscene
Claim they oppose severing families, still
Innocents kidnapped and caged haven’t seen
Their parents, don’t know when or if they will
Stolen babies cry. This is injustice.
Reps with their families, without concessions
Shame on Trump, shame on members of Congress,
Shame on ICE, shame that disgrace Jeff Sessions
She sat on the tailgate
of an old green Ford,
her narrow denim clad hips
wedged between an Igloo cooler
and a box of faded red rags.
Scuffed boots swinging.
The whoop whoop of a siren
heralded the coming display
of a starched color guard,
eliciting a respectful salute,
grandparents demonstrating
flag etiquette for the young.
Then came beauty queens smiling,
perching precariously on the
pinnacle of a tissue paper
decorated semi-trailer in gowns
of taffeta, satin, and lace.
Tiaras glittering in the sun.
She waved at those high school
princesses, pulling funny
faces to make them laugh.
That was her talent, after all.
Hardly anyone took her
seriously as the parade passed.
Marching bands from rival
schools vied for favor
as the sun heated the summer
Texas day; twirlers in spangled
shorts tossing batons inspired
ooohs and ahhs from the crowd.
Reaching inside the battered
Igloo, she dug deep…
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When I don’t have anything to say, I let others do it for me. Some of these I found on Facebook, others on Pinterest. I figured we could all use a giggle. Note that I’ve grouped them for your consideration.
Diagnostic jokes:
Acupuncture, anyone?
Something to make you think:
A couple of unicorn jokes:
A bit of humor for the aging:
And one that made me snort:
Finally, Studly Doright and I laughed ourselves silly over this YouTube video. I really wish you all could hear his laugh. It’s really why I stay married to the man. 😉😉
https://youtu.be/HFFgCTKy2c4 Peace, people!
I call this one, “The Shadow”.
And this one, “The Shadow Knows”.
This next week is going to be spent preparing for fun. I’m leaving on a road trip to spend some time with a good friend in Kingsport, Tennessee, on the 9th, and that kind of fun requires some serious forethought.
My car needs an oil change and a good cleaning. My nails need to be manicured and pedicured. I have to think about what needs to be packed. My hair needs to grow an inch. Okay, the last one’s unlikely to happen unless a miracle occurs, but I can wish, right?
Of course Wednesday is the 4th of July. I’m not feeling particularly patriotic this year, but Studly Doright will have the day off. We’ll most likely cook burgers on the grill and maybe catch a matinee. Oh, and we’ll probably spend the night being annoyed by firecrackers. When did I get old?
On Thursday I have my annual physical. Whoopee. There’s nothing like being poked and prodded and having to pay for the privilege. And when one is in her sixties, as I am, there’s no telling what one will learn. Cholesterol too high? Blood pressure out of whack? I can’t wait to see what’s wrong with me this year. Again I ask, when did I get old?
On the less depressing side, my husband, Studly Doright, is doing better on his road to recovering from minor back surgery. He’s been able to sleep, and he’s gotten his appetite back, so he’s not nearly as justifiably grouchy as he’s been since the procedure. Life is pretty good, even for a couple of old folks.
Peace, people.
“Pretty Patches Poses with Posies”
As I drove through a pop up thunderstorm on my way into Tallahassee yesterday I glanced over to make sure my umbrella was tucked into its appropriate spot in the catch-all pocket of the passenger seat door. Sure enough, there it was just waiting to provide an invaluable service. And if it hadn’t been there I knew there was another umbrella in the pocket behind my seat.
Studly Doright and I keep two umbrellas in each of our vehicles, plus spares in the house for visitors and one in his shop. We are a proud, multi-umbrella household.
For most of my life I didn’t even own such a device. I thought they were pretty when characters on tv and in movies unfurled their umbrellas to stroll through a gentle rainfall. In theory I knew they could be useful, but I grew up in the dusty Texas panhandle where most days it was too dry to whistle.
Unless one is an umbrella fetishist there is absolutely no use for an umbrella in places that might get rain three times a year. And when it does rain in Floydada, or Claude, Texas, the howling winds generally render an umbrella useless.
When our daughter was small she desperately wanted a colorful raincoat with matching galoshes and umbrella. We were barely living paycheck to paycheck back then, so something the child might get to use once in her life wasn’t high on my list of priorities. But she’d have been adorable in matching rain gear. Damned poverty.
How many umbrellas do you own? Is the number directly related to where you live? I considered making the claim that I could tell where respondents reside by the number of umbrellas they owned, but decided I’d just be guessing. I’m no umbrella soothsayer, after all.
Peace, people.
Peace, people.
How’s this for something different? I call it “Studly’s Foot Watching Golf.”
He has a nice foot, don’t you think?
Praying for Eyebrowz 