Not anymore, but there was a time
When laundry piled up in baskets
And toys cluttered the floors.
Our mornings were hectic
Nothing ever in its place.
Keys always missing and
Lunch money dispersed.
Backpacks with homework,
Field trip permission forms, and
Last minute projects forgotten til 8.
Life was chaotic, messy; an adventure.
Written in response to the Daily Post’s daily prompt: Turn, Turn, Turn. Which season do you look forward to most?
Serve me a large mug of Autumn:
Oranges, golds, yellows, and
Browns
Fires on crisp October
Evenings.
Sweaters, hoodies, woolen
Socks
Broken-in blue jeans and a
Soft blue barn coat–
Flannel lined.
High school football,
After game party
Hay rack rides
S’mores cooked to perfection.
Delicious chill in the air
Tailor-made for cuddling.
Trick-or-treating and
Jack-o’lanterns
Hot apple ciders and chocolate
With marshmallows.
Fill my mug again.
there is a diverse cluster of angels
arranged in an vague approximation
of a semi-circle on the third shelf
of a bookcase in my living room.
the tallest among the collection,
a beautiful Isabel Blume piece
soars among her sisters, holding
high a pink ribbon of survival.
a gift from my daughter, the angel
commands and deserves center stage.
her siblings provide clues to
places visited by my friends and me.
a brightly colored fabric angel hails
from guatemala. she is plump and
comforting and is the only seraphim
I know who sports black pigtails.
two cherubim, one tiny and one merely
small, serenely smile, clutching plaster
lambs to their white plaster chests.
another guatemalan angel, created from
old, rolled sheet music soundlessly
sings praises to heaven above.
there are several others gathered there,
some sitting on books. i imagine they
read late into the night so from time
to time i rearrange them for variety.
one inexplicably holds a marble. i have
no idea where the marble came from, but
it seems appropriate in the angel’s hands.
sixes and sevens charged headlong,
vying for first place in an
imaginary race to the monkey bars,
and the seesaws, and the slide.
Texas panhandle playground, dirt-covered
unkind to bared legs on cold, windy days
while archaic dress codes demanded
dresses be worn by little girls.
disregarding weather, firm, yet kind
educators shepherded their charges into
stinging maelstroms of gravelly sand.
it was for teachers’ sanity no doubt.
some days impromptu games of
following a self-appointed leader
consumed recess time, effectively
socially sorting first graders at play.
teeth were sometimes lost as children
clamored for a spot on the merry-go-round;
noggins often took bumps and lumps
slipping through monkey bars.
tears weren’t uncommon; neither was blood.
rules were simple: don’t push,
no tattling, leave the teachers alone.
tough, necessary playground lessons.
I’m a bad ass cat
poised for adventure and fun.
watch me as I pounce!
Ill let you pet me
my bad self craves attention
man, just keep it real.
Don’t turn your back, Jack,
I’ll get you every time
I’m a bad ass cat.
Our youngest grandchild, Harper, celebrates her third birthday today. That seems impossible. Only yesterday she was a tiny, helpless infant. Nowadays, she’s a feisty little handful who talks to me on FaceTime for as long as she can make herself sit still. Then it’s “I’m all done with Nana!” and off she goes to sing “Uptown Funk” or “Let it Go.”
I wrote this poem for Harper when she was upset about not getting to attend school with her older siblings.
D Wants to Ride
The big yellow bus came to D’s house today.
Garrett got on the big yellow bus.
McKayla got on the big yellow bus.
D could not get on the big yellow bus.
“You must be three, and you are only two,” said Garrett.
“You are way too little,” said McKayla.
“I am big,” said D.
“I can count,
I can sing,
I can climb,
I can swing.”
“Just one more year,” said Garrett.
“You will be a big girl next year,” said McKayla.
“But I AM a big girl!” Insisted D.
“I can play,
I can dance,
I can run
Really fast!”
“D,” said Garrett, “Be our baby for awhile.”
“D,” said McKayla, “Stay little for awhile.”
D thought and thought. “OK,” she said.
“I will be your baby for one more year.
I will still count and sing, climb and swing.
I will still play and dance and run very fast.
But next year I will get on the big yellow bus!”
“Bye, D,” said Garrett.
“Bye, D,” said McKayla.
“Bye big yellow bus!” said D. “I’ll see you next year.”
a blog is a garden.
while well-tended, blossoms appear:
fragrant jasmine, thorned roses,
upright jacks-in-the-pulpit.
when neglected, weeds sprout:
persistent dandelions, stubborn
pigweed, and annoying quackgrass.
mine requires a little TLC,
sunshine, moisture, and copious
amounts of fertilizer. manure.
fortunately i seem to possess
more than enough of the latter
commodity. i’m full of it.
I’ve stopped pretending
reality struck my eyes
there’s no canvas here
blame hesitation
procrastination and lies
forgive my lapses
without my compass
true north escapes detection
I’m left foundering
Rose directs, pointing
Sharp angles of distinction
Circle trapped petals.
Peace, people!
Four days to Texas
Amarillo bound
Can’t wait to see my baby
When I hit that dusty ground.
Goin’ home, after years gone by
Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
Tears of joy and happiness
When my baby’s by my side.
Goin’ home.
Three days to Texas
I can feel it drawing near
Like a hot blast of air
And a cold Budweiser beer.
Goin’ home, after years gone by
Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
Tears of joy and happiness
When my baby’s by my side.
Goin’ home.
Two more days to Texas
Amarillo here I come
Where the air smells of cattle
And cowboys get work done.
Goin’ home, after years gone by
Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
Tears of joy and happiness
When my baby’s by my side.
Goin’ home.
One last day to Texas
Back to my country roots
I’ll put aside my flip flops
And don my old black boots.
Goin’ home, after years gone by
Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
Tears of joy and happiness
When my baby’s by my side.
Goin’ home.
And now the wheels are touching
a runway on the plains
broad prairie sweeps around me
It’s different, but the same.
I’m home, after years gone by
I’m home, tears start to fall
In my baby’s arms I’ve finally found
My home.
the marital fire,
even after all these years
takes her by surprise.
anger hot and tense
searing inferno engulfs
scalding tears leave tracks
no compromising
his way or no way again she assumes the blame.
deemed instigator
without an understanding;
it is all her fault.
somehow her failings
have caused him to act rashly, a burden she bears.
Praying for Eyebrowz 