I’ve been an avid blogger, in fact it is inane
the hours I devote to it. I fear I am insane.
I only slept three hours last night for I was agonizing
about the state the world is in, never realizing
that hours I could have spent in sleep I spent in speculation
of how giant guns in hands of fools leads to eradication
of larger numbers of the human race we’re meant to love,
but instead of arms embracing, we use arms to push and shove.
There’s such incentive now I fear for these fools to abuse them.
Why spend so much on weapons if we’re never going to use them?
It’s thoughts like this progressively that fill most of my thinking.
I cannot help believing that our ship of state is sinking,
bringing the whole world with it. In fact, I am obsessive.
With so much to be thankful for, I have become depressive.
I know I must pull out of it for what life we have left
should be enjoyed for soon enough it may be we’re bereft.
These are the thoughts that constantly roil within my mind.
I fear for breath, I fear for life. I fear for all mankind.
The more I write about it, the more morose I grow,
and so I think I might quit blogging for a month or so
and see if I can concentrate on things a bit more cheery,
for I’m growing so reclusive that my friends are no doubt leery.
I could fade from sight before the big guns do it for me,
so my resolution on this day is that I must restore me
back to the hum of daily life, throwing down my pen
to try to remember how my life was way back when
I suffered from a writer’s block that kept my words inside,
milling about disorganized until they up and died.
And since I do not think much ’til I see what I have written,
I’ll grab the serpent by the tail before I have been bitten.
So adios for now, my friends, you’ll hear no more from me.
I need a small vacation where I can simply be.
The prompt today is avid. I really didn’t know where this poem was going when I set out, but after a sleepless night spent having to deflect another asthma attack–or at least fearing one–and unable to find my oxygen machine, I think maybe I really do need to stop thinking for awhile and just live. Perhaps this will be a time to get a book together or to finish the 71 bracelets I designed and compiled at the beach that I need to find a way to finish off. Or perhaps I’ll just swing in the hammock and read upbeat books. Any suggestions? My friend Jane arrives in a few days and that will help. It’s true we should all be concerned with the state of our world, but when it blinds us to its joys and beauties, it is time to affect some changes. With a week to go on NaPoWriMo, I may delay for a week, and may change my mind tomorrow, but for now I need to deflect my thoughts elsewhere. If you still desire a daily dose, I’ve posted 3,042 blogs over the past four years, so please go back and perhaps start at the beginning, or pick a topic to search by and read random blogs from the past. It has taken awhile to grow a readership so I’m sure there are many blog entries very few of you have ever read. And, I’d still love to hear your comments. Doubt that I’ll be able to resist checking now and then. Or daily. But hopefully not hourly.
An elevenie is an eleven-word poem of five lines, with each line performing a specific task in the poem. The first line is one word, a noun. The second line is two words that explain what the noun in the first line does, the third line explains where the noun is in three words, the fourth line provides further explanation in four words, and the fifth line concludes with one word that sums up the feeling or result of the first line’s noun being what it is and where it is.
Here are mine:
in your head
for remembering when needed,
that they store
on racks, dreaming of
meant for seedlings
but rain on parades
Here is my backyard and studio, taken yesterday, plus a closeup of the tabachine. You’ve seen plenty of closeups of the bougainvillea in the past. Click on either photo to enlarge both. it’s hard to remember what season you are in in Mexico as there is always something blooming. The bougainvillea bloom year round and the tabachine a couple of times a year. I just heard the first rainbirds (actually an insect–cicadas) this week so the rainy season will soon be upon us. Then those hills behind my studio will be verdant green.
See Cee’s flowers of the day HERE.
I planted this Royal Poinciana tree sixteen years ago. It now shades 1/3 of my front garden as well as a good bit of the street. These seed pods grow to a couple of feet in length.
See other Sunday Trees HERE.
My father planted row on row,
straight furrows where the wheat would grow
nourished by the winter snow.
He knew the how of planting, and when.
He’d watch for all the signs and then
plant his yearly crops again.
Though farming’s in my family tree,
the seeds I plant are furrow-free.
I scatter seeds, then let them be.
Fanned out by an erratic hand,
they grow wherever they may land,
or thirst and wither where they stand.
If planting were a matter of need––
if I’d a family to feed,
of course, I’d plow and water and weed.
But as it is, the mystery
of what might grow means more to me
than the science of agronomy.
And though he worked from dawn to dark,
Dad’s life was anything but stark.
He paused to watch the meadowlark
and trace its flight from post to limb.
He watched the clouds catch light, then dim––
and a single drop course down one stem.
The NaPoWriMo prompt today had to do with planting a garden.
What Is of Value
Now that the grass is freshly mown,
the sparrows can’t leave it alone.
Though we prefer the lovely green,
they prefer what’s gone unseen.
The dry grass underneath is best
for weaving into this year’s nest.
What has value for you and me
is not the same for all, you see.
For the way the world’s devised
is that everything is prized.
The NaPoWriMo prompt today was to compose a poem out of overheard conversations, but since I’ve been in a solitary mood lately, I went down to eavesdrop on the birds and other sounds of nature. Hearing a loud chirping in the huge cactus near my hammock, I noticed birds making repeated trips to the planter full of grass I put near the pool so my Scottie dog Morrie could have a place to lie to drop his tennis ball into the pool for me to retrieve and throw back down into the garden for him to chase after. The long grass was pretty, but constantly being torn off by his repeated jumps up to and down from the planter and making a mess in the pool, so I’d had the gardener trim the grass. Earlier, I’d noted how ugly it now was as the grass underneath had turned brown, but upon closer observation, I realized that it was now a treasure trove for birds building nests.
NaPoWriMo, Day 21.
Cee’s gorgeous tulips are HERE.