A few days ago I published a photo of a poinsettia and asked you to find the little bug hiding on the flower. A few people have mentioned not being able to find it, so here is an enlargement, a bit grainy, but hope you can see it now. Then go back to the original photo HERE and hopefully, you’ll see it. Let me know! He was a tiny one. I was surprised to find him there, too.
Waiting to be fed.
When I was a kid at summer camp, we used to sing a song in the mess hall as we sat waiting for our food to be served. It went, “Here we sit like birds in the wilderness, birds in the wilderness, birds in the wilderness. Here we sit like birds in the wilderness, waiting to be fed.” It never failed to amuse us. For seven years as a camper and two as a counselor, I joined in the refrain and sure enough, the food always eventually came through.
Now, at 2 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day, 2017, the strains of that line of music keep weaving their way through my thoughts. By some strange series of misunderstood communications, I actually have two dates for a turkey meal—both at the same restaurant, but with different groups of friends and at different times––one at 3, the other at 6:30. I could relate the weird facts of how this came to be, but suffice it to say it wasn’t my fault and that yes, I’ve cancelled one of them. Sort of. At any rate, I’m saving myself for that meal and although I went grocery shopping this morning, mainly for the cats and dogs, I had unusual restraint in not buying any junk food, no matter how healthy it presented itself to be. The naughtiest items I purchased were whole wheat bread, low fat thin rice cakes and apples. I splurged on Fancy Feast for Annie, who has been staging a hunger strike since I got home, and got 60 packets of kitten food which should last the other cats a few days and I will probably feed them the Fancy Feast as well, after Annie turns her nose up at it. I, for one, am fasting until tonight’s meal, doing penance before the act. Tomorrow I start my new diet.
Also waiting to be fed.
In case you missed it, HERE is my Thanksgiving post from a few days ago of images of Thanksgivings present and past.
Of course none of these teens, who happen to be my nieces and nephew, would ever sneak in after hours!
A Teenage Mythology
A sneeze is how a poltergeist gets outside of you.
At night a different stinky elf sleeps inside each shoe.
Every creaking rafter supports its resident ghost,
and it’s little gremlins who make you burn the toast.
Each night those tricky fairies put snarls in your hair,
while pixies in your sock drawer unsort every pair.
Midnight curtain billows are caused by banshee whistles.
Vampires use your toothbrush and put cooties in its bristles.
Truths all come in singles. It’s lies that come in pairs.
That’s a zombie, not a teenager, sneaking up the stairs.
Gremlins is the prompt word today. This is a rewrite of a poem written 4 years ago. Can’t believe that I actually had a poem with “gremlins” in it. Glad the WordPress search function
has a better memory than I do.
Some shocking statements here, unfortunately quotes from our POTUS, but something everyone should see. Another good one from Lydia.
Denial is not absolution.
Donald Trump has done something no president has done before. He has exposed the hypocrisy of the evangelical right, and the GOP.
“Roy Moore denies it. That’s all I can say. He denies it. And by the way, he totally denies it.” ~ Donald Trump, sexual predator
There has been an undercurrent building, fueled by indignation at our society’s inclination to look the other way, make excuses for predators, and blame victims- while it protects those men who commit unspeakable crimes.
Trump’s endorsement of this man, whose predatory behavior was so blatant he was banned for life from a shopping mall, can only feed the backlash against abuse and empower more victims to come forward naming their attackers.
Trump isn’t the only politician to dismiss Moore’s crimes. Alabama Governor Kay Ivy has stated she believes the accusers, who say Senate hopeful Roy Moore sexually harassed and…
View original post 328 more words
Has anyone else found that when they try to switch to the new editor when editing their blog that it instead opens a new document? I also can’t reach the happiness engineers. When I hit the button to contact them after writing about the problem I’m having, it just brings me back to the form again instead of putting me in touch.
Mercy Oath
I have mercy on spiders and crickets and snakes.
I swerve on the highway for animals’ sakes,
but I swat at mosquitoes and execute flies
when they land on my food or dive bomb my eyes.
I do not like insects to invade my bod
like noseeums that dive in a suicide squad.
I poison leaf cutters and stomp on each roach
and execute scorpions that dare to encroach
on my personal space. There’s a place here for all,
but not on my floor or pillow or wall.
Though I don’t wish to be overly cruel,
each thing in its place is the usual rule.
Ladybugs, dragonflies, butterflies and
hoppers and roly-bugs are simply grand.
I’ll rescue bees when they fall in my pool.
Wasp nests I’ll leave as a usual rule
if they are no danger to human or cats.,
and my tejas are havens for dozens of bats.
Possums in my bushes and nests in each tree
are not a problem. They don’t bother me.
We’re all placed in this world to subsist with each other
which means we must learn to exist with each other.
So I here take a vow to hurt no living thing
that doesn’t eat plants or bite, pinch or sting.
The prompt today is mercy.
I loved this display at a market in St. Paul, Minnesota. As pretty as any flower!
Mr. Crow
A flash of shadow in morning’s glow–
interrupts the daylight’s flow.
That sleek black coat I seem to know.
Why have you come here, Mr. Crow?
I heard that here the water’s fine.
The garden lush. The fruit divine.
I saw it falling from the vine
and swooped right in to make it mine.
You bow at us as though in jest,
then bend your wing and dip your chest.
You have not come at our behest.
We know you rob the songbird’s nest.
But I just stand here, staunch and tall.
I make no movement, sound no call.
I threaten no one. None at all.
Your garden holds me in its thrall.
The mourning doves and chickadees
do not bathe here as they please.
Black bird, you splash as though to tease,
then dry your feathers in the breeze.
I watch to see what you may do.
Through kitchen window, you’re in full view.
One beaded eye of turquoise hue
watches no songbirds. It watches you.
Mr. Crow, with feathers fine,
take care where you might choose to dine.
The grapes you eat were meant for wine.
Please stick to seeds. The grapes are mine!
To those of you behind the drapes,
it is a myth I dine on grapes
In garden grass, I watch for shapes.
No skittering snake or mouse escapes.
Small birds won’t deign to linger near
or take a bath while you are here.
Their fluttering movements display their fear.
They find your visit very queer.
I haven’t been here very long.
I’ve robbed no grapes, I’ve stilled no song.
Though your suspicions are grossly wrong,
since I’m not welcome, I’ll move along.
The blackbird lifts from saucer’s edge,
skirts the treetops, lands on the hedge.
A warbler lifts from stalks of sedge
and takes his place on the birdbath’s ledge.
Since I was traveling from the time I woke up at 4 a.m. this morning until I got home 12 hours later, this is a rewrite of a poem from 2 1/2 years ago. Today’s prompt is nest.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 