Fleeting Moments are built into nature as they are into our lives. Be they beautiful memories, unbelievable experiences or disastrous events, they come and they go–often too quickly. Many would be forgotten were it not for the click of a lens. Here are some of mine.
WoodwindBreath, down through my lifetime, if I dare to cogitate,
creates a varied story that I’m driven to relate.
Along with embouchure, it was a subject of debate
that, added to execution, served to determine fate
by moving me from first chair to second, then to third
in placement in the school band. I easily conceded
to yield my place as first chair, and so was superseded
by player after player who played the saxophone
more skillfully than I did. I had not a bone
to pick with them. I knew I had neither skill nor lungs
to insure my placement in the upper rungs
of our school band’s placement. I really didn’t care
if I manned third or second or the first-ranked chair.
Tobacco, then pneumonia later played a hand
in lessening my lung power long after the school band
had retreated into history and a guitar took the place
of an instrument requiring both my breath and face
to execute its glories. And so my prowess lingers
longer now that it requires simply arms and fingers.
Meanwhile, my breath is used up by necessary things.
It talks and sighs and whistles and laughs and coughs and sings.
Even with more talent, it’s clear I’ve not enough of it
to put my mouth upon a reed and puff and puff and puff on it.
I’m glad I had no talent, for it would mean my death
if I had any other thing using up my breath!!!
Prompt words today are pneumonia, tobacco, embouchure, cogitate and empty.
Oxygen
I breathe you out
and breathe you in
as you restore my lack.
With your passing,
fine hairs on my arms
stand at attention,
as though reaching out
for the mere touch
of you.
You surround and enter me,
then beat a hasty retreat,
in and out like children
passing through
a kitchen door.
Needing something,
then needing to be gone,
called in again
by request or need.
You fill and nourish me.
You lift my tresses
from my shoulders,
tangle my fringe,
blow the insignificant
from my life.
Deposit autumn leaves,
like sad reminders
of your passing.
This really is the number of meds that are keeping me breathing right now.
Nope!!!
Okay, readers, here’s the dope.
Though desolation might reach and grope,
put in my path those bars of soap,
in depressed times, provide the rope,
I choose instead to fight and cope.
I refuse to be a misanthrope.
I really have no cause to mope,
for as long as there is breath, there’s hope.
Background info that I couldn’t fit in without really stretching it to fit in my remaining rhyme words of “ope, lope, Pope and taupe,” is that last night I was taken by ambulance for a night’s stay in the emergency room of the local Green Cross. I started having asthma attacks in the afternoon and by evening I just couldn’t breathe even with the inhalers. None of my friends were home so finally I called a close neighbor who luckily had a sister who is both an asthma victim and a nurse. She got me calmed down and breathing through the inhaler and they went back home to have dinner, saying they’d come back to stay with me afterwards. I tried to call a few more friends, but again, none were home, and I had another attack. Luckily, the phone rang and it was Chris seeing how I was. I could just gasp “Help!” They were there in two minutes, called an ambulance, and since they could not get me to breathe without the oxygen, they took me to the hospital for the night. Twelve hours of oxygen later, plus visits by two doctors, an injection and 5 more bottles of medicine, I’m back home with an oxygen machine I bought, looking for a portable one that doesn’t cost $5,000—what they cost here in Mexico— or $3500—what the model I’d like costs in the states. Never have I been so thankful for the breath of life!
The prompt today is mope.
INHALE, EXHALE!
(An enlarged view of all photos may be seen by clicking on the first photo.)
https://wheresmybackpack.com/2016/05/14/travel-theme-breathe/
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 