FLASHIER THAN THE FLOWERS
The Coleus is another plant where the leaves outshine the flowers.
For more flowers, see: http://ceenphotography.com/2015/07/26/flower-of-the-day-july-26-2015-day-lily/
Re”tire”ment
When I was younger, my mind turned on a dime.
I did what I had to do in very little time.
But now that I am older, things don’t go so fast.
I’m not “spur-of-the-momentish” as I was in the past.
I don’t throw big parties as I did in former days,
for dealing with the details just puts me in a haze.
I can’t do many things at once without getting confused.
Now I simply write my blog while once I danced and boozed!
At first I felt ashamed of how my life is slowing down,
hating that I do not seek the company of town.
But then I noted patterns in nature around me
and saw that this is simply how our lives are meant to be.
Each thing in its season and each thing in its time
is how our lives are ordered—to accept this is sublime.
Why do I need to live my youth and middle age again?
Why not just accept that this is how my life has been
and go on to the next stage without sadness or regret—
going on to see just how much better life can get?
Yes, it is the pits to get arthritic, slow and hazy;
but we are compensated by excuses to be lazy!
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Heat is On.” Do you thrive under pressure or crumble at the thought of it? Does your best stuff surface as the deadline approaches or do you need to iterate, day after day to achieve something you’re proud of? Tell us how you work best.
I wrote this poem that answers this prompt so long ago that few who are now following me have ever read it. If you have read it, perhaps you have forgotten it, as I had..
Foreign Tongues
When I was a child, I thought as a child.
In short, I didn’t think.
My faulty reasonings were piled
like dishes in a sink.
While other children responded to
“What do you want to be?”
with “Cowboy! Teacher!” (right on cue),
these answers weren’t me.
When it came to having career talks,
I fear I was a purist.
My answer was less orthodox.
My aim? To be a tourist!!
I thought tourists then to be
a sort of gypsy pack.
Jobless, they were wild and free,
their luggage on their back.
Or in their cars, packed front and back,
traveling evermore––
a footloose, wandering, feckless pack
unsettled to the core.
I saw them passing on the road
just one block south of where
my family hunched in their abode
year after passing year.
I had to wait for 19 years
to earn my traveling shoes––
to assuage my parents’ groundless fears,
abate their travel blues.
I took off on a sailing ship
to visit foreign lands.
When foreign words evaded lip,
I merely used my hands!
Back home, the English seemed to me
common––sorta dowdy.
Instead of “Moshi, moshi”
I had to murmur, “Howdy.”
As soon as school was over,
I hopped upon a plane.
I’d pass my life a rover.
Inertia was inane!
I packed up my regalia
with neither tear nor sob
to head out to Australia
for my first teaching job.
I thought that English I would teach.
It was our common tongue.
Enunciation would I preach.
Oh Lord, I was so young!
My first day there, I heard the word
“Did-ja-‘ave-a guh-die-mite?”*
I found it all to be absurd.
They were joking. Right?
“Don’t come the raw prahn on my, mite”**
was next to meet my ear.
What foreign language did they cite?
It puzzled me, I fear.
I rode, I walked, I sailed the seas
and ended up in Bali.
Said my “Terimakasih’s”
And then, “Selamat Pagi.”
My move to Africa was one
that some folks found quixotic,
but “amasaganalu”
was a word I found exotic.
After two years, I went home.
Wyoming was the next
place that I agreed to roam,
though I was sorely vexed.
For though the words were all the same
I’d learned at my mom’s knee––
(I’m sure that I was all to blame)
they all seemed Greek to me!
California was where I hung
my hat for many-a-year.
There Español was half the tongue
that fell upon my ear.
I liked its cadence, liked its ring.
The words ran fluid and
their foreignness was just my thing
in this bilingual land.
So Mexico is where I’m bound.
I’ve reasons numbering cien.
The main one is, I like the sound
of “Que le via bien.”
* The American accent version is “Did you have a good day, mate?”
** “Don’t come the raw prawn on me, Mate!” This strange retort is similar in meaning to: “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.” Many Australians have told me they’ve never heard this phrase, but I swear I did–more than once.
The Prompt: Futures Past: As a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? How close or far are you from that vision?
Remember Me
What I imagine I will be remembered by
is probably in the past, my present more taken up by
remembering than by doing.
That energy to create a life seems worn out
so that rising and sorting piles of papers
seems an Everest to scale.
Who knew that we would wear out, too.
Prefer our deskchairs to the dance floor,
our own tables to the favorite gathering place?
We have dulled to pewter,
finest silver that we once were.
Once hatless, ratted and curled,
now we shield ourselves from the sun
with wider brims,
celebrate midnight in solitude,
go the way of civilizations
headed toward their end.
Today’s prompt: Don’t You Forget About Me: Imagine yourself at the end of your life. What sort of legacy will you leave? Describe the lasting effect you want to have on the world, after you’re gone.
The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.
–Attributed to Dorothy Parker
This Quotation is number one. As I was typing this, I remembered that I wrote a poem entitled “Dorothy Parker and Picasso at the Beach” last year. If you’d like to read it, go HERE
I was nominated by Jane Basil to participate in the Three Quotation Challenge. You can see Jane’s wonderful blog site HERE. Thanks for thinking of me, Jane.
The Prompt: A Dog Named Bob–You have 20 minutes to write a post that includes the words mailbox, bluejay, and ink. And one more detail… the story must include a dog named Bob. Confession, I took 40!
My brother’s coon dog name of Bob was lying by the sink.
He was a pretty good old dog, but man, he had a stink!
I opened up the kitchen door and said he had to leave;
but when he tried to lick my hand, I met him with my sleeve.
“Out boy, now!” I yelled at him and pushed him towards outside.
Smelly dogs are something that I can’t abide.
I’d told my brother that I’d keep him for awhile
’till he found another owner, for dogs just weren’t my style.
I was almost done with breakfast, licking syrup from my plate
while waiting for a letter, but the mail was late.
I could watch the mailbox from the comfort of my chair.
I’d been waiting for an hour, but still it wasn’t there.
A bluejay sat up in a tree looking at the scene.
I hoped the mailman didn’t know that bluejays could be mean.
That letter from my true love I’d been yearning for,
standing at the window, pacing on my floor.
When I heard the mailman’s engine and ran out to my stoop,
that bluejay came right at me, with one big threatening swoop.
The mailman dropped my letter and ran on up the road–
fleet of foot in spite of his rather weighty load.
I stood up and tried to run to my letter box,
that bluejay pecking at me from my collar to my socks.
I grabbed my letter from the road and ran back towards the house,
putting my love letter in a pocket of my blouse.
But that bluejay was a devil, he stayed right up with me,
stabbing at my earlobes, pecking at my knee.
Then he spied the letter and before I could react,
he held it fast within his beak. My letter had been hacked!
I thought that I had lost it–and all hopes of romance.
I went from hopeful thoughts of love to feeling I’d no chance
of ever falling fast in love with someone I had met
on a social network on the internet.
He’d said he’d write a letter giving his address
and if I didn’t answer, I’d have no redress.
He’d close up his account and bother me no more.
And that is why day after day, I’d waited at my door.
I saw that bluejay flying low, my letter in his beak.
I put my head down in my hands, but then I heard a squeak.
I glanced up fast to see that jay sitting on the fence
not knowing Bob crept up behind, he offered no defense.
Bob seized him fast around the neck before he’d time to think,
and the bluejay got a message that wasn’t written in ink!
He dropped the letter and made off to other Bob-less lands
while Bob came up and placed my letter gently in my hands.
And that is how I came to have a family of six
and how I came to treasure all Bob’s nuzzles and his licks.
And how Bob, too, came to have a chance to be a dad
with the lovely Irish Setter that my true love had.
Now our families are mixed and living happily–
all so in love that I’m in risk of writing sappily.
With no fear, the mailman brings us letters every day.
And you can bet for sure that we’ve seen no more of that jay!
Perpetual Blog
Posting blogs just never stops—
in restaurants or in coffee shops,
waiting in an airport line
or in a wine bar sipping wine.
When it comes to blogging, I’m not choosy.
In the pool or the Jacuzzi,
my computer on a tiny table,
I add to blogs if I am able.
I admit that I am prone
to posting while I’m on the phone.
In the kitchen while burning supper,
posting blogs can be an upper.
Often, when I’m traveling,
my sister’s patience unraveling
past midnight, when she wants to sleep–
as she lies there counting sheep,
I take my laptop to the loo
to do what I’m impelled to do–
tapping gently on the keys
with my computer on my knees.
But I must admit, when I’m alone,
my favorite way to post is prone.
Flat in bed, from toes to noggin,
is how I usually do my bloggin’.
What’s the strangest place from where you have posted a blog?
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/blogger-in-a-strange-land/
Stink Think
Scotch broom makes me nauseous. Roses make me sneeze.
I abhor the scent of jasmine on an evening breeze.
Room deodorants should be banned, as should scented candles.
I’d rather smell my brother’s sneakers or a vagrant’s sandals.
Now that we want each thing to smell like something it is not,
there’s a different odor on everything we’ve got.
There’s perfume in detergent, in dryer tabs and soap.
Scented toilet paper makes we want to mope.
Unscented’s getting almost impossible to find
It leaves allergic folks like me in a real tight bind.
Gardenia in my hand lotion or chamomile or peach.
Hairsprays smell as fresh as air or like a summer beach.
Floor cleaners smell like forests of freshly gathered pine,
as though without this pungent scent our floors would smell like swine!
These odors leave me gasping and running for some air.
Their vapors make my eyes run, causing much despair.
I do not want my table waxed with lemon or “fresh scent.”
I believe that everything should smell as nature meant.
I’ve done a lot of research, and I’m fairly sure
that perfumes out-stink everything they’re meant to obscure!
The Prompt: Smell You Later–Humans have very strong scent memory. Tell us about a smell that transports you.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/smell-you-later/
Small Reunion
At the piano, the music chords easily.
The soprano’s voice slides smoothly from her throat
while we others strain until “Dear Heart” syrups our vocal chords
and we slip with less effort up and down the scale–
old friends singing even older songs.
The small dog snuggles in,
balancing on the plush chair back.
The mother of the pianist and the soprano
observes from her frame atop the piano.
All husbands out and about other business.
Old letters reread, old memories pulled from forgetfulness,
each of us left at the end richer–hearts refilled
from a shared past. Every word
a song of its own.
Our notes blending together
into perfect harmony.
Disclaimer: I obviously haven’t mastered the art of taking pictures with my cell phone, so these are terrible, but they do convey a bit of the action and mood, so I’m including them. Unfortunately, I had the camera on video during the entire singing session, so no photos…too bad.
Linger
It is those times
over dinner
when we have lifted a glass
or two–
those times
without husbands, who are home
watching a game
or out with gun and skeet–
those times
with long-ago college schemes
or scandals
remembered–
when, although no longer hungry,
we nonetheless order a dessert
with three forks
as an excuse to linger.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Linger.”
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 