These are all water whistlles. Fill them with water and blow in the tail and each creates bird songs. You can vary the pitch and number of sounds produced by how hard you blow and in what sequence. The little one was a Cracker Jacks prize, I believe. I’ve had it since I was small. The others are Mexican handicrafts purchased at arts and crafts fairs.
For RDP Whistle
I Used to Eat Red
My sister Patti and I, posed by my older sister Betty. Those are “the” cherry trees behind us. The fact that we were wearing dresses suggests we were just home from Sunday school and church, our souls bleached as white as our shoes and socks!
I used to eat red
from backyard cherry trees,
weave yellow dandelions
into cowgirl ropes
to lariat my Cheyenne uncle.
I once watched dull writhing gold
snatched from a haystack by its tail,
held by a work boot
and stilled by the pitchfork of my dad
who cut me rattles while I didn’t watch.
I felt white muslin bleached into my soul
on Sunday mornings in a hard rear pew,
God in my pinafore pocket
with a picture of Jesus
won from memorizing psalms.
But it was black I heard at midnight from my upstairs window––
the low of cattle from the stock pens
on the other side of town––
the long and lonely whine of diesels on the road
to the furthest countries of my mind.
Where I would walk
burnt sienna pathways
to hear green birds sing a jungle song,
gray gulls call an ocean song,
peacocks cry the moon
until I woke to shade-sliced yellow,
mourning doves still crooning midnight songs of Persia
as I heard morning
whistled from a meadowlark
half a block away.
And then,
my white soul in my shorts pocket,
plunging down the stairs to my backyard,
I used to eat red,
pick dandelions yellow.
(This is a reworking of a poem from my book Prairie Moths.)
For RDP Whistle
jdbphoto
At the Olympics Awards Ceremony
You are the one we’d love to beat.
We train, we strain, we sweat. We cheat.
Anything to win the heat
and gain the glory of your defeat.
You are so handsome, fit and neat.
Sure of hand and swift of feet,
with fame and glory, you are replete—
the hero of each match and meet.
You are not boastful, do not bleat
your successes down every street.
You are humble and discreet.
You do not replay and repeat
each mile covered. Nor do you greet
those you’ve defeated when we meet
with prideful leer or smile cloying—
but still, we find your fame annoying.
You win each medal, then repeat
year after year at every meet.
Your well-toned muscles, hair like wheat,
make you every lady’s treat––
propel you to the winner’s seat,
your win made obvious and concrete
while those below complain and cuss.
Could you not leave some fame for us???
By her violent hurricanes and the ice caps’ thaw,
by the massive flooding and the hungry maw
of fires burning cruelly, devouring trees and houses,
she tries to rid the human race of habits it espouses.
Mother Nature’s angry and she’s tried to let us know,
but still we do not listen, for we are rather slow.
We’ve been such naughty children, not picking up our toys.
Perhaps we’ll get the message from new tactics she deploys.
From Wuhan to Limerick, we’re forced to stay inside,
reading the statistics of how many more have died.
She takes away our playthings: airplanes and sailing ships,
closes all our restaurants, taking away our tips.
She shuts down all the factories, cleaning up the air
so we could breathe again outside, if only we could dare.
Hunkered down inside our homes, we try to find diversions.
No NBA games, but fewer temperature inversions.
We do not flood the roadways, tossing out our trash.
We avoid bars and restaurants, hoarding all our cash.
Give up all the driving—the freeway’s frantic rush,
avoiding the container stores and the mall’s mad crush.
With Amazon delivering only vital things,
we resurrect the pleasures that tradition brings.
Monopoly, Parcheesi, Pick-up-sticks and Rook.
Brother builds a model plane. Sis picks up a book.
Mom recycles plastic and refuses to buy more.
All excessive packaging piles up in every store
until they learn that they can go back to what once was
and rid the world of garbage, doing it because
we do not own the world you see. Instead, the world owns us.
We are just the part of it creating all the fuss.
Maybe if we clean our rooms, our mom will let us play
outside again with others, one unpolluted day.
For RDP: Tough
In this morning’s post, I mentioned a polka dot prom dress my oldest sister wore and that my middle sister wore as a costume for her birthday costume party the year she turned 13. She is the last one on the right in the first photo. She even has a dance card tied to her wrist! I just found a picture of her in it as well as a picture I’d forgotten of me in a polka dot prom dress as well! Except I think I was just dressing up in my sister’s because although it was four years later, I was just 13 years old as well. That said, here is my polka dot addendum.
Click on photos to enlarge.
Midnight Minuet
Sneaking down the unlit hall,
we take turns answering nature’s call,
awaiting our own turn to sneak
to the john to have a leak.
In the darkness, we repeat
this rather tricky hourly feat.
Him, then her, then me at last.
So are our nightly ramblings cast.
It is not choice that brings us here
to void ourselves of pop or beer.
In fact, a full night’s sleep we seek—
our intentions strong, but bladders weak.
At eleven, twelve and one and two,
sleeping is what we’d rather do.
Instead, we do-si-do—just missing
the next sojourner bent on pissing!
This poem is dedicated to all of those over sixty who find themselves taking more nightly journeys down the hall than in the past. Perhaps, like me, you are a houseguest. If so, there is no avoiding the nocturnal shuffle if your hosts, like you, are of a certain age.
The Ragtag Daily Prompt is Nocturnal
Picky Eater
If you don’t want me in a tizzy,
French fries? Crisp, please. Soda? Fizzy.
And though I like my ice cream soft,
when I’m holding it aloft,
if I’m not constantly on guard,
better that it’s frozen hard.
RDP’s three words today are: CRISP, SOFT, FIZZY
Image by Matthew Moloney on Unsplash.
Click on photos to enlarge.
Hot Tomatoes!!!
Cut them, slice them,
Chop then, dice them.
No matter that tomato’s fate,
alas, I must admit I hate
to put my teeth in it at all.
I just can’t stand that juicy ball!
But, sauce and squeeze it,
pasta, cheese it?
I’m tomato’s biggest fan.
And ketchup? Man o man o man!
On fries or burgers, it’s the best.
Can’t get enough of its red zest.
Which goes to prove, whate’er the cost,
tomatoes just taste better squashed.
For RDP:Tomatoes
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 