Poignancy

I have often heard it said that the dictionary defines one big word with another. In many cases, that seems to be true. It's no different with the word "poignancy", which is defined in my book as "the quality or state of being poignant". Rrvit! And then, of course, I had to look up "poignant" ... "deeply affecting the feelings".

There's really no one word that can adequately describe how one feels when a member of the family dies, one you have lived with and loved for many years. Poignant is as good a word as any, I guess.

Yesterday morning, Polimom wrote a beautiful post about the loss in her family. It moved me deeply. I was going to publish this in response before I left to play in the tournament, but I got caught up in reading some of my previous posts - the ones where I spoke of my love for cats - and there just wasn't enough time left to do it justice.

Why am I speaking of my love for cats? Polimom lost a member of her family!

Well, it wasn't a person who died. It was Pounce, her beloved cat. Cancer took him. I couldn't believe how fast he went! A really good thing. And he died where he knew people loved him. Polimom didn't have to undergo the horrendousness of taking him to the vet to be 'put down', thank goodness.

[She and I spent the better part of an hour in the late afternoon talking about him, about the other pets in the family and pets in general, and about feelings. I figured she needed the emotional outlet and was glad I was there to provide it.]

To honor Pounce - and especially in memory of my own Serendipity, who died fifteen years ago this Valentine's Day - I'd like to re-publish a poem I wrote for her that dreadful evening when I came home and discovered that she had somehow managed, in her terribly weakened state, to climb up onto my bed before she took her last breath.


My Valentine


Words cannot begin to describe how I feel
Now that my pretty one's insides have begun to congeal.

I cannot stop petting her -- her fur is still so soft
I suppose I'll continue to find fleas until summer -- even in the loft.


I hated to leave her this morning ... she wanted to lay in the doorway -- ajar
(I guess) so she could see what she had (seems like just yesterday) chased from afar.


Queen of the fence, rooftop, trees
She went exactly as she pleased!


Now my lovely has died on my bed, her head near my pillow, her mouth open, quite dead.


I don't want her to awaken ... there must have been pain
I wouldn't want her to have to go through all that again.


Tears shed on my bed. I've dug the hole, but will have to make it deeper ...
Can't stand the thought of yukky bugs and God knows what all getting at my beautiful sleeper.

Oh, Serendipity! My unexpected pleasure!
You were such a wonderful treasure!


The above poem was written the evening Serendipity died and was first published on this blogsite here, almost two years ago. I couldn't stop crying until I wrote it. It made me feel a little better to get all of my raw feelings down on paper. I imagine, if I'd been blogging way back then in 1995, I'd have written about it.

Anyway, perhaps - for those of you who have experienced similar losses - this post will help alleviate your pain. Hugs, Polimom!

Dibs and dabs

[Saturday afternoon - late] I'll begin this today and finish sometime tomorrow, probably.


First off, tho, I feel obliged to say
That I'll root for my Astros, come what may

Even if they appear downtrodden
I'll still be here. They're not forgotten.

I'll be watching tonight and tomorrow
Let's hope that both games do not end in sorrow.


All limericks and poor attempts at poetry aside - and it's a bit difficult to put them aside, I'm finding. Once Goldenrod gets started on a new kick, it's really difficult to stop her until she's exhausted everyone's (including her own!) patience.


[Sunday afternoon - late] Don't know if any of you read the limerick that Tammy composed for me - which was the subject of my last post - or not, but sometimes it almost seems as tho she can see me from way over there in Idaho and knows what's really going on.

I've been battling, for the past week or so, an infection that I thought was going to hospitalize me Thursday evening. Finally, tho, it seems to be getting under control, but it sure scared me!

Fortunately, the antibiotics I've been taking are in swallowable form (very similar in size and shape to Contac, which I've never had any trouble swallowing!) - which, as you might remember, is a real bugaboo for me.


Not really a whole lot going on. I've been getting a lot of sleep and am eating again ... ... lots of fruit. This is a great time of year to crave fruit!

Hope all of you are enjoying your weekend, and I'll talk atcha again real soon!

I don't know if I can do this or not ... let's see ...

Tammy sent me an e-mail with a limerick featuring Goldenrod. I'm going to see if I can transfer it directly ... ...



Goldenrod’s a blogger we all know

And fonder of her each day we do grow



Though in her house lives a flamingo,

And she plays bridge and not bingo,



Can you think of a better friend? NO!


Ha, ha! Gotcha, Tammy!! A cute one, too!!!

More limericks?!?

This post will be a combination of limericks and recommendations.

There once was a young man named Chuck
Who shaved the hairs once running amok

Most recently he has sat
In a chair with his fat cat

Reading the very latest in junk!

I first heard of Chuck while cruising the net almost a year and a half ago, and had the opportunity to 'catch an eyeball' (a CB term) on him this past January when he was in Houston.

Chuck is an avid outdoorsman and has more than one blogsite. You probably remember my mentioning his name before. (And yes! He is the Cubs fan from the north who often seems to be in a terrible stew about his team. Poor baby!)

I doubt if he reads much "junk", btw. (His life is quite full and that is no bull ... ... oh, stop it already, Goldenrod!)

The latest entry of his that I'd like you to see is this one. It's a really unique performance by an orchestra group that he titled "Indoor Rain?". DO close your eyes when listening to this! The only thing that I found the slightest bit distracting was the audience's loud applause towards (but not at!) the very end, which I could have done without.

However, after I hit "Publish Post" I'll probably go back and listen to it again. It's great!


There once was a young philatelist named Steve
Who had more than one trick up his sleeve

His posts are infrequent
But most often decent

And filled with just delightful reverie!

I discovered Steve in January this year from "Absolute Write", a blogsite for aspiring writers.

He has left a few comments on my posts ... vice versa with me on his. The one I'd like to recommend for you today is this one, where he talks about how he is as smart as a first grader. It's funny! I love his realistic approach to life and self-deprecating sense of humor.


There once was a home-schooling mom
Who thought her life was just "Ho hum"

Little did she know
That sirens would soon blow

And all the rage her street would become!

This is Tammy, of course, my oldest and dearest blogger friend, who 'tells it like it is'. For photos of what caused all the rumpus, go here.


My latest (and last) recommendation - again via limerick - is this one ... ...

There once was a young man with a journal
Who tried to encapsulize his life in a kernel

Of wisdom, note jottings and more
Little did he know what was in store

For him on down the road that we now know as 'eternal'!

Steven is keeping a journal. Have you ever done so? As far back as I can remember, I have not! (At least, not to this extent.)

Check out this post, where he shares two personal entries. It might take you awhile to wade through all of the comments section*, if you choose to take that route, but I recommend that you do so. (You can skip through mine, if you wish.)

*One of the many reasons I enjoy Steven's site so much is that - normally, when you leave a comment, he responds in kind.


Talk atcha!

More limericks

There once was a young man from down unda
Who thought nothing of taking many hundra

Until one fine day
He was heard to say

"My eyeball is stuck to the camera!"

Just couldn't help myself. More to come, I'm sure!

Here's another (think I like this next one a touch better) ... ...

There once was a young man from down unda
Whose photographs made many wonda

But then one day
He was heard to say

"My eyeball is stuck to the camera!"

I may have unleashed a monster. Let's see if I have another one in me ... ...

There once was a Cubs fan from up north
Who was often heard to loudly spew forth

Words of frustration
And high condemnation

But where is he now? Come forth!

Be careful, peoples. The monster, she's a roarin'! Oh, oh! Here we go again ... ...

There once was a young lady from Muskegon
Whose conduct had everyone's tongues waggin'

When she wasn't flirting
She was lightly skirting

The very edges of St. George and the dragon!

Think I'll stop while I'm ahead. Nope. Never mind. One more ... ...

There once was a young lady from Firth
Who had trouble because of her girth

Fitting into her bed
There was no room for her head

It was entirely filled with her mirth!

Limericks

I was surfing the net a couple of weeks ago, and came across one of those blogsites that was talking - and posting pictures - about their recent trip. In this particular case, the trip was through Ireland.

There was a pretty good-sized group on this tour. On one of their longer bus rides, the tour guide suggested a limerick contest for those who were awake and wanting something creative to do.

All of the entries were posted on their blogsite. This was the winning one ... ...

There once was a surgeon from Dallas
With a camera he loved like his phallus

He took pictures all day
Of the hills, town and bay

And developed a fingertip callous.


Well, ever since then a few limericks have gone through my mind. Here are a couple ... ...

There once was a young lady named Suzie
Whom everyone thought quite the floozie

She pranced here and there
With her chin in the air

Then went home to enjoy her jacuzzi!


There once was a young lady from Houston
Who yearned to get away from pollution

She relocated to Nome
Where the sun never shone

And thought, "This is not the solution!"


Limericks are fun. Try one!

I will watch over you

Beth sent me this the other day. It's a beautiful poem. Altho I've never experienced anything quite like this, I have no doubt that such a thing is possible.

'A drunk man in an Oldsmobile' they said had run the light
That caused the six-car pileup on 109 that night.

When broken bodies lay about and blood was everywhere
The sirens sent out eulogies, for death was in the air.

A mother, trapped inside her car, was heard above the noise.
Her plaintive plea near split the air. "Oh, God, please spare my boys!"

She fought to loose her pinned hands, she struggled to get free,
But mangled metal held her fast in grim captivity.

Her frightened eyes then focused on where the the back seat once had been,
But all she saw was broken glass and two children's seats crushed in.

Her twins were nowhere to be seen. She could not hear them cry.
And then she prayed they'd been thrown free. "Oh, God, don't let them die!"

Then firemen came and cut her loose, but when they searched the back
They found therein no little boys, though the seat belts were intact.

They thought the woman had gone mad and was traveling alone,
But when they turned to question her, they discovered she was gone.

Policemen saw her running wild and screaming above the noise
In beseeching supplication, "Please help me find my boys!

They're four years old and wear blue shirts; their jeans are blue to match."
One cop spoke up, "They're in my car and they don't have a scratch.

They said their daddy put them there and gave them each a cone;
Then told them both to wait for Mom to come and take them home.

I've searched the area high and low, but I can't find their dad.
He must have fled the scene, I guess, and that is very bad."

The mother hugged the twins and said, while wiping at a tear,
"He could not flee the scene, you see, for he's been dead a year."

The cop just looked confused and asked, "Now, how can that be true?"
The boys said, "Mommy, Daddy came and left a kiss for you.

He told us not to worry and that you would be all right
And then he put us in this car with the pretty, flashing light.

We wanted him to stay with us because we miss him so,
But Mommy, he just hugged us tight and said he had to go.

He said someday we'd understand and told us not to fuss,
And he said to tell you, Mommy, that he's watching over us."

The mother knew without a doubt that what they spoke was true,
For she recalled their dad's last words, "I will watch over you."

The firemen's notes could not explain the twisted, mangled car
And how the three of them escaped without a single scar,

But on the cop's report was scribed, in print so very fine,
'An angel walked the beat tonight on Highway 109.'

Pink, yellow and blue

Here's kind of a poignant one from Beth that I've been meaning to share with all of you for several days now. There's a lot of truth in it. Here goes ... ...


I bumped into a stranger as he passed by.
"Oh, excuse me!" was my reply.

He said, "Please excuse me, too!
I wasn't watching out for you."

We were very polite, this stranger and I.
We went on our separate ways after saying goodbye.


But at home a different story is told,
About how we treat our loved ones, young and old.

Later that day, while I was cooking the evening meal,
My son stood beside me -- very still.

When I turned, I nearly knocked him down.
"Move out of the way!" I said with a frown.

He walked away, his little heart broken.
I didn't realize how harshly I'd spoken.


Later that night, while I lay awake in bed,
God's still small voice came to me and said,

"When dealing with a stranger, common courtesy you use,
But the family you love, you seem to abuse.

Go and look on the kitchen floor.
You'll find some flowers there by the door.

Those are the flowers he brought for you.
He picked them himself ... pink, yellow and blue.

He stood very quietly, so as not to spoil the surprise.
You never saw the tears that filled his little eyes."


By this time I felt very small
And now my tears began to fall.

I quietly went and knelt by his bed.
"Wake up, little one, wake up!" I said.

"Are these the flowers you picked for me?"
He smiled. "I found 'em, out by the tree.

I picked 'em because they're pretty like you.
I knew you'd like 'em, especially the blue."


I said, "Son, I'm very sorry for the way I acted today.
I never should have yelled at you that way."

He said, "Oh, Mom, that's okay.
I love you, anyway!"

I said, "Son, I love you, too,
And I do like the flowers, especially the blue."

Eenie, meenie, minie, moe

I was sitting in the car in a store parking lot out in Katy a short while ago, trying to compose a little poem to write in my daughter's birthday card, and my mind was coming up with nothing, folks! Zip, zero, zilch, nada!!

All of a sudden my fingers starting drumming impatiently - I had fudge bars in the cooler and needed to get back home - on the dashboard over and over again until I began chanting, "Eenie, meenie, minie, moe" over and over again. Incessantly, as in some kind of drone. But then my fingers picked up on the beat and the chant turned into almost a cheer ... "Come on Goldenrod, let's go!" and "Come on, kid, you're good to go!" Then I found myself singing that little phrase - "Eenie, meenie, minie, moe" - to the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and came up with probably the stupidest poem ever, but my dad would have loved it!

One of his favorite little ditties went (something like), "I scream for ice cream. We all scream for ice cream. Rah rah rah. Sis boom bah." Do you see why I say he would have loved it?

I think I've told all of you before about how I grew up in a family that loved to play games, particularly my dad. Even while we ate. I kid you not! If it was cards we wanted to play, we had card holders. If we were playing bridge and he was taking too long to make his bid or play, I would sometimes ask in an exasperated fashion, "What do you do, Dad?" He'd quickly respond, "Doodad?" I often thought that he sometimes deliberately took too long just so he would hear that question and could give that same answer.

Do you remember how, when you were a kid, you vowed never to be like one (or both) of your parents for one reason or another? I'm turning into my dad, for crying out loud!

Years ago, my father dared me to write some esoteric poems. I did, and here they are ... ... I titled the series "Esotericity".

#1

Write about "rhubarb", he suggested.
Who cares about rhubarb? (Except as digested.)

A common plant my dad used to grow
When the ground wasn't covered all white with snow.

They'd use it for pies & -- yes, even wine.
I never did cultivate a taste for that vine!

It was kind of pretty, though -- red & green,
Sometimes it even made our Christmas scene.


#2

The rhubarb, a plant,

Is most likely to succeed
If one will, on bended knee

Cultivate the land.


#3

The artichoke
Has on a cloak

of mystery.

Remember the name!
You will see its fame

go down in history.


The poem I hurriedly composed today was nowhere near the quality of those! In fact, my daughter laughed out loud when she read it and threatened to practice and then record a singing version on YouTube (I guess!) for all to see. Lord love us, I hope she doesn't!

Now, the card I bought for her Monday was really pretty, and the verses inside were exactly what I wanted to say. I gave her a long-stemmed pink rose that was quite lovely. My heart had been set on buying her a small hair ornament that included a live flower - very similar to what I did years ago when she first came back to Houston - but I wasn't able to find a shop that could do it. Ah, well! When I left their house to hurry back, her hubby was inside busily slaving over a hot stove, concocting some sort of spaghetti dish for her birthday dinner.

I managed to make it home safely - in spite of passing two major accidents on the way (ambulances, fire trucks, overturned vehicles, blood and gore ... you name it, I saw it) - and get my beloved fudge bars back into a freezing mode before any major meltdown had begun.

Gotta go! The Astros game calleth. They scored twice in the 1st inning and are currently leading 2-0. Prior to that score, they were the only team in major league baseball this season to not score a run in either of the first two innings. Oh, the disgrace of it all! The worst start in 25 years for my team.

... ... ... An interruption. Might even be another before this post is finished, we'll see. We've got an exciting game going on. Well, I should amend add that by adding 'only if you're an Astros fan'. Score is now 4-0, and we're in the 4th.

Before I publish this, I don't want to forget to bring to everyone's attention that every single player in the major leagues today is wearing #42, Jackie Robinson's long since retired number. I believe it was Pudge Rodriguez, now catching for the Astros, who first instituted this tradition just a few years back.

And now I really have to go, or this won't get posted today. My daughter has only one birth date each year, and this is it! Happy birthday, wonderful one.

Much love, Mom

For Valentine's Day

I thought I'd share poems of love today - perhaps even throw one of my own in, who knows?


This first one is a WITS entry by Damien, 6th grade, and was published February 5th.

I love you with a love that isn't love
Which is a different love from the depth of love that is from me
The most loving soul ever in the time of history.

I love you like the sun loves to warm the plants.
I love you so much I would go to the breadth of the universe.

When you walk your body moves to the music of love.
In my soul I love you so that I write until I have no more hands.


Here are a couple that I wrote, many years ago, before my third marriage. You can see what a romantic fool and how in love with love I was!

Jumper Cable

When all else seems to fail,
When life wags its grim tale

Of woe & sadness, it seems to me
My heart jumps just looking at thee!


This, Too, Shall Pass

The magic aura of the first pangs of love
Sends us soaring far beyond the clouds above.

You say you're giddy, I say I'm drunk.
Between the two of us, we've sunk

Far below our mutual points of resistance.
(May we never wish to keep our distance!)

To think, "This, too, shall pass," only disturbs the illusion
And seems to add to the general confusion

Going on in our minds while we're living this phase
Of discovery, utter delight, and not enough time in our days.


Next, - not really a poem, but I'd like to include it - taken from The Jerusalem Bible, is one with which we are all probably familiar. Here is 1st Corinthians, Chapter 13.

If I have all the eloquence of men or of angels, but speak without love, I am simply a gong booming or a cymbal clashing. If I have the gift of prophecy, understanding all the mysteries there are, and knowing everything, and if I have faith in all its fulness, to move mountains, but without love, then I am nothing at all. If I give away all that I possess, piece by piece, and if I even let them take my body to burn it, but am without love, it will do me no good whatever.

Love is always patient and kind; it is never jealous; love is never boastful or conceited; it is never rude or selfish; it does not take offense, and is not resentful. Love takes no pleasure in other people's sins but delights in the truth; it is always ready to excuse, to trust, to hope, and to endure whatever comes.

Love does not come to an end. But if there are gifts of prophecy, the time will come when they must fail; or the gift of languages, it will not continue for ever; and knowledge -- for this, too, the time will come when it must fail. For our knowledge is imperfect and our prophesying is imperfect; but once perfection comes, all imperfect things will disappear. When I was a child, I used to talk like a child, and think like a child, and argue like a child, but now I am a man, all childish ways are put behind me. Now we are seeing a dim reflection in a mirror; but then we shall be seeing face to face. The knowledge that I have now is imperfect; but then I shall know as fully as I am known.

In short, there are three things that last: faith, hope and love; and the greatest of these is love.

WITS ... #4 ...

I recently promised a dear blogger friend of mine that I would write a post on self-worth "within the next few days", I think I said. I just cannot seem to get my mind to encompass all of what is required to put it all together just now. It's weird, too, because I keep waking up with all of these thoughts about whatall I should try and include in such a post. I'll get up and take a few notes. Then I'll go back to bed. It's a very important subject, but I feel the need to postpone it until I can do it justice. I hope you will forgive my lack of timeliness.


Meanwhile, I have decided that today's posts be of a humorous nature. There'll be three altogether. Not really trying to make up for 'lost time', altho it might seem like it. It's just that I didn't want to include all of them in one long post.

This first one will have an entry from WITS. If you are not familiar with this organization, please visit here for my introductory remarks.

Composed by Jake, 5th grade, and published January 27th, it is entitled ... ...

How to Get a Date

1. Say you like the girl's shoes or something.
2. Then walk away. If she says "Ha!" go and walk back. If not, that means she's not interested in you or she is not the person who really likes boys.
3. Start a conversation. Ask what she likes or how she is feeling.
4. Tell her what you like.
5. Ask her if she has a boyfriend.
6. If not, ask her what she's doing Friday or Saturday night.
7. If she's free, then that's when you move in. Ask her if you can take her on a date.
8. Take her to a fancy restaurant.


9. Take her to where they have lots of decorations and other fancy things.
10. If you have lots of things in common and she likes you, plan to make reservations for another date.

[photo by jeff_engel via flickr]

WITS ... #3 ...

Continuing on in this series, which was first begun on November 25, 2008. Please see this post for my introductory remarks.

The poem I have chosen to publish today is not amusing. In fact, it is rather somber. At the same time, uplifting. One wonders about the author's background and reasons for writing such a poem. There's a bit of inconsistency, time-wise. I am not trying to be a critic here. Those are just a few of the thoughts that came into my mind when I read the poem.

The reason I'm sharing it with you is that it made me think - my mind going in several different directions, actually. Anyway, here you go. The author is Jessica, 11th grade, published on January 8, 2009.


Prisoner Sestina

Placed in a prison cell behind locks
With measured opportunities to see the light
Brought in and announced with loud sirens
Counting down life three times
From my cell to visitation my only trip
Where I hold family and friends in a brief embrace.


No longer free, cell bars all there is to embrace
I've found the key within, but it doesn't fit this lock
Lookin' back I never shoulda took that second trip.
It just kept callin' me to it, glowin' in the light
I took too much time.
Flashes and sirens.

Police dogs and sirens.
With me, bullets almost embracing
No, not yet! It wasn't quite my time!
Down here in Jasper they cut off my dread locks.
Next Thursday will be my turn to bask in the light
And recall those days of lovers and picnic trips.

Keys fall to the floor; the guard just tripped.
Ringing in my ears, still, from the sirens
Thirty more years till I'll see the light
Remembering the days when momma and I would embrace.
Oh, how I dread these locks!
Growing stronger with time.

Life times life times life.
Almost time now for that final trip.
Unlock the cell's lock
Hush, the ringing sirens
Lord, I pray for you to embrace
Me, before I enter your light.

Your holy merciful light.
The chamber door is closing, it's almost time
For the angels embrace.
I'm taking the final trip
The horns of heaven are my sirens.
I've found the key that fits the lock.

Bodies so light, after final trips
Eternal time now, to listen to sirens
And hide in the embrace of the pearly gates and its locks.

[photo by Blue Sharpie via flickr]

A Visit from Saint Nicholas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too!

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

~ by Clement Clark Moore, 1779-1863

WITS ... #2 ...

This is the second installment in what will be a continuing series. For my introductory remarks, please see this post of November 25th.

Today's entry is by Joanna, 4th grade, and was published on December 3rd. It's lovely!


Dusk of Little Autumn

Autumn is a child dressed with long pants and wooden shoes. His hair is made of ripe leaves. His skin is hard like a tree's bark and rough like dry grass. He is tall like a Christmas tree. His pants are orange like sunset, and his shirt is short. He wears a flowery jacket that his friend Spring gave to him.


In the afternoons little Autumn plays around in the park and goes up and down in a swing. Leaves fly and he starts turning into different colors. Leaves stick on his clothes while they twirl with the breeze. Then Autumn plays soccer with other kids and the leaves stick on him because the wind blows hard. At dusk when the last leaf blows away from his body, Autumn lies on the grass until he disappears.

[photo by Burpythehippo via flickr]

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I have written a lot of poems over the years. The subjects range from love and relationships to sports - all over the place, really, kind of like my blog. Some of them are intensely personal and probably shouldn't be shared.

This one (one of the more shareable), however, is one of my favorites. I added some remarks a few years later that I'll include in parentheses following the poem.


Split second flashes of hopes & dreams
Unhoped for in my daily schemes

Are but illusions to be filed away
When he expresses his doubts to me this way.

I'm not solid enough to hold fast
While he's scampering -- breathing his last

Breaths of freedom, non-commitment & daring do.
I can't handle it. Should I? Would you?!

My years in therapy were spent for me,
Not for someone who wants to stay free!

He must be allowed to go his own way,
If he truly loves me, he'll want to stay

Forever and work things out
Together ... we're both in doubt

And fearful of another marriage
But that's no reason to disparage

The name, the question, the love, the want
That's in us both! Leave us, past! Don't haunt

Us with fantasies of what might have been!
I want him here ... holding my hand

As I want to grasp his with all of my might
And not let go, even when he's out of sight.

Leave us, past! Can we not start anew
Like each day, when the dawn breaks through,

Shedding its light & hope around
Where before all had turned to brown?

Why cannot we, like the one who believes,
Be like the trees, turning our leaves

Toward the sky -- with faith and trust --
That we be nourished and our love not rust

In the weathering of knowledge & human-ness.


(Except for the line, "As I want to grasp his with all of my might And not let go, even when he's out of sight," I imagine I would write one today of a very similar nature if I were in the same situation. I would not wish to grasp his hand quite so tightly today. I didn't then, either. It was only in the poem.)


I didn't put a date on this, because I'm not sure exactly when it was written. It would have been somewhere in the very early 1980's, with the added remarks written before I started driving a taxicab in 1989. You can see what a dreamer I was!

Car Sickness

"jabo" left a comment yesterday on a post I published May 17th, "Car troubles" . Do you remember that one, by any chance?

It was extra long, even by my standards, and started out with a simple grease and oil change, moving on to an alert mechanic, problems getting a rental car, scheduling customer pickups to/from the airports, credit card and online questions, etc. It was a pretty good post, I thought, and I had a lot of fun re-reading it. It brought back vivid memories of that very long day!


His comment, which you can read for yourself if you go back to that post, focused on the need for maintaining one's car to try and avoid even more costly repairs in the future. Spot on, of course, but the comment made me think of a poem I thought I remembered writing many years ago.

I finally found it! Here it is, written 3/18/81, titled as above ...


Oh, I wish that I could say to one & all,
"My car has given me no trouble, to my recall!"

Here I sit, at Mac's AAA Garage,
Waiting for Butch & his entourage

Of never-ending patience with my car's many ills ...
Clutch, lighter, brakes, tires, radio, shocks ... it gives one the chills!

Sometimes I am tempted to sell this beast
Of burden. Poor thing! Then, I think, "At least

It has gotten me through this far,
Perhaps I don't need another car

Just yet." What do you think?
Has it finally reached the brink

Of extinction from this earth,
No longer what it once was worth?

WITS ... #1 ...

When I was driving a taxicab I read a lot of books - I mean a lot!

Cab driving took me everywhere, and as soon as I pulled the car out of my garage I was at work and very quickly would find myself miles away, not to return (usually) until very late at night. So, early on in my cab driving years I made it my business to locate library branches in those areas of Houston that I frequented the most.


I had three favorite libraries - Jesse Jones (main library, downtown), Jungman branch on Westheimer (not far from the Galleria), and the one on Park Place (close to Hobby Airport). There are two closer to my home, and every once in a while I'd stop at one of those if I was in the area before they closed for the evening.

The downtown location was my very favorite. Underground (paid) parking was available, which was handy during unfavorable weather conditions, and their selection of books was far and away the best in the city. However, they closed for remodeling a few years back, so you would then most often have seen me at the Park Place location.


It was at Park Place that I first noticed 5"x8" (I'm guessing the size here, because I don't have any with me just now) cards of varying colors near the checkout desk.

I picked one up and read what was on it. It was a poem. Written by a child. I thought, "Neat!" I thought these were something the Houston Public Library system must be promoting, and I made a favorable comment to one of the people manning the desk.

I was invited to take one of each to keep and share. I was told that there would be many more to come. I was really impressed with some of these poems, and my already frequent trips to the library became even more frequent as I didn't want to miss a single one!

I read many of them to Marvis, one of my cab-driving friends, and she just loved them! I gave the complete set to my granddaughter one year. They were quite special.


Well, as good luck would have it, I came across this site last week and thought, "Gee, that looks familiar!"

I went to their A Poem a Day location and understood why it had looked so familiar. I immediately called my daughter and asked if she still had that set of poems I had given my granddaughter. She said she did.

Hooray! So, all of you will be treated every now and again to one of these delightful poems. I will make no punctuation changes or corrections. The one for today is by Andrew, 6th grade - published November 18, 2008. Enjoy!!


Ode to the Wall

Thank You for being there
for me and protecting me
and having one near the
bathroom wall if there wasn't
it would be chaotic and if
there wasn't a wall in a house everybody
would say "hey, nice roof."

Empathy

The poem to be featured in this post was written by me on July 17th, 1989.


Doug Johnson, whom I mentioned in a much earlier post, had a radio show on which I was one of the regular callers. (In fact, Doug's crew had taped a couple/three seconds of us both laughing almost uncontrollably as a promo!)


It was on one of Doug's shows that a lady named Louise Robertson called in on his "open line" -- July 7th -- talking about the fact that her home town of Orange Grove was no longer there.

What happened? Was it a hurricane?

No. No, it was construction for Interstate 10, which was going to bypass her little town (I want to say in Mississippi) and thereby cut off any long-distance traveler business that had heretofore come their way.


Louise was lamenting the fact that much of the business real estate in her small town had been bought up by the state, and she was afraid that her community -- as she had long known it -- was disappearing.


I was so moved by her call that -- ten days later -- I still was unable to rid myself of the sadness I felt until I had written and subsequently delivered the poem you are about to read.

I didn't want to call Doug's show. I didn't want to be a depressing 'live' caller.

I met Joe Krath, one of Doug's producers at the time, at a restaurant nearby to hand him my poem. I said, "Listen, Joe, I don't need to have Doug read this on the air. Is there any way he could get it to Louise?"

He gave me a big hug and said that he would see what he could do.


Well, I listened to Doug's show later ... a fellow named 'Dan', who "listens from his office", he said, called in to wish Louise a "Happy birthday!" (He'd marked his calendar. I guess that date had loomed large in my memory banks, as well!)

Doug seemed darned-near flabbergasted at Dan's call, and then proceeded to read my poem over the air, calling me "one of our family".



(untitled)


Home is where the heart is, memories reign,
People are familiar, friends remain.

Home is a feeling of security,
Of being wanted -- you & me.

Home is a place that used to be but is no more,
Where the lack thereof cuts through to the core.

The streets are empty --there is no town!
Where have all the families gone?

I remember chldren running on the way to school,
And laughing as they shouted, "April Fool!"

I remember parades and trips to the shore
To have picnics and see fireworks galore.

My years are too many, perhaps, you see,
But surely there's more living left in me!



This poem was written for Louise Robertson on her 84th birthday, 7/17/89. When I wrote it I said that she "most certainly has a bunch more living to do!"


Lord love us! She'd be well over 100 years old now.

Sorry I missed the anniversary of your birth this year, Louise. Happy birthday!

Letting Go

I have decided, because I am smack dab in the middle of applying for part-time jobs on line and organizing my thoughts for same, that I would publish one of my poems today to tide you over, as it were, until I can get some real 'meat' out there. Hope that's OK with you.


This one, written June 14, 1982, was composed by me while I was on vacation in Puerto Vallarta. The title is as above.


Here I sit -- amidst the noises
Of surf, music -- big girls & boyses.

My heart is light ... no cares or woes,
Happiness & contentment reach right to my toes.

I am at peace. This is why I came ...
To rest -- relax -- enjoy life's game.

Work, worry, stress -- all seem far away.
I'm in Puerto Vallarta, & here to play

A little bridge & get a lot of sun,
To sleep late, & have some fun!

To let my mind & body go
At their own pace ... and slow

Way down. What's my hurry?
Life should not be such a flurry

Of alarm-setting & waking up with a jerk,
Knowing you've got another heavy day at work!

Slow Dance

This is a poem that was written by a teenaged girl who was dying of cancer. I think it has positive implications for all of us.



Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?


You'd better slow down. Don't dance so fast.
Time is short. The music won't last.


Do you run through each day on the fly?
When you ask, "How are you?" do you hear the reply?

When the day is done do you lie in your bed
With the next hundred chores running through your head?


You'd better slow down. Don't dance so fast.
Time is short. The music won't last.


Ever told your child, "We'll do it tomorrow"
And in your haste not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch, let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time to call and say 'Hi'?


You'd better slow down. Don't dance so fast.
Time is short. The music won't last.


When you run so fast to get somewhere
You miss half the fun of getting there.

When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift -- thrown away.


Life is not a race. Do take it slower.
Hear the music before the song is over.