Amid the daily grind, the exhaustion
Do not forget:
Voice your needs.
One cannot continue
Cup-filling when your own is empty.
Ask for help.
Take time. Make time.
Elicit the elusive elixir of rest.
‘You can’t pour from an empty cup. Take care of yourself first’ @lucyOTL #whisfc18. johnpopham. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
In the midst of a trying workweek
while fighting a cold,
exhaustion, despair
a last-minute supper decision
led to a country restaurant
for the healing power of
chicken ‘n’ dumplings
and collards that tasted
exactly like Grandma’s
—God, I miss her so
Nature’s fiery colors fade to brown
Overhead on the power line a hawk
Vaingloriously perches against a charcoal sky
Eyeing the underbrush
Mice seem to know, and are still
Burrowed in blankets of papery leaves
Every furtive squirrel a master of stockpiling
Reconnaissance
I forgot to bring
the Harry Potter decor
from my room at school
but my last-minute
shopping improvisation
treated my trunk well
At one year old you
look like me, some people say
I can see it’s true
and I celebrate
how you recognize me now
by clapping your hands
it’s your special sign
born of me clapping my hands
celebrating you
Yea, Micah! Franna celebrates you every day ❤
autumn morning drive
past ponds with gray whorls of mist
revealing secrets
like the blue heron
materializing there
at the edge of hope
Blue Heron in Mist. Elizabeth Castillo, San Diego. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
with thanks to the herons I see in several misty ponds as I drive to work – they lift my spirits immeasurably
My first thought, on opening the garage door:
Oh, look, a toad, jumping from the step…
Until I discerned that this gray smudge of a creature
Scurrying to hide behind my boots was furry and
Evading me like the plague…
Mouse. Rob Powell. CC BY-SA
Mice are better leapers than frogs. Just sayin’.
My grandmother loved music
all of her life.
She wanted me to love it, too.
And so she took me to
Murphy’s Mart
(if memory is correct)
to buy a child’s chord organ.
I looked at the pretty blue instrument
and chose a doll instead.
Grandma couldn’t understand.
But you love playing my organ…
don’t you want one of your own?
At the time I didn’t have words to say
I love music but it isn’t my destiny.
The doll, called Blythe,
had eyes that changed color
when I pulled a string:
blue
green
pink
orange.
I picked her instead
of the music.
Grandma, dismayed,
bought her anyway.
It was only the beginning
of my fascination
with seeing the world
through lenses
of many colors.
Maybe it was then
that a writer
instead of a musician
was born.
Neo Blythe ‘Bohemian Peace. MissBlythe. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
I have learned, in researching my Blythe doll, that Kenner only made them for a year (1972) in the U.S. A Japanese company bought them out. An original Blythe doll is now worth a couple of thousand dollars. I don’t know what became of mine, unfortunately. My grandmother’s own glossy-wood Roxy chord organ from the 60’s, however, stands in my foyer. In the end, it’s infinitely more priceless to me.
See another good example of Blythe at https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=897056547546831.
even in autumn
(if you pay close attention)
there’s a little spring
Lo, a rose e’er blooming…
with thanks to Scott McCloskey, today’s Open Write host on Ethical ELA. Scott says there are plenty of poems offering advice, but few offering bad advice… today we set about rectifying that shortage…
How to Manage a Skeleton
When sitting with a skeleton
it is best to remind him (?)
it is his own fault
he has no flesh
unless, of course,
you fail to recognize
a skeleton in the first place
(it’s possible
even probable
despite the garish array
of teeth
and the empty sockets
and all those ribs
gleaming white)
you might go so far
as to remind the skeleton
to keep a stiff upper lip
(although ‘twill do
little good
when one
has no lips
no more)
better yet to focus
all your time, energy,
and efforts with the skeleton
in pointing out the priority
of having a backbone
over having a heart
by all means,
continue extracting
your pound of flesh
ignoring, of course,
the feeble rattling
of wind whistling
through the bones
—this does not matter
in the slightest
when the spirit
is long gone.
lit bits and pieces 