Salty like hot dogs (and tears). Sweet like marmalade (and life).
Short answer: I’m for it.
Slightly longer answer:
Education
thinking
solving
proving
discovery
too much
social
interaction –
recovery
writing
rewriting
citing
recite
reading
researching
finding
delight
learning
questioning
seeking
knowledge
elementary
middle
high school
college
Except not everyone needs to go to college.
The other people
In the natural food store
Buy tea
From the tea aisle
That equals the size of
The cereal aisle
At the real food store
They buy
Organic produce
Apples
That wear their blemishes proudly
Kale
That hasn’t been washed
And mystery fruit
That isn’t sold
At the real food store
They buy
Fairly traded dark chocolate
Wrapped in purple wrappers
Displayed by the cash register
Just like the Skittles
At the real food store
They buy
Gluten free
Pasta
Crackers
Cookies
Brownie mixes
and Flour
That I know I’ve seen
At the real food store
But it probably has even less gluten
At the natural food store
I walk past
The soy candles
The goat milk soap
And the environmentally friendly detergent
To very back of the natural food store
Where bulk products are repackaged
Into clear plastic bags
Held shut with twist ties
I no longer have to search
Among the chia seeds
And cashews
I know right where to find
What feeds my addiction
“Back again?”
The clerk asks
(or did he smirk?)
As I place
Yet another
Bag of
Crystallized ginger
On the counter
They don’t sell it
At the real food store
I originally wrote this post in June 2018 — and it has existed quietly in my draft folder since. Until today, when the RDP prompt word “mystery” brought it to the fore.
Who knows what that mystery fruit was or is at the Health Food Store, but I’m grateful for it.
Fears I don’t have:
Fears that I do:
I made the collage at the top for last year’s A-to-Z Challenge. The background is from Ezra Jack Keats’ Over in the Meadow. The child is from The Silly Sheepdog by Heather Amery and Stephen Cartwright. The bee (and maybe the spider, but I’m not sure) is(are) from A Trip to the Yard, pictures by Marjorie Hartwell and Rachel Dixon.
In 3rd grade (maybe it was 4th)
I won the spelling award.
I thought Jack Harvey would win it
When they called my name, I was floored.
Shocked. Delighted. Astounded
That I had scored higher than Jack
But the biggest bombshell of all
Was seeing my dad in the back.
When the principal called out my name,
I was startled and caught by surprise
But I walked to the front of the gym
To collect my certificate prize.
Then I turned to walk back to my seat —
And I was caught by surprise once more.
Could that really be my father
Framed in that far back door?
He had left the hospital early –
The nurses, patients, and staff –
To squeeze in the crowd at the elementary gym
Because his daughter could spell giraffe.
Now beating Jack Harvey was one thing
And ’tis a good thing to know how to spell
But knowing your father is proud of you
Well, that’s just pretty darn swell.
One thin bent line on a grassy green page
Evidence of a golfer’s rage
Looking down and seeing up
Looking through and seeing all
Looking out and seeing in
O peaceful pool, I am in thrall
I close one eye
Match window with line
Switch eyes and now
They misalign
Every pool
Has moments peace
When swimmers jump in
Reflections cease
A Poem for Interns and Residents
To you, he is an old man
With hoary head and feeble mind
But look beneath the surface —
It may surprise you what you find
To you, he’s one who stutters
And struggles to find words
He knows the things he wants to say
But it’s like catching birds
To you, he oft repeats himself
In telling about his life
To me, his most repeated act
Was daily visits to his wife
To you, he’s hard of hearing
And he wears the yellow socks
That signal he’s a fall risk.
To you, he talks and talks
But you don’t listen —
You don’t know him —
You don’t care the way I do.
To you, he’s just some patient.
Oh, how I wish you knew!
In defense of young doctors, they really don’t know any better.
Plus, during this most recent hospitalization, my father kept throwing red herrings at them as he tried to diagnose himself for them.
My low point yesterday was sitting in the office of a woman I didn’t know terribly well, and bursting into tears. I simply wanted someone who knew my father to take care of him.
Medicine has changed SO much in the past 50 years.
I’m thankful there are still people there who know and love my father like I do.
I’d rather be right where I am today
Yes, I would
Yes, I would
Today is good
I’d rather keep in step with time than stay
Yes, I would
As I should
Today is good
Sometimes my heart begins to stray
To other times, to other days
My memories may not obey
This need to stay
Here in today
The day will come when I will say good-bye
Yes, it will
A moment still
And so until
I’ll lean into the sadness and I’ll sigh,
This is good —
For I have stood
Right where I should
Sometimes my heart begins to stray
To other times, to other days
My memories may not obey
This need to stay
Here in today
Here in today
My first thought when I saw the photo challenge was Simon & Garfunkel’s El Condor Pasa.
My second thought was wishing to go back in time to when my children were young and my parents were both still alive. I quickly realized that wasn’t a healthy road for me to go down.
So I ditched Paul Simon’s sparrows, snails, hammers, and nails, and wrote this about my need to stay in the moment.
I live in a baseball town, and yesterday (I think) they announced the 2018 inductees into the Baseball Hall of Fame.
As part of a Christmas gift, I wrote the following poem about my favorite baseball moment ever. It’s a true story.
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for Philip’s team that day
Down one run, bottom of the 9th, not much more time to play
When the first kid hit a single and the next one drove him in
The winning run stood on 3rd. Why, yes — they just might win!
Next the powerhouse was up, swinging with such might
But never once connecting — a strike-out was his plight.
The next batter puffed his chest out; he had it in the bag
Strike One! Strike Two! Strike Three! We watched his shoulders sag.
Their final hope now rested on a boy who never hit —
Philip straightened up as best he could, and whispered, “This is it.”
Inside his floppy uniform, his heart was beating fast.
His team-mates in the dugout sat with eyes downcast
They couldn’t bear to watch their hopes whiz by in swingless strikes
They packed their gloves in waiting bags, and eyed their waiting bikes.
Philip took some practice swings, and caught his Grampa’s eye
Grampa winked and nodded — and Philip knew he had to try
He stumbled to the pentagon that marked where he must swing
He looked up at the pitcher — and then he did this thing
That his grandfather had told him — Just a give a little wink
When you’re looking at the pitcher. He won’t know what to think.
So Philip winked, the pitcher threw, and Philip swung bat
And, by gum, he hit that ball in a satisfying whack.
It sailed over the infield. It sailed to center-right.
I wish that I could tell you that it sailed right out of sight.
It fell in outfield grass and the fielders scrambled to it
But the guy on base came safely home, and Philip’s whole team knew it
He had hit the winning run. He had saved the day.
He had winked right at the pitcher, and then hit the ball away.
Honk! Honk! I look up —
Misshapen V heading west
Poor befuddled geese
