Sometimes you just find art. I walked into the kitchen and found this display of dishes in the drying rack. My daughter had done the dishes the night before. Her arrangement was different from the way I would have arranged the dishes to dry. There was something attractive about the soft light on the blue and translucent plastic; also about the way the objects in the rack seem to be at once floating and radiating outward. There is a dynamism that keeps the eye interested. The contrast of the red lid gives the eye a point of interest, while being the exception that emphasizes the blues and whites.
Yesterday my two daughters were at Starbuck’s. They saw a bicycle parked outside. In front of the bike was a sign:
HOMELESS. PLEASE HELP IN ANY WAY YOU CAN.
My younger daughter asked her sister for some money to buy a croissant. Then she asked the barista to borrow a Sharpie. She wrote “For you” on the fancy little bag that the croissant came in. Then she went outside and tucked the bag behind the sign. They sat and watched through the store window. When the man returned, he found the bag. They watched as he found the bag and its contents. He seemed amazed and really appreciative. Then he came into the Starbuck’s and looked around. Finally he sat down and ate his croissant. When she told me about it later, my daughter felt really happy.
It was a small act of kindness, but the kind that really makes someone’s day. We need more of these every day!
This is a sequel to “She Chooses Trust” (FromUnderThePages 4/9/2014) and “Open Your Eyes, Kitty!” (Writewireless 5/25/2014). A foray into magical realism and fun. Enjoy!
This is a sequel to “Open Your Eyes, Kitty!”, published on May 25, 2014 on Writewireless. It is basically a true story. Only the names and some of the details have been changed to protect the feral—and the domesticated as well.
When I heard the knock on my door, I thought it was someone else—wandering friends who show up occasionally. When I looked through the peep-hole, it could have been Jehovah’s Witnesses. Two ladies, casually dressed, on the other side of middle age. I opened the door. One had white, somewhat tousled hair, and was holding a long cage with a bowl of food at one end. Her face was soft and malleable and looked forgiving. Her companion was thin, with streaky gray hair pulled back into a severe ponytail.
Her voice was strident, and clung to the high registers like the nervous claws of an excited feline, ready…
View original post 1,180 more words
I can now say with certainty that “bees do it.”
I love to author poetry,
a pastime I adore;
When NaPoWriMo rolled around,
I wanted to write more:
I gladly took the challenge
to write a poem a day
for thirty days, quotidian’ly
until the month of May.
This challenge seemed quite simple;
this challenge seemed like fun,
but round about April 15th,
I felt under the gun.
You see, I am an English teacher,
teaching all day long;
helping my students think and write,
making their grammar strong;
And then at night, I slave away
preparing lesson plans,
and reading essays, poems, and work
(between my pots and pans).
So having a commitment
to blog a daily poem
has sometimes been exhausting
when arriving late at home.
But nonetheless, I’ve persevered
and often been inspired
to write haikus, sestinas, sonnets,
even when quite tired.
Now the best part is approaching:
With three days left to go,
I see that I’ve done pretty well,
and have some work to show.
They say, “All’s Well That Ends Well,”
so while writing poems was fun,
I’m glad that NaPoWriMo’s ending;
Time to go and get some sun!
Ever evict dunes ultimately in stirrups? It’s a ziggy pornography.
A tailspin latte, Meg’s muzzle, silky sand, varying yoyos star, falling a jolt “s”–
Nose ram, Mega smeared, “Ohmigod!”
Two vices fold a glen as Elle snaps sugar a right toss a’ bun, Yes.
(If this poem seems a little strange, here’s a good reason: It was inspired by a poem in Hungarian. Out of desperation, I heeded a poetry prompt on Napowrimo.net: Take a poem in a foreign language and re-write in English the way you think the words should sound. And voilà.)
The hardest thing
about writing a poem
is giving yourself permission
to write it.
for 3 days
how did i survive
i found other ways
now it’s back
the 500 channels
with nothing on,
i’ve spent an eternity
in two hours
searching for something …
[what was it?]
my eyes are bleary
my carpals are tunneled
i can no longer think
my psyche is funnelled
close all tabs?
–YES! CLOSE THEM!!
Beauty is ethereal;
the glory of the moment
all forgotten by next year
Promise in expectation,
dissolved when need assuaged;
ingratitude in children
careful kindness turn to rage
The fortress of a secret soul
deters the love it craves;
The labor of a frugal man
despoiled, his mind depraves.
Reciprocation sought and seeming lost:
Tacit expectancies breed heinous cost.