September 20, 2010
You're not dead.
Just not here.
Where'd she go?
Don't wave bye.
Blown kisses
fill the air.
Echoes of morning jabber
tickle my inner ear.
Toys are scattered across the floor.
No one is playing.
I eat my Cheerios®
alone.
You're not here.
We're not alive.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Watching My Husband Dress
(to me from my wife)
July 1, 2009
I wrote this from Lynn's point of view. She said I nailed it.
I like to watch my husband
dress for work;
everything is always done
the same.
It starts when he's shaving.
I don't know why
but that just fascinates me.
Pulling the razor
over the curve of
his neck
with self assured movement
to the line of his beard
under his chin
scraping away the day-
old stubble.
When he tucks in his shirt
zips his fly
notches his belt
I hate him—
the notch has moved in.
I don't want him to lose
his Buddha belly. It's just big enough.
As he looks in the mirror,
adjusts his tie and
arranges himself,
he is so focused.
I feel that if I interfered
at any time
during this entire process
he would push me aside.
July 1, 2009
I wrote this from Lynn's point of view. She said I nailed it.
I like to watch my husband
dress for work;
everything is always done
the same.
It starts when he's shaving.
I don't know why
but that just fascinates me.
Pulling the razor
over the curve of
his neck
with self assured movement
to the line of his beard
under his chin
scraping away the day-
old stubble.
When he tucks in his shirt
zips his fly
notches his belt
I hate him—
the notch has moved in.
I don't want him to lose
his Buddha belly. It's just big enough.
As he looks in the mirror,
adjusts his tie and
arranges himself,
he is so focused.
I feel that if I interfered
at any time
during this entire process
he would push me aside.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Leaning Tree
January 200?
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.
The Leaning Tree
He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.
He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.
And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.
He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.
He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.
And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Riding Out the Storm
Again, early turn of the century. And again, another assignment for the Institute of Children's Literature.
This is going to be the worst summer ever. I have to spend it with my sister, Carly, here at Uncle Bud's farm. Uncle Bud used to work at this big university studying meteorology or thermodynamics or something like that. He told Mom that he got the farm with a government grant to continue some “experiments”. Anyway, our parents think this will be a great “ed-U-cational” experience. I'll bet they only want to keep me away from computers. Josh, Matt, and ZD just got this new game, “ThunderKiller”, that you can play over the internet. So much for all day gaming with the guys. And it looks as if it's going to rain.
“Hey, Ryan! Uncle Bud is going to show us around on his tractor!” Carly's a year younger than me. She's OK for a girl.
“Now this here big red barn is where I park the tractor and keep a few cows and a horse named Lightning,” Uncle Bud said.
“Lightning! Is he safe to ride?” asked Carly.
“Why certainly. His name may be Lightning, but he's as gentle as a breeze. Think you might want to ride him, Ryan?”
“I don't think so. I'm not much into yippee-i-oh-ky-ay.”
“If you change your mind, I'll show you how to saddle him up. Now after you get chores done, you kids can roam around the farm wherever you like. I just ask that you stay out of my lab over there.”
“It just looks like a barn with a bunch of satellite dishes and windmills and stuff.” I'm very observant like that.
“It was a barn,” Uncle Bud said. “I've just modified it somewhat. Those aren't satellite dishes. They're 'atmospheric generators'. And those windmills can withstand high velocity winds. It's rather complicated. There's an intercom at the entrance. I wouldn't hear you if you knocked. The doors and walls have been reinforced and make the whole building soundproof.”
We've been here a whole week and I think I'd rather be in Mrs. Strunk's English class. Carly's been riding Lightning. Not me. No way. I've helped with the milking, and I've seen parts of a cow I'd rather not discuss. They smell so bad my nose wants to puke. There's nothing on TV—basic cable, farm reports, and the Weather Channel, which Uncle Bud has on all the time. And it still looks like rain.
I've been wanting to see what's so secret about Uncle Bud's lab, but the windows are all bricked up. You can't see anything when he opens the door. It's like trying to look inside the teacher's lounge when a teacher goes in or out.
“Ryan. Have you seen Uncle Bud?” Carly asked me while I watched an action packed weather report.
“Nope.”
“Beep, beep, beep. A tornado warning is in effect until 7:00 PM this evening for the following counties…” Several nearby counties were named and then ours.
“Was that our county, Ryan?”
“Sure was. Let's find Uncle Bud.” I ran to the door. It's not as if I was scared or anything, I just figured Uncle Bud ought to know.
“Ryan! Look! A twister!”
OK. Now I was scared.
“Carly! Ryan! Over here! In the lab!” Uncle Bud was waving wildly at us.
When we got inside the lab, it was like something right out of Star Trek or something.
“Shouldn't we be in a basement, Uncle Bud?” Carly asked.
“We'll be safe in here, Carly. Remember, the walls have been specially reinforced. Now watch this monitor while I adjust the remote camera on the roof. Excellent! The twister is heading directly for us.”
“Are you nuts?” I'm not being disrespectful, but under the circumstances…
“It's all right, Ryan. I was hoping this would happen. Using the atmospheric generators I've set up a low pressure system around the lab to attract the twister. Wind speeds indicate this is an F5, the strongest.”
“Why would you want to attract a tornado?”
“To stop it with its own power. The windmills will use the tornado's power to generate an equal and opposite pressure system using the atmosperic generators to kill the twister.”
“Whoa! Those winds are getting stronger. Are you sure these walls will hold? They're vibrating worse than a set of bad speakers. And the floor is starting to feel wobbly.”
“Uncle Bud?”
“Yes, Carly.”
“It looks as if the camera is spinning around. There's the house. There's the big red barn. There the house again. The barn. The house. Why do they look as if they're getting farther away?”
“I don't think it's just the camera that's spinning,” Uncle Bud answered. “You kids sit down and hold on tight.”
It's a good thing I like rollercoasters. Wait until the guys hear about this one. If I get to tell them.
“Ryan! Take control of that joystick. Watch the monitor and try to keep the generators pointed inside the storm, while I adjust these voltages.”
Holding the joystick was like trying to keep a dog from chasing a cat. The twister seemed to be jumping from one side of the screen to the other. I held on tight hoping there was a way to turn the rumble feature off.
“OK. Wind speeds are slowing.” Uncle Bud turned a few dials and pushed some levers. “Atmospheric pressure is stabilizing. I think we're actually stopping it.”
“So how are we going to land this…” SLAM! CRASH! CRACK!
That answered that. I think Uncle Bud should have installed seat belts and airbags.
“You kids all right?”
“Yeah, we're OK,” I said. Bruised a bit, a little airsick, but OK.
Carly was holding her knee. “I think so,” she said.
“I'm sorry about the 'ride'. The lab wasn't supposed to be ripped from the foundation. We'll have to make sure that doesn't happen next time.”
“Next time?” I think I'd rather ride Lightning.
This is going to be the worst summer ever. I have to spend it with my sister, Carly, here at Uncle Bud's farm. Uncle Bud used to work at this big university studying meteorology or thermodynamics or something like that. He told Mom that he got the farm with a government grant to continue some “experiments”. Anyway, our parents think this will be a great “ed-U-cational” experience. I'll bet they only want to keep me away from computers. Josh, Matt, and ZD just got this new game, “ThunderKiller”, that you can play over the internet. So much for all day gaming with the guys. And it looks as if it's going to rain.
“Hey, Ryan! Uncle Bud is going to show us around on his tractor!” Carly's a year younger than me. She's OK for a girl.
“Now this here big red barn is where I park the tractor and keep a few cows and a horse named Lightning,” Uncle Bud said.
“Lightning! Is he safe to ride?” asked Carly.
“Why certainly. His name may be Lightning, but he's as gentle as a breeze. Think you might want to ride him, Ryan?”
“I don't think so. I'm not much into yippee-i-oh-ky-ay.”
“If you change your mind, I'll show you how to saddle him up. Now after you get chores done, you kids can roam around the farm wherever you like. I just ask that you stay out of my lab over there.”
“It just looks like a barn with a bunch of satellite dishes and windmills and stuff.” I'm very observant like that.
“It was a barn,” Uncle Bud said. “I've just modified it somewhat. Those aren't satellite dishes. They're 'atmospheric generators'. And those windmills can withstand high velocity winds. It's rather complicated. There's an intercom at the entrance. I wouldn't hear you if you knocked. The doors and walls have been reinforced and make the whole building soundproof.”
We've been here a whole week and I think I'd rather be in Mrs. Strunk's English class. Carly's been riding Lightning. Not me. No way. I've helped with the milking, and I've seen parts of a cow I'd rather not discuss. They smell so bad my nose wants to puke. There's nothing on TV—basic cable, farm reports, and the Weather Channel, which Uncle Bud has on all the time. And it still looks like rain.
I've been wanting to see what's so secret about Uncle Bud's lab, but the windows are all bricked up. You can't see anything when he opens the door. It's like trying to look inside the teacher's lounge when a teacher goes in or out.
“Ryan. Have you seen Uncle Bud?” Carly asked me while I watched an action packed weather report.
“Nope.”
“Beep, beep, beep. A tornado warning is in effect until 7:00 PM this evening for the following counties…” Several nearby counties were named and then ours.
“Was that our county, Ryan?”
“Sure was. Let's find Uncle Bud.” I ran to the door. It's not as if I was scared or anything, I just figured Uncle Bud ought to know.
“Ryan! Look! A twister!”
OK. Now I was scared.
“Carly! Ryan! Over here! In the lab!” Uncle Bud was waving wildly at us.
When we got inside the lab, it was like something right out of Star Trek or something.
“Shouldn't we be in a basement, Uncle Bud?” Carly asked.
“We'll be safe in here, Carly. Remember, the walls have been specially reinforced. Now watch this monitor while I adjust the remote camera on the roof. Excellent! The twister is heading directly for us.”
“Are you nuts?” I'm not being disrespectful, but under the circumstances…
“It's all right, Ryan. I was hoping this would happen. Using the atmospheric generators I've set up a low pressure system around the lab to attract the twister. Wind speeds indicate this is an F5, the strongest.”
“Why would you want to attract a tornado?”
“To stop it with its own power. The windmills will use the tornado's power to generate an equal and opposite pressure system using the atmosperic generators to kill the twister.”
“Whoa! Those winds are getting stronger. Are you sure these walls will hold? They're vibrating worse than a set of bad speakers. And the floor is starting to feel wobbly.”
“Uncle Bud?”
“Yes, Carly.”
“It looks as if the camera is spinning around. There's the house. There's the big red barn. There the house again. The barn. The house. Why do they look as if they're getting farther away?”
“I don't think it's just the camera that's spinning,” Uncle Bud answered. “You kids sit down and hold on tight.”
It's a good thing I like rollercoasters. Wait until the guys hear about this one. If I get to tell them.
“Ryan! Take control of that joystick. Watch the monitor and try to keep the generators pointed inside the storm, while I adjust these voltages.”
Holding the joystick was like trying to keep a dog from chasing a cat. The twister seemed to be jumping from one side of the screen to the other. I held on tight hoping there was a way to turn the rumble feature off.
“OK. Wind speeds are slowing.” Uncle Bud turned a few dials and pushed some levers. “Atmospheric pressure is stabilizing. I think we're actually stopping it.”
“So how are we going to land this…” SLAM! CRASH! CRACK!
That answered that. I think Uncle Bud should have installed seat belts and airbags.
“You kids all right?”
“Yeah, we're OK,” I said. Bruised a bit, a little airsick, but OK.
Carly was holding her knee. “I think so,” she said.
“I'm sorry about the 'ride'. The lab wasn't supposed to be ripped from the foundation. We'll have to make sure that doesn't happen next time.”
“Next time?” I think I'd rather ride Lightning.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
By the Water's Edge
No Date
A cool breeze. The scent of pine. The stillness of the water. Birds play at the water's edge. Dragonflies dart through the reeds. Fish hide under lily pads. A weekend camping trip by the lake? No…my less than a quarter acre backyard with pond.
When I first bought the house, the only things in the backyard were a couple of crepe myrtles in the far corners, a few small red-tips along the edge of the property, and a lone mimosa smack in the middle. The mimosa died soon after I moved in and had to be removed. The backyard was dubbed “the great Savannah plain” by my wife Lynn and daughter Carrie because it was so wide open.
I planted some pine, a few cedar, and a willow to get a woodland feel and some shade. It needed something else. One Saturday when I had nothing else to do, I took the better part of the day to dig a hole where the mimosa used to be. (Being not in good shape, I thought it would take several days.) It has been a work in progress since.
What has been surprising is the amount of enjoyment we as a family have received from this hole filled with water. Watching the growth of plants in and around the pond is a source of constant wonder. My green thumb is more a shade of brown. We're often amazed at the height of the reeds transplanted from a nearby ditch, some over six fee; the many leaves of water lilies that cover over a third of the pond; and the yellows, reds, and pinks of the flowering cactus, caladiums, and water lilies.
In the morning or early evening, we like to feed the fish—originally about a dozen 24 cent goldfish, now grown to 5-6 inches. Sometimes we do this as a family (dog included), sometimes alone; but there always seems to be something peaceful…soothing…in watching these huge goldfish swim about sucking up the flattened flakes of food. One winter the pond actually froze over and we watched as they swam about under the ice. In the spring, we look expectantly for baby fishes. Many have survived, in a variety of colors other than gold (some with black, some all brown, one or two white), to become part of our school.
Spring also heralds the arrival of an amphibian or two. Our youngest daughter, Catherine, has seen first hand as scores of eggs become tiny tadpoles. Not all of the eggs make it that far and only a few of the tadpoles get very big. I believe visiting birds or the fish have enjoyed a tasty delicacy. Even so, the deep throated songs of the adults serenade our suburban home with a nighttime woodland lullaby.
Our little pool has also hosted a variety of winged creatures. We've seen the glistening blue-black crow, brilliant red garbed cardinal, the somber dusty gray dove. The pond has become their little Greek public bath, their mini Irish pub; a place to meet for a dip and a drink. But my favorite winged guests have to be the dragonflies. Metalic blues and greens zipping through the reeds; hovering on crystaline wing over lily pads; resting in the sun on a rock—these beautiful insects add aerial life to the still water.
But the birds and fish and frogs aren't the only ones who like to play in the water. On hot summer days, Catherine and her friends love to sit on the edge and soak their feet. I fixed a place just for that purpose—I knew the temptation would be too great. There are also stepping stones to cross or squat on to watch the fish. Our grandsons, Arthur, 3, and Ethan, 1, are constantly intrigued by the water's edge. (I get up a lot to make sure they don't try to walk on water.)
Our backyard pond certainly is a great source of enjoyment, aesthetically and educationally, for the entire family. But you know, I wouldn't pass up an occasional weekend camping trip by the lake.
A cool breeze. The scent of pine. The stillness of the water. Birds play at the water's edge. Dragonflies dart through the reeds. Fish hide under lily pads. A weekend camping trip by the lake? No…my less than a quarter acre backyard with pond.
When I first bought the house, the only things in the backyard were a couple of crepe myrtles in the far corners, a few small red-tips along the edge of the property, and a lone mimosa smack in the middle. The mimosa died soon after I moved in and had to be removed. The backyard was dubbed “the great Savannah plain” by my wife Lynn and daughter Carrie because it was so wide open.
I planted some pine, a few cedar, and a willow to get a woodland feel and some shade. It needed something else. One Saturday when I had nothing else to do, I took the better part of the day to dig a hole where the mimosa used to be. (Being not in good shape, I thought it would take several days.) It has been a work in progress since.
What has been surprising is the amount of enjoyment we as a family have received from this hole filled with water. Watching the growth of plants in and around the pond is a source of constant wonder. My green thumb is more a shade of brown. We're often amazed at the height of the reeds transplanted from a nearby ditch, some over six fee; the many leaves of water lilies that cover over a third of the pond; and the yellows, reds, and pinks of the flowering cactus, caladiums, and water lilies.
In the morning or early evening, we like to feed the fish—originally about a dozen 24 cent goldfish, now grown to 5-6 inches. Sometimes we do this as a family (dog included), sometimes alone; but there always seems to be something peaceful…soothing…in watching these huge goldfish swim about sucking up the flattened flakes of food. One winter the pond actually froze over and we watched as they swam about under the ice. In the spring, we look expectantly for baby fishes. Many have survived, in a variety of colors other than gold (some with black, some all brown, one or two white), to become part of our school.
Spring also heralds the arrival of an amphibian or two. Our youngest daughter, Catherine, has seen first hand as scores of eggs become tiny tadpoles. Not all of the eggs make it that far and only a few of the tadpoles get very big. I believe visiting birds or the fish have enjoyed a tasty delicacy. Even so, the deep throated songs of the adults serenade our suburban home with a nighttime woodland lullaby.
Our little pool has also hosted a variety of winged creatures. We've seen the glistening blue-black crow, brilliant red garbed cardinal, the somber dusty gray dove. The pond has become their little Greek public bath, their mini Irish pub; a place to meet for a dip and a drink. But my favorite winged guests have to be the dragonflies. Metalic blues and greens zipping through the reeds; hovering on crystaline wing over lily pads; resting in the sun on a rock—these beautiful insects add aerial life to the still water.
But the birds and fish and frogs aren't the only ones who like to play in the water. On hot summer days, Catherine and her friends love to sit on the edge and soak their feet. I fixed a place just for that purpose—I knew the temptation would be too great. There are also stepping stones to cross or squat on to watch the fish. Our grandsons, Arthur, 3, and Ethan, 1, are constantly intrigued by the water's edge. (I get up a lot to make sure they don't try to walk on water.)
Our backyard pond certainly is a great source of enjoyment, aesthetically and educationally, for the entire family. But you know, I wouldn't pass up an occasional weekend camping trip by the lake.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Angel
April 30, 2009
Catherine, should you ever read this blog, I want you to know that this poem is as much for you as it is for the baby. Love you, Sweetie. Dad
Angel
(for my Little Angel and her Mom)
Fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
There is peace,
my little angel.
Bring peace.
Fear not,
my little angel.
Do not be scared.
Be strong,
my little angel.
Have strength.
And though you are unexpected
(as all angels are)
God has found a place for you,
my little angel,
here within my heart.
So, fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
You are loved.
Catherine, should you ever read this blog, I want you to know that this poem is as much for you as it is for the baby. Love you, Sweetie. Dad
Angel
(for my Little Angel and her Mom)
Fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
There is peace,
my little angel.
Bring peace.
Fear not,
my little angel.
Do not be scared.
Be strong,
my little angel.
Have strength.
And though you are unexpected
(as all angels are)
God has found a place for you,
my little angel,
here within my heart.
So, fear not,
my little angel.
Don't be afraid.
You are loved.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Shooting Star (for Douglas)
(November 13, 2007)
Douglas was my nephew. He was barely in his twenties when he was hit by a car while riding his bicycle.
I saw a shooting star
last night
in a foggy sky,
quickly shot through the dark—
too quick.
A glance away
and you would miss it.
I guess that's what makes them
special.
A speck of light falling
to wherever stars go.
And if you happened to glance
it's descent,
you've connected with the heavens.
But the connection is cut short
and regardless of your ties
or knots untied;
no matter the light years
or miles that separate,
we are all still connected
to the shooting star.
Douglas was my nephew. He was barely in his twenties when he was hit by a car while riding his bicycle.
I saw a shooting star
last night
in a foggy sky,
quickly shot through the dark—
too quick.
A glance away
and you would miss it.
I guess that's what makes them
special.
A speck of light falling
to wherever stars go.
And if you happened to glance
it's descent,
you've connected with the heavens.
But the connection is cut short
and regardless of your ties
or knots untied;
no matter the light years
or miles that separate,
we are all still connected
to the shooting star.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Mama’s Ragdoll (a photo-album for Jane, her mother, and her granddaughter)
(March 5, 2004)
My friend Jane and I were discussing the relationships she has with her mother and granddaughter, and the difficulty she was having translating that into sculpture. The more we talked the more the words formed the picture in my mind. Jane asked if I would put those pictures in writing. When I first presented the poem to her there were only the two major stanzas and the bridge. She told me it wasn't finished. She was right.
Stocking footed
standing on the back stoop,
tiny hands clutching
cotton stuffed cloth—
limp from nights of being slept and dreamt on;
red polka dotted dress stained
at picnics and tea parties under the trees;
blue embroidered eyes smiling,
while innocent eyes search the open sky
for Mother flying away to meet Father.
Sepia snapshots drift.
Black and white photos linger.
Full color images flash.
Knee highs and flats
sitting by the bedside,
older hands caressing
skin and bone—
limp from days of not sleeping, no longer dreaming;
pale rosy flesh drained
from dinners and cocktail parties under the stars;
fading gray eyes smiling
while mature eyes scour the open Sky,
Mama goes the way Daddy went.
Silver halides scan.
Shades of gray focus.
High resolutions dim.
Barefoot toes
pad across the floor,
chubby hands clasping
terry cloth covering—
limp from not napping, video dreams;
sunburned freckles gained
from snacks and games under the sun;
baby blue eyes smiling
while tender eyes ponder an open sky,
as Mom jets off with Dad.
My friend Jane and I were discussing the relationships she has with her mother and granddaughter, and the difficulty she was having translating that into sculpture. The more we talked the more the words formed the picture in my mind. Jane asked if I would put those pictures in writing. When I first presented the poem to her there were only the two major stanzas and the bridge. She told me it wasn't finished. She was right.
Stocking footed
standing on the back stoop,
tiny hands clutching
cotton stuffed cloth—
limp from nights of being slept and dreamt on;
red polka dotted dress stained
at picnics and tea parties under the trees;
blue embroidered eyes smiling,
while innocent eyes search the open sky
for Mother flying away to meet Father.
Sepia snapshots drift.
Black and white photos linger.
Full color images flash.
Knee highs and flats
sitting by the bedside,
older hands caressing
skin and bone—
limp from days of not sleeping, no longer dreaming;
pale rosy flesh drained
from dinners and cocktail parties under the stars;
fading gray eyes smiling
while mature eyes scour the open Sky,
Mama goes the way Daddy went.
Silver halides scan.
Shades of gray focus.
High resolutions dim.
Barefoot toes
pad across the floor,
chubby hands clasping
terry cloth covering—
limp from not napping, video dreams;
sunburned freckles gained
from snacks and games under the sun;
baby blue eyes smiling
while tender eyes ponder an open sky,
as Mom jets off with Dad.
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