Childhood

Childhood

Counting the train cars.
One, two, three, four.
Queen Anne's Lace tiaras
are woven into our hair.

Pick a number, pick a color.
Five, six, seven, eight.
Cootie catchers: paper folded in triangles
will tell your fortune...if you dare!

Jacks and marbles played in the dirt.
Onesies, twosies, threes, and fours.
An ant invades the playing field,
carrying a crumb, taking it---who knows where?

Hide-and-seek played after dark
quickly becomes Ghosts in the Graveyard.
"I've got the best hiding spot.
I'm not telling you where."

Moths flutter around the back porch light.
Edges of the yard are deep in shadow.
"I see you hiding behind that tree."
"Hey, you peeked! That's not fair!"

How lucky am I to have had that childhood?
Who knew such happiness could be found
in making felt clothes and Popsicle® stick furniture
for pig-nosed trolls with purple hair?

Movie Night Magic

Movie Night Magic

Dinner's done. The kitchen's clean.
We're wearing our comfy clothes:
stretchy pants, fuzzy slippers, old fleece shirt,
no bra - (Shh!! Nobody knows.)

The poodle with his chew toy
is snuggled against my knee.
Hubby has his glass of wine.
I cradle a cup of tea.

Pillows are plumped behind us
and afghans cuddle us near.
Popcorn's popped, lights are dimmed.
The volume's right, so we can hear.

It's cold and snowy outside.
We're holed up with no place to go.
Flickering light whirls us away.
Movie night magic! On with the show!

The Compulsive Cook

I made lasagna for my sons when they were home over the holidays which inspired me to write this silly children's poem below.  Don't try to read it too fast, or it will turn into a tongue twister for you.


The Compulsive Cook

Every kind of food she made
was piled in layers, one by one.
Each main dish, sandwich, side, and dessert
showed its stripes when it was done.

Homemade lasagna was layered:
meat, sauce, noodles, and cheese.
Her seven-layer salad held
lettuce, cheese, onions, celery,
bacon, mayo, and peas!

Cakes were layered, pancakes stacked,
tortes were tall chocolate towers.
Trifles, jello, cookies, and dips!
Sometimes she layered for hours!

No one knew what caused it--
this urge to stratify things nutritious,
but no one ever, ever complained,
because all the food she made 
tasted SOOO delicious!

Calendar News

Hello everyone. I've been lax in posting on this blog, but I am still around. I've been spending the holidays with my two sons and husband (in picture above) and with my extended families.

I do have news. Some of you may remember that one of my poems appeared on the September page in the Writer's Rising Up Digging to the Roots Calendar in 2014. The new calendar for 2015 is now available for free download for those who are interested, and two of my poems are in it. If you click here, then look for the months of June and November, you can read my poems that are included in the new calendar.

Speaking of calendars, I wish all my readers a Happy New Year! I hope 2015 is full of love, laughter, happiness, and blessings for all of you.

Dressed For It

Dressed For It

Before I go out, on the gear goes,

layers and layers and layers of clothes,

trying to keep warm from my toes to my nose.

First come the long johns, thermal and clean,

(an important layer, although it’s unseen).

Thick wool socks are pulled up to my knees.

So much to wear to make sure I don’t freeze.

Warm heavy jeans and a homemade sweater,

a bulky knit scarf and boots made of leather,

a coat filled with down, light as a feather,

hat and gloves on last--look out winter weather!

                                

January comes, and it hits ten below.

I get sick of shoveling that cold, wet snow.

“Moving south is looking better,” I say,

but spring brings forgiveness…

and amnesia,

and …sigh…here I stay.

Another Step, Another Stage

Another Step, Another Stage

As long as there are those who love me,
and the sun still shines above me,
I won't worry about my age.
It's just another step, another stage.
Quite clearly, this is how it's supposed to be.

My knees can no longer be trusted.
My dreams? They need to be dusted.
My joints are achy.
My hands are shaky.
Like the Tin Man, I fear I have rusted.

Still, I have a stack of books to read,
and there's hot tea in my cup--what more do I need?
There's music to listen to and art to create,
so what do I care if the hour grows late?

I miss the days of feeling bold and sure.
My insignificance grows the more I mature.
I swear I am still young inside,
and I do try to take aging in stride,
but being a grownup has lost its allure.

As long as there are those who love me,
and the sun still shines above me,
I won't worry about my age.
It's just another step, another stage.
Quite clearly, this is how it's supposed to be.

A Closer Look

A Closer Look

I walked along the flower trail,

finding joy in each detail.
I was the only one around,

(I thought),

but then I heard a buzzing sound.
After taking a closer look,

let me tell you what I found!

Two bees danced around the morning glories

and another around the daisies.

Black-eyed Susans were quite an attraction
to lightning bug ...

and spider action...

and to an inchworm measuring, measuring 
fraction by fraction.

A wee, green bug perched on a purple petal...

while a beetle with spots 

chose orange 

as the place to settle.

A green and black 

dragonfly fellow

stood out clear and bold 

against his choice of yellow,

but his brother nearby 

could barely be seen

hiding in plain sight 

against the green.

A Mourning Cloak 

with ragged wings 

lit on a plain leaf nearby

while against the glory of a lily 

lounged a common housefly.

All of them among the flowers:

 butterfly, beetle, and bee

add to the details that delight me

 and make for good company.