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Just shooting the poop with Lori |
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He travels the world on the backs of others Insignificant in his stature and size His journey carries no mission Randomly roaming at the will of his host Sated enough to never question his trek Life is an open adventure without worry If the excitement of his dusty trail dulls Another bus awaits to grant passage With a furry friend to carry him home Ah the wonderful life of a flea |
| There is no greater joy as a mother than when your college kid comes home for a visit. Spending time and getting to know the child as an adult are what special days are all about. You catch a glimpse of the kid inside, but a man stands in his place. There is pride and there is love, wrapped in the feeling of having done something right and good in your life. So good to see my boy! |
| Life is sloppy and messy. And there are some people that cause you to dribble on your chin without you ever knowing. Somewhere in life, you have granted this person the power to reduce your thoughts and ideas to that of the child you once were. Being the baby in the family, I long ago acquiesced this control to my older siblings. Over the years, I grew to resent their treatment. I dealt with it by shoving my anger down my throat until the family gathering had concluded to keep the peace or conveniently working to avoid the get-together. It's not exactly a mature way to deal with the matter but as fearful as I was to confront the matter, they were just as resolute in their affinity to not change. Tradition is deeper than a holiday yule log or bird on Thanksgiving. Tradition is relationships and the building blocks they were built upon. Memories were made, but love and respect are earned. Stand up to be the adult you are. Forge new relationships with your siblings. Take back the power and reach out for them to accept the new you. Approval is no longer required, but kindness is the needed reservation for my party. |
| The world cheers Fridays of summer. Hailed as the margarita and daiquiri starting line of the weekend marathon, it promises relaxation and stress-free life. Hammocks and lawn chairs call to the weary worker. Igniting of the sacred grill begins, with the smell of charcoal filling the night air. The Friday nights of sweaty softball under the lights are where June bugs and mosquitos unite. Bonfires crackle to life spitting sparks skyward, with the smell of melting marshmallows a child's dream Fireflies light the trail for the happy camper. Hot, sticky nights spent under the stars in family togetherness infuse the soul. The festivities of Fridays lead to the fatigue of Mondays, but if done right are the memory makers of today. Darnit, I work all weekend which is leaving me a little bummed. |
| I await inspiration for the day. My bathrobe and I, are patient waiters of its arrival. Shall it come in the form of a vigorous project or a tamer version of a needed repair? Will my garden grow in the turbulent tide of my frantic cultivation and weeding? Will I wile my hours of daylight in the maintenance of a patchy lawn? Do the brown curdling drawers of my teenager call in urgency for instant laundering? Do the stiff standing socks in the corner beg attention? Does my car, glued together by muck and grime, need washing? Too many thoughts of toiling effort spent. My day off has come and went. My bathrobe and I, will return from whence we came |
| My summer seems incomplete A firefly, left yet to greet Timeless pursuit in blotted darkness Glowing embers chased in friendship Captive magic of a child’s heart Flickering flame of the night dancer Sparking memories in pure delight Mason jars interim lanterns of youth Netted whispering giggles of joy Sweet calling echo of a child at play Twilight grass ablaze in luminosity Flares of nightfall spent in quiet charm Summer’s soft amber pallet of whimsy Against backdrop of moonlit skies My summer seems incomplete A firefly, left yet to greet |
| The aroma of wet grass makes me giddy. It speaks of cleanliness and renewal. It is a do-over for the earth. It is a rebirth of soil and grit, turning to an explosion of seedlings. Not just the flowers but even the insects, animals, earthworms, and humans are granted a reprieve. A momentary pause to gain stamina while teardrops fall. The lightening charges the energetic atoms to collide and burst in the fresh capturing of life. The aroma of wet grass makes me giddy. Happy Tuesday. |
| Quilted Memories Lydia sat in her wheelchair, letting the sun from the window bathe her in warmth. A fake potted fern cast shadows in the light. She grabbed at the unfamiliar images as they passed across her legs. She feared them, but she was uncertain of why. It caused the woman to squirm in her seat. Lydia piddled and picked at the comforter on her legs, wanting the shadows to disperse. "Good morning, Lydia. How are you? Do you like sitting in the sun? I can move your chair down a few feet so you won't be in the hot sun. Would you like that?" Margie questioned the woman, aware of her discomfort. Lydia only stared at the woman, unable to answer. There were times when the right words needed to respond lay dormant in her mind. Today, even the caretaker looked unfamiliar. She didn't fear Margie, but she wasn't sure why she had appeared. Her memory was foggy and intermittent. To no one but herself, in the depths of her mind, she reminded herself that her name was Lydia. Margie patted Lydia on her arm and pulled the wheelchair back a few feet, turning it away from the shadows. A new calm descended on the lady in the chair. She no longer fidgeted. The temporary objects of her stress were removed. Margie caught a glimpse of a smile as payment for her efforts. "Gloria is coming to see you today! We need to get your hair done and put on a pretty dress for her visit. What do you think?' At the mention of the name Gloria, bells clanged in her head. There was something comforting and familiar in the name. She searched her memory for some connection to the name, but the path to those remembrances had long ago been severed. The mental fog was capable of overtaking her without warning. She grasped onto the name, hoping for a face to emerge from the fog. She turned her face to the light of the sun. Gloria? She was flooded with warm thoughts and instantly knew the meaning of the name. My name is Gloria. Yes, I am Gloria! She flattered Margie with a bright smile. Margie took Lydia's smile as a sign of excitement at the prospect of a visitor. She continued her conversation. "She will be here at one. Why don't I push you down to the room, and we can get started on our beauty treatment for the day?" Without waiting for a response, Margie wheeled the woman to her room. Once in the room, certain objects became recognizable to Lydia. It was the space that she spent most of her time in these days. The wallpaper was colored baby-blue with daffodils. A large clock with bold black numbers and hands decorated with arrows indicated times for meals and activities. A wooden shelf stood adorned with many photos that made Lydia feel all at once at home. Many of her personal items were labeled with the object's name. They were used as part of her daily therapy. She failed to understand the reasons, but the quilt on her bed jogged her memory. It evoked a feeling of safety. Margie pampered and prettied the woman in the chair. Lydia seemed content with the care. Margie talked incessantly to her patient. As she picked up the comb, she showed it to Lydia, reminding her of the object's moniker. She took care to show her every item before its use. When possible, Margie let Lydia make choices about the day's routine. Lydia chose baby-blue nail polish because her mind told her it was a familiar color. She chose a quilted housecoat because something reminded her that she liked quilts. She reached for the silver ornate hairbrush on the table. It was made of a heavy metal with stunning rhinestones at its center. Lydia rubbed the rhinestones against her frail hand, as if making a wish. A thought popped randomly into her head. My name is Lydia and this is my brush. It made her happy. Lydia turned her head towards Margie with a smile. "My name is Lydia. This is my brush. Gloria comes at one," she whispered with a newfound pride. With tears in her eyes, Margie said, "And who is Gloria?" :"My daughter, Gloria is my daughter and she gave me the brush." "Can you tell me the story about the quilt on your bed?" The fog returned. Lydia shook her head and fidgeted in her seat. Margie told her the story to offer comfort from the fog. "Lydia, you and Gloria made that quilt together from pieces of your husband's clothing. Do you remember Bud? You were married to him for forty-one years. The day after his funeral, you and Gloria sat down to make a memory quilt. Lydia, you once told me that being under that blanket made you feel like you were still wrapped in Bud's arms. That was the day you came to live here at Green Pastures." "Bud was my husband. Gloria is my daughter. Yes, I remember," Lydia said with the fog momentarily lifting again. Tears flooded her eyes, just as they had for Margie. "I'm sorry it is so hard for you these days. Alzheimer's sucks, doesn't it, Lydia?" "Yes, sucks!" the frail woman whispered with clarity and emphasis. Total Word count 893 |
| Welcome Monday Mondays may be mundane May turn to be an ass’s pain Dragon’s head of work returned Quest for the mighty dollar earned Weekend’s end brings traffics commute Sunburn squeezed in business suit Warrior‘s casual aches and strains Mental dimness and foggy brains Monday morning filled with mayhem Or maybe just what we make them |
| Nuts! Never would I expect someone who hasn't worked nights to understand the dilemma of daytime sleeping. It is an experience that requires stamina and resolve. There are always the false starts of sleep. This constitutes climbing into bed and to begin your descent into slumber only to remember that there was some odd detail forgotten, such as having to take the dog outside or having left the iron plugged. A myriad of reasons exists that would cause you to stumble from a warm, cozy bed just fifteen minutes after your body made it warm and cozy. There are the normal daytime interruptions to sleep. These include phone calls and doorbells. Take the phone off the hook, you say? As a mother, I have found that multiple emergencies occur that your child and the school feel should be handled between the hours of eight and three. The understanding is that they should be able to reach me at all hours. As for the doorbell issue, this stems from the over-eager FedEx driver delivering a package. Somewhere in their training, they were taught to ring the bell no less than ten times. It is to make the occupant aware that Aunt Betty has blessed your life with crocheted mittens. Those mittens now reside on your doorstep and have a lovely day. In the midst of sleep, however, it is very easy to convince yourself that the doorbell ringing that many times means someone is trying to alert to the house being on fire. The previously mentioned fire is obviously due to your lack of unplugging the iron. The next item that may cause a lack of sleep is the man who likes to mow his grass at nine in the morning. It is definitely within his rights to mow at this time of the day. His yard shines as a beacon of light for all the neighbors to envy. This neighbor has managed to create his paradise with a garden of Zen and haven of lush greenery upon which to boast. Come rain or shine, he maintains an every other day lawn maintenance schedule. Did I mention that he is also a builder? He likes to saw and chop and grind and hammer on the other days of the week. Earplugs are my salvation at times! The list other things that might cause you to drag yourself to that nightshift job all bleary eyed and tired continues. There is insomnia for which there is no cure. You are forced to just let your mind wander willy-nilly until it too reaches the exhaustion stage. This little item causes trouble for both day and night time sleepers. Another foe of a daytime sleeper is sunshine. All bright and glowing the yellow burst of warmth calls to you. Slithering past the blinds and through the curtains, the fireball knows your name. It rekindles the romance of all the times that you have embraced its beauty. It reminds that you are missing a gorgeous day in the sunlight. It serves to remind you that on your next scheduled day off they are forecasting for thunderstorms and hurricanes. The next item on my list is actually just part of life. I like to call it the personal bladder alarm clock. A siren low in the abdomen sounds emitting an urgent frequency. It will wake you from the deepest of sleep. You must deal with consequences immediately. The probability that you can return to sleep after catering to the need becomes almost as unlikely as winning the lottery. The upside to this means knowing that my potty training many years prior was efficient. Today's events put a whole new spin on sleep deprivation. My lists of excuses for being tired before I start my shift are many. In all the realms of possible reasons, I did not think this would be viable or believable. Please read the poem below for clarity. He came today and wanted to play. Out on the window's ledge did he stay He knocked and tapped upon the glass To the tree and back his repeated dash He slammed his body into the window frame Or onto the branch from which he came Pressing against the window was his tiny face Almost as if he was trying to case the place Loudly he chewed his lunch on the ledge Causing me to utter a dirty pledge For knowledge of my presence, he seemed unaware Or maybe the filthy beast just didn't care I managed not to break the window pane When I screamed and threw things at him in vain Ever and always, I am a sleepless putz But this squirrel is driving me absolutely nuts To my boss, I must confess Tonight I am tired and might be useless In case you didn't catch the meaning behind the poem, a squirrel visited me today. This now becomes reason number 1,079 for why I did not get to sleep today. © Copyright 2017 L.A. Grawitch (lgrawitch at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. |
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