Today we will gather
to bid B adieu
though he will remain
on our minds, hearts
in every day things;
quick silly family stories,
tears as we drive,
dinners he would like,
holidays he will miss,
graduations, weddings, birthdays, breakfast,
big moments, small things,
private moments at home.
God bless my family,
my daughter, my grands.
Help them always remember
the best of him,
their husband, their dad.
May they live fully
without long held sorrow,
May joy, laughter, smiles
shine through their days,
and may they remember
how he loved them,
and they loved him.
on looking out back at my two Adirondack chairs…
There is a famed poet named Billy
who writes lovely poems, some quite silly.
But silly or not,
He gives them much thought.
No word is writ willy-nilly
The sun was such a tease
hanging just below the horizon
like it might decide to not come up this morning.
Regardless of that decision, the trail brightened the longer I walked,
my hands pulled into my sleeves,
my shoes crunching on iced gravel
following coyote tracks that veered off towards back yards
where Charlotte, Sue’s sweet cockapoo, and four chickens live.
They forecast snow today. Without clouds?
Prepare for cold and damp. With these rapidly bluing skies?
That blasted woodpecker annoyingly yaks from atop next door’s tallest willow.
Fat robins pull and pick apart fat worms.
My favorite mourning dove stares me down above the empty feeder,
and North Korea held its largest missile test yet last night.
Each morning this week,
with or without clouds to obscure it,
a huge, burning, orange sun rose in minutes, seconds, nano-seconds;
quickly enough to make you burst into applause on the trail in the open space
much to the startlement of the chickens three houses up from the corner.
Happy the tree with a swing in it!
A wide arching rope with a disc at the end.
The type at which a young kid takes a flying leap,
grabs with one hand, the other flung out like a wing.
The sort that invites loud shrieks and giggles,
pirate yells, or “bombs away, or a general “AUUUUGGHHH!”
The grass beneath it no longer exists.
The roots of the tree laid bare.
Mom’s good wicker chair from the front porch
is leaning against the trunk, ready to help the smallest flying monkey,
after grabbing the swing and climbing into the seat,
swing back and forth, head thrown back, eyes closed,
both hands ’round the rope in a death grip.
Even after Mom hollers, “Time to come in!”
the swing swings free in glee.
It waits this morning for not just the sun,
but the son and the daughter and neighbors,
to finish their breakfast, and brush their teeth,
then really start the day flying.
Six years they lived next door
with Jack, their magnificent, soft spoken husky,
and Crosby, their loppy eared, amalgamated barker.
Six years they hung shining Christmas balls on the lowest branches of their front ash.
Just last year they saved their three, blooming cherries out back from heavy, wet snows,
about which I was delighted, since those blossoms fill my windows each Spring.
They fixed the back fence each time Jack chewed through it to visit.
We worked to keep each other’s sidewalks clear of the annual ice dams.
And each and every night, they turned on their bright, annoying porch light.
Every, single night that blessed light lit up my living room and kitchen like day.
For six years.
I covered my windows with dark curtains and thick blinds at first.
For at least three years, I cursed them softly under my breath,
plotted to unscrew the bulb.
I huffed around complaining to myself, growling at my cat.
I learned to shut my bedroom door, eventually, which blocked the light quite well,
and then I found it actually helpful
when I found myself wandering ’round the house at midnight.
No need to turn on my own lights. The rooms were well lit.
So it became less annoying, more a beacon of friendship and safety in the neighborhood.
I came to like it, to depend on it.
It became the norm,
Until three nights ago
when I could not sleep,
and stumbled to the kitchen
in pitch blackness.
and a wee bit frightened.
The light was out.
My rooms were very dark.
All was weirdly quiet.
Was something awry in the neighborhood?
Then, on Tuesday, the sign went up!
They sold their house!
They moved away!
Without a word!
Without a wave, a smile, or snarled farewell.
Jack and Crosby, my furry buddies,
have a new yard to romp and bark in.
Their mom and dad have new rooms to fill,
and no doubt a new light lit on their front porch,
to shine in some new neighbor’s windows;
And I am left to curse the darkness I learned to live without
these last six years.
Snow watered tulips
pushing through winter compost.
Signs of life! So rude.
After Tuesday’s snow –
heavy, wet, breaking branches –
Wednesday’s sun was sweet.
Spam! Spam! Spam for lunch!
If you try it, I have a hunch
you will love it a whole bunch!
You can fry it for some crunch!
You can eat it with pink punch!
Smoke some weed with canned Spam munch!
Tie your hair back with a scrunch,
then fix yourself some Spam for lunch!
Spam! Spam! Spam! Spam!
How I love my Spam for lunch!
April 2, 2017 upon watching Martha Radditz on a Sunday morning show