Golden heads bowed
Atop tall leafy stems
Reverent of fall
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Why I Can't Write Right Now
I’ll get started as soon as I vacuum under my bed. Where do all these dust bunnies come from? It’s as if they’re breeding under there.
That looks much better, but I really should put fresh sheets on all the beds. (According to Oprah, and my mom, bed sheets should be changed at least every two weeks).
Well that’s done, but now there’s a heap of laundry to do. It won’t take long to do a few loads of wash. While I’m waiting for the last load to finish, I’ll bake some chocolate chip cookies.
Mmmm, they smell delicious. I’ll just sample one or two – they’re actually pretty small compared to those giant cookies that I buy at the Superstore. That reminds me. I’m almost out of bread and milk.
The lineups at the grocery store were ridiculous. I waited for 15 minutes, but I did learn that Brad and Angelina might be breaking up. Now that I’ve put away the groceries and washed out the vegetable drawers in the fridge, I should brush my cat. The poor thing craves attention. I’ll pull her homemade yarn snake around the house so she can chase it. She really needs to exercise – she’s becoming the size of a raccoon.
She seems much happier now, even though her expression hasn’t actually changed. It’s 3 o’clock – time for tea and 30 minutes of HGTV.
Wow, look at the time. I’ve got to make supper. I’ll do some writing this evening.
It took almost an hour to make lasagna, plus another hour to eat, and then clean up the kitchen. I wonder what’s playing at the theatre – I’d really like to see The Lovely Bones. No. I’ll stay in and get something accomplished.
I’ll just play a couple of quick games of Wii tennis with Leroy and Ryan; then I’ll devote at least an hour to writing.
I’m exhausted, and I think that I pulled a muscle in my right arm when I served the ball during the last game. I better take it easy and go to bed at a reasonable time so that I’ll be well rested for tomorrow. I’ll have the whole day to write… unless I decide to go buy a new pen.
That looks much better, but I really should put fresh sheets on all the beds. (According to Oprah, and my mom, bed sheets should be changed at least every two weeks).
Well that’s done, but now there’s a heap of laundry to do. It won’t take long to do a few loads of wash. While I’m waiting for the last load to finish, I’ll bake some chocolate chip cookies.
Mmmm, they smell delicious. I’ll just sample one or two – they’re actually pretty small compared to those giant cookies that I buy at the Superstore. That reminds me. I’m almost out of bread and milk.
The lineups at the grocery store were ridiculous. I waited for 15 minutes, but I did learn that Brad and Angelina might be breaking up. Now that I’ve put away the groceries and washed out the vegetable drawers in the fridge, I should brush my cat. The poor thing craves attention. I’ll pull her homemade yarn snake around the house so she can chase it. She really needs to exercise – she’s becoming the size of a raccoon.
She seems much happier now, even though her expression hasn’t actually changed. It’s 3 o’clock – time for tea and 30 minutes of HGTV.
Wow, look at the time. I’ve got to make supper. I’ll do some writing this evening.
It took almost an hour to make lasagna, plus another hour to eat, and then clean up the kitchen. I wonder what’s playing at the theatre – I’d really like to see The Lovely Bones. No. I’ll stay in and get something accomplished.
I’ll just play a couple of quick games of Wii tennis with Leroy and Ryan; then I’ll devote at least an hour to writing.
I’m exhausted, and I think that I pulled a muscle in my right arm when I served the ball during the last game. I better take it easy and go to bed at a reasonable time so that I’ll be well rested for tomorrow. I’ll have the whole day to write… unless I decide to go buy a new pen.
A Redo of "I do"
This poem came to me one cold night, as I was trying to fall asleep.
I wrote it for my husband, Leroy.
If I could travel
back in time
to the day
I said, “I do.”
To the moment that
I was a bride
I would change
a thing or two.
No, I wouldn’t
change my dress
because it fit
me to a T.
With empire waist
and beaded lace
hand sewn
by yours truly.
No, I wouldn’t
change the guest list
of flirts and
gents well dressed.
But I would make
one revision
to the vows
that you expressed.
A rewrite that would
help me now
as I pull
the covers tight.
A promise that
you’d warm my feet
with yours
on winter nights.
I wrote it for my husband, Leroy.
If I could travel
back in time
to the day
I said, “I do.”
To the moment that
I was a bride
I would change
a thing or two.
No, I wouldn’t
change my dress
because it fit
me to a T.
With empire waist
and beaded lace
hand sewn
by yours truly.
No, I wouldn’t
change the guest list
of flirts and
gents well dressed.
But I would make
one revision
to the vows
that you expressed.
A rewrite that would
help me now
as I pull
the covers tight.
A promise that
you’d warm my feet
with yours
on winter nights.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Helping Daddy
It was a sunny afternoon in May, and my dad and I were gathering the remains of winter – fine, pale grass, bits of twigs, and withered papery leaves that would be burned, without ceremony, in our small backyard. I was five years old and happy to be working alongside my dad who took pride in keeping our property neat and tidy.
It seemed safe to burn such a small amount of debris, so my dad lit a match and let it fall to the ground. Together, we watched closely as the fire meandered through the grass and leaves. Maybe the robins were watching too, as their precious nest building materials were in peril.
I eagerly gathered more leaves to add to the flickering orange pile. It was exciting to see the edges of the leaves curl and crinkle before disappearing entirely. A crow that was perched in our maple tree began to caw repeatedly. Perhaps he was mocking us or sending a warning signal to alert us of the danger that was imminent.
My dad and I had no way of knowing that during the winter some oil had leaked onto the ground from the rusty barrel that sat on top of a narrow storage shed next to our house. Suddenly, the fire grew in size and quickly traveled to the shed. My dad leapt into action. He pushed the oil drum off the shed, and away from the flames that would soon reach the back wall of the house.
I ran inside to get some water to throw on the fire, and found that my mom was bathing my three month-old sister in a little pink bathtub on the kitchen table. She gently lifted her out of the bubbles and wrapped her in a cozy towel. Their tranquil moment was broken by my urgent request. “Mommy, I need some water for the fire,” I said.
My mom was oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. “Okay, honey,” she said as she handed me a small ice cream container filled with water. I briefly imagined myself courageously dousing the fire, and was headed for the door when my dad rushed into the house, shouting, “Call the fire department! The house is on fire!” Then he flew out the door with the plastic bathtub of soapy water in hand. I can only guess that the fire hissed and crackled as my dad threw the little tub into the flames that quickly devoured it like soft pink marshmallows.
My mom took me, and my sister to the safety of our neighbor’s house, across the street, where we all stood together like innocent bystanders, watching and hoping for a happy ending. The firefighters quickly extinguished the fire, and then proceeded to lecture my dad about “Burning on Sunday” and “Burning without a permit.” My dad expressed his gratitude to the firemen (who decided not to press charges), and then he took my mom out for a relaxing dinner because it was, after all, Mother’s Day.
It seemed safe to burn such a small amount of debris, so my dad lit a match and let it fall to the ground. Together, we watched closely as the fire meandered through the grass and leaves. Maybe the robins were watching too, as their precious nest building materials were in peril.
I eagerly gathered more leaves to add to the flickering orange pile. It was exciting to see the edges of the leaves curl and crinkle before disappearing entirely. A crow that was perched in our maple tree began to caw repeatedly. Perhaps he was mocking us or sending a warning signal to alert us of the danger that was imminent.
My dad and I had no way of knowing that during the winter some oil had leaked onto the ground from the rusty barrel that sat on top of a narrow storage shed next to our house. Suddenly, the fire grew in size and quickly traveled to the shed. My dad leapt into action. He pushed the oil drum off the shed, and away from the flames that would soon reach the back wall of the house.
I ran inside to get some water to throw on the fire, and found that my mom was bathing my three month-old sister in a little pink bathtub on the kitchen table. She gently lifted her out of the bubbles and wrapped her in a cozy towel. Their tranquil moment was broken by my urgent request. “Mommy, I need some water for the fire,” I said.
My mom was oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. “Okay, honey,” she said as she handed me a small ice cream container filled with water. I briefly imagined myself courageously dousing the fire, and was headed for the door when my dad rushed into the house, shouting, “Call the fire department! The house is on fire!” Then he flew out the door with the plastic bathtub of soapy water in hand. I can only guess that the fire hissed and crackled as my dad threw the little tub into the flames that quickly devoured it like soft pink marshmallows.
My mom took me, and my sister to the safety of our neighbor’s house, across the street, where we all stood together like innocent bystanders, watching and hoping for a happy ending. The firefighters quickly extinguished the fire, and then proceeded to lecture my dad about “Burning on Sunday” and “Burning without a permit.” My dad expressed his gratitude to the firemen (who decided not to press charges), and then he took my mom out for a relaxing dinner because it was, after all, Mother’s Day.
Memories of Fourteen (a tanka)
Infatuation
Slow dancing, but not too close
Playing truth or dare
Adolescent adventure
Slumber parties and secrets
Slow dancing, but not too close
Playing truth or dare
Adolescent adventure
Slumber parties and secrets
To the Editor-in-Chief
Dear Mr. Jannot, Editor-in-Chief,
The January issue of Popular Science appeared in my school mailbox the other day. Apparently none of the other elementary school teachers wanted it, so I happily took the magazine home to my spouse and my 13 year-old son, who are both scientifically minded.
My husband read the issue from cover to cover, and I suspect that he now secretly yearns to drive 124 mph in a red, electric Audi E-Tron like the one that was featured in one of the articles. My son was fascinated by the information on the making of Avatar – we recently saw the movie together and were awestruck by the virtual world of the Na’vi.
I had never read a Pop. Sci. magazine before, so I was curious about the contents. I discovered colonies of robotic bees that are being developed to assist the dwindling bee population with pollination; military veterans who play musical instruments to lessen the impact of traumatic brain injuries; grade six students who learn “almost entirely through video game-inspired activities” at the Quest to Learn school in Manhattan, and companies that guarantee “penis enlargement up to 5 inches and 50% gain in width…”
Honestly, this last bit of info surprised me, like finding a hair in my tiramisu at a topnotch restaurant. I won’t be returning there despite the delicious entrée. It’s unfortunate that Popular Science provides classified ad space to rinky dink companies that claim to increase penis size. What’s next - x-ray glasses and blow-up dolls? (That question is for the frat boys responsible for classified advertising sales.)
The Popular Science team should consider the younger audience of readers that includes students in upper elementary and Jr. High school. You should take pride in creating a dynamic and interesting magazine for individuals who take the time to read it because they want to be enlightened, rather than enlarged.
The January issue of Popular Science appeared in my school mailbox the other day. Apparently none of the other elementary school teachers wanted it, so I happily took the magazine home to my spouse and my 13 year-old son, who are both scientifically minded.
My husband read the issue from cover to cover, and I suspect that he now secretly yearns to drive 124 mph in a red, electric Audi E-Tron like the one that was featured in one of the articles. My son was fascinated by the information on the making of Avatar – we recently saw the movie together and were awestruck by the virtual world of the Na’vi.
I had never read a Pop. Sci. magazine before, so I was curious about the contents. I discovered colonies of robotic bees that are being developed to assist the dwindling bee population with pollination; military veterans who play musical instruments to lessen the impact of traumatic brain injuries; grade six students who learn “almost entirely through video game-inspired activities” at the Quest to Learn school in Manhattan, and companies that guarantee “penis enlargement up to 5 inches and 50% gain in width…”
Honestly, this last bit of info surprised me, like finding a hair in my tiramisu at a topnotch restaurant. I won’t be returning there despite the delicious entrée. It’s unfortunate that Popular Science provides classified ad space to rinky dink companies that claim to increase penis size. What’s next - x-ray glasses and blow-up dolls? (That question is for the frat boys responsible for classified advertising sales.)
The Popular Science team should consider the younger audience of readers that includes students in upper elementary and Jr. High school. You should take pride in creating a dynamic and interesting magazine for individuals who take the time to read it because they want to be enlightened, rather than enlarged.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Lady of the House is Not In
I was washing the dishes from last night's dinner and was very focused on scrubbing every last speck of egg from the frying pan when the doorbell rang.
I looked out the kitchen window and saw two women standing at my back door. They had serious expressions; tightly curled grey hair, and were clutching leaflets. I had met women like these before - they traveled in pairs and they preyed on people who were home during the day.
My fight or flight instincts took over… I immediately crouched down out of view from both the kitchen window and the back door window. But what if these women had already seen me when I had been washing dishes?
The doorbell rang again. I made myself as small as I could and hoped that they would leave soon, as my knees were getting sore. I thought about answering the door, but then reconsidered as my appearance was approaching that of a hobo - I was wearing sweat pants and an old fleece jacket; my uncombed hair had taken on a life of its own, and I hadn't brushed my teeth yet. If I opened the door now, they might think I looked the way I did because I had been out drinking the night before. Then they would really want to "save" me, and before I knew it, I would find myself in a heated debate about religion and God with two complete strangers.
No, I would definitely not answer the door to save my soul. I continued to remain in the uncomfortable squatting, human ball position, all the while listening for any sound at the back door. Maybe they had given up and they were retreating to a large, dark, North American made vehicle that resembled an undercover police car.
There was silence, except for the hum of the fridge and the purring of my cat who thought that I was crouching down so that I could be closer to her. She is the ideal companion - easy going and never judgmental, but at this moment, I secretly wished that I had a large, snarling dog named Cujo who would jump and bark crazily as soon as he heard the doorbell ring.
It was over. The women had finally left and I will never know if they saw me or not. My only worry is that they might come back tomorrow.
I looked out the kitchen window and saw two women standing at my back door. They had serious expressions; tightly curled grey hair, and were clutching leaflets. I had met women like these before - they traveled in pairs and they preyed on people who were home during the day.
My fight or flight instincts took over… I immediately crouched down out of view from both the kitchen window and the back door window. But what if these women had already seen me when I had been washing dishes?
The doorbell rang again. I made myself as small as I could and hoped that they would leave soon, as my knees were getting sore. I thought about answering the door, but then reconsidered as my appearance was approaching that of a hobo - I was wearing sweat pants and an old fleece jacket; my uncombed hair had taken on a life of its own, and I hadn't brushed my teeth yet. If I opened the door now, they might think I looked the way I did because I had been out drinking the night before. Then they would really want to "save" me, and before I knew it, I would find myself in a heated debate about religion and God with two complete strangers.
No, I would definitely not answer the door to save my soul. I continued to remain in the uncomfortable squatting, human ball position, all the while listening for any sound at the back door. Maybe they had given up and they were retreating to a large, dark, North American made vehicle that resembled an undercover police car.
There was silence, except for the hum of the fridge and the purring of my cat who thought that I was crouching down so that I could be closer to her. She is the ideal companion - easy going and never judgmental, but at this moment, I secretly wished that I had a large, snarling dog named Cujo who would jump and bark crazily as soon as he heard the doorbell ring.
It was over. The women had finally left and I will never know if they saw me or not. My only worry is that they might come back tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)