I sit beside the fire and think
Of all the things that I have done
Of all the places that I've seen
Each one kissed by a different sun
I sit beside the fire and think
Of England in the spring
Of flowers blooming everywhere
And breeze-blown trees susurrating
I sit beside the fire and think
Of where the air is clear and the land, bare
And every stream is a dry arroyo
A single tree is a forest there**
I sit beside the fire and think
Of Lafayette in the fall
The brilliant colors of the woods out back
They beckon me with a siren call
I sit beside the fire and think
Of my day spent in the snow:
My Iowa winter, carols and sledding
Make me savor the ruddy glow.
*Props to Tolkien for the inspiration
** Oro Grande National Forest is a single dead tree by the side of the road. I kid you not.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Stupid
Just another nostalgic poem I decided to share with all of you...
My brother had
A three-inch man
Made of orange plastic.
He had no brains
Inside his head;
Maybe that’s why
His name was “Stupid”.
His favorite pastime
Was jumping from heights:
The top bunk,
The top of the stairs,
Thirty feet up
In a tree my brother climbed;
But he rarely remembered
To wear his hanky parachute.
Guess that’s why
We called him “Stupid”.
And every time
My brother hatched a plan,
He had a go-to man:
A man not afraid
Of being a dog’s chew toy,
An erector set crash dummy,
The victim of backyard burial,
The ammo in a slingshot—
That man wasn’t smart enough
To be scared.
Suppose that’s why
He answered to “Stupid”.
I don’t really know
What became of him;
I don’t think he went
To boot camp
With my brother—
After all,
My brother’s name
Wasn’t “Stupid”.
But sometimes I wish
I could find him back
If only to see
What great ideas
My nephews
Would come up with
To try out
With “Stupid”.
My brother had
A three-inch man
Made of orange plastic.
He had no brains
Inside his head;
Maybe that’s why
His name was “Stupid”.
His favorite pastime
Was jumping from heights:
The top bunk,
The top of the stairs,
Thirty feet up
In a tree my brother climbed;
But he rarely remembered
To wear his hanky parachute.
Guess that’s why
We called him “Stupid”.
And every time
My brother hatched a plan,
He had a go-to man:
A man not afraid
Of being a dog’s chew toy,
An erector set crash dummy,
The victim of backyard burial,
The ammo in a slingshot—
That man wasn’t smart enough
To be scared.
Suppose that’s why
He answered to “Stupid”.
I don’t really know
What became of him;
I don’t think he went
To boot camp
With my brother—
After all,
My brother’s name
Wasn’t “Stupid”.
But sometimes I wish
I could find him back
If only to see
What great ideas
My nephews
Would come up with
To try out
With “Stupid”.
She Doesn't Remember
She doesn't remember.
I felt so sorry for her
When my sister didn't recognize
The house I described
She doesn't remember
The little green ferns and curlicues--
Tiny vines to wrap around fingers.
She doesn't remember
A path through the trees to school
Behind the backyards.
She doesn't remember
That Mom threw 100 pennies
Out the back door for us to find.
She doesn't remember
Going kitty-corner cross the street
For homemade after-school snacks.
She doesn't remember
Laying head and hands on
Andy's mom's pregnant belly in wonder.
She doesn't remember
But I do-- I remember Omaha
Through first-grade eyes.
I felt so sorry for her
When my sister didn't recognize
The house I described
She doesn't remember
The little green ferns and curlicues--
Tiny vines to wrap around fingers.
She doesn't remember
A path through the trees to school
Behind the backyards.
She doesn't remember
That Mom threw 100 pennies
Out the back door for us to find.
She doesn't remember
Going kitty-corner cross the street
For homemade after-school snacks.
She doesn't remember
Laying head and hands on
Andy's mom's pregnant belly in wonder.
She doesn't remember
But I do-- I remember Omaha
Through first-grade eyes.
Those Were The Days
One of my friends has been talking about his favorite TV shows as a kid on facebook this week. Even though his favorite shows are from significantly earlier than my childhood (translation: some of them were shows my parents enjoyed growing up), it got me thinking about the many things that I miss about childhood.
And isn't it ironic that little kids can't wait to grow up, but adults wish they could could go back to being kids again?
But back to the point: Childhood was awesome, and not just because I didn't have so much responsibility. I miss so many things: Tang. VHS tapes. Cassette tapes & my walkman. MacGyver (who has apparently gone from a person to a verb :( poor Angus). Candy cigarettes. Trolling Pomeroy with Jeff for empty bottles to turn in for money to buy said candy cigarettes. The text-only Adventure game I used to get to play sometimes on Dad's computer-- it was on an 8-inch floppy disk that you could actually bend-- I'd have to get him to start it for me because I didn't know how to do C:// prompts. My yellow banana-seat bike (the best bike I ever had!) that I tried to ride down to Sandy Hollow and wiped out bigtime on the gravel... Speaking of which, Sandy Hollow (the local fishing/swimming hole, now closed b/c stupid city gov't thinks it's too dangerous to let you swim there at your own risk). Wearing leggings and bike shorts under skirts so that when you hang upside down from the monkey bars, your undies don't show. Regular monkey bars-- no curves, twists, bumps, etc. and merry-go-rounds. Games like Red Rover and Kickball. Jump roping around the block or having contests with friends while singing silly songs like "Cinderella Dressed in Yella". Playing 21 for M&Ms in the days before video games were the only thing kids played. 8-hour monopoly games. Board and card games in general. Little Golden Books, now sadly out of print, like Hiram's Red Shirt and Mr. Brown's Fix-it Shop. Or picture books not based on a movie...
I miss playing in moving boxes and using markers to make them rocket ships or cars. I miss climbing onto the hippos in the park and pretending I was going on safari. I miss climbing the slide and pretending I was a mountain climber, or sliding down in socks pretending to be a surfer. I miss looking at the Christmas catalogs that came in the mail and dreaming about presents and magic while making a Christmas list. Being a child was a magical time.
And it's inspired a number of poems over the years, including shorties like "Winter Children" back in 2007 to long poems like "Stupid" and "The Tree" to the mid-length poems like the one I wrote yesterday:
Those Were The Days
When fun was sitting at a picnic table
Playing hand and foot
With my siblings and parents
Those were the days
When there was endless time
For climbing slides and
Getting dizzy on merry-go-rounds
Those were the days
When reading books and studying
Were something fun and easy
And libraries were my favorite place
Those were the days
When conversations still took place
Face to face or on the phone
And getting together didn't mean skype
Those were the days
When "cool" was still spelled properly
"Wicked" was not something to aspire to
And "sucks" was a bad word
Those were the days
And isn't it ironic that little kids can't wait to grow up, but adults wish they could could go back to being kids again?
But back to the point: Childhood was awesome, and not just because I didn't have so much responsibility. I miss so many things: Tang. VHS tapes. Cassette tapes & my walkman. MacGyver (who has apparently gone from a person to a verb :( poor Angus). Candy cigarettes. Trolling Pomeroy with Jeff for empty bottles to turn in for money to buy said candy cigarettes. The text-only Adventure game I used to get to play sometimes on Dad's computer-- it was on an 8-inch floppy disk that you could actually bend-- I'd have to get him to start it for me because I didn't know how to do C:// prompts. My yellow banana-seat bike (the best bike I ever had!) that I tried to ride down to Sandy Hollow and wiped out bigtime on the gravel... Speaking of which, Sandy Hollow (the local fishing/swimming hole, now closed b/c stupid city gov't thinks it's too dangerous to let you swim there at your own risk). Wearing leggings and bike shorts under skirts so that when you hang upside down from the monkey bars, your undies don't show. Regular monkey bars-- no curves, twists, bumps, etc. and merry-go-rounds. Games like Red Rover and Kickball. Jump roping around the block or having contests with friends while singing silly songs like "Cinderella Dressed in Yella". Playing 21 for M&Ms in the days before video games were the only thing kids played. 8-hour monopoly games. Board and card games in general. Little Golden Books, now sadly out of print, like Hiram's Red Shirt and Mr. Brown's Fix-it Shop. Or picture books not based on a movie...
I miss playing in moving boxes and using markers to make them rocket ships or cars. I miss climbing onto the hippos in the park and pretending I was going on safari. I miss climbing the slide and pretending I was a mountain climber, or sliding down in socks pretending to be a surfer. I miss looking at the Christmas catalogs that came in the mail and dreaming about presents and magic while making a Christmas list. Being a child was a magical time.
And it's inspired a number of poems over the years, including shorties like "Winter Children" back in 2007 to long poems like "Stupid" and "The Tree" to the mid-length poems like the one I wrote yesterday:
Those Were The Days
When fun was sitting at a picnic table
Playing hand and foot
With my siblings and parents
Those were the days
When there was endless time
For climbing slides and
Getting dizzy on merry-go-rounds
Those were the days
When reading books and studying
Were something fun and easy
And libraries were my favorite place
Those were the days
When conversations still took place
Face to face or on the phone
And getting together didn't mean skype
Those were the days
When "cool" was still spelled properly
"Wicked" was not something to aspire to
And "sucks" was a bad word
Those were the days
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Playing with Pictures
I decided to take the pictures off of my camera this morning, since I had an hour of time between when I was done getting ready and when I needed to leave for church. And of course, being the person that I am, I couldn't just leave the photos the way they were; I had to enhance them. Then I thought to myself,
Why am I wasting time doing this?
Why am I wasting time doing this?
Because unless I sell a print of this, what are the odds of anybody else seeing it? Probably about zilch. There's no more room left on my walls, and two of the six boxes in my closet that have anything in them have stuff for on my walls in them. Four if you count the Christmas boxes. Well, that made me decide to share at least a few of the latest pictures with you. So, without further ado:
In the Middle of the Night
In the middle of the night, when I was writing in my sleep...
I sang a song and a poem appeared on paper.
Okay, so I guess technically it wasn't the middle of the night; it was about 3:15. And I guess technically, I wasn't asleep, since I turned on the lamp to drag out a pad and pen and write this poem. But you get the idea. I'm one of those crazy folks musicals are made for, who really do just burst into song while they're/I'm walking along. And sometimes what comes out is not very focused or good, but I think last night's inspiration turned out rather well, so I'm going to share it with you.
HOW BEAUTIFUL THE BLOOD
How beautiful the blood
Each scar a mark of love
Ev'ry bruise upon Your skin
Just goes to show You'd do anythin'
You'd give it all away
Just for the chance to save
No pain could be too great
No shame could too humiliate
There is no price You wouldn't pay
For me
For me
That's why
When I look at You, I see
How beautiful Your blood
Each scar a mark of love
Ev'ry bruise upon Your skin
Just goes to show You'd do anythin'
You'd give it all away
Just for the chance to save
No pain could be too great
No shame could too humiliate
There is no price You wouldn't pay
For me
For me
Just for me
For even me
I sang a song and a poem appeared on paper.
Okay, so I guess technically it wasn't the middle of the night; it was about 3:15. And I guess technically, I wasn't asleep, since I turned on the lamp to drag out a pad and pen and write this poem. But you get the idea. I'm one of those crazy folks musicals are made for, who really do just burst into song while they're/I'm walking along. And sometimes what comes out is not very focused or good, but I think last night's inspiration turned out rather well, so I'm going to share it with you.
HOW BEAUTIFUL THE BLOOD
How beautiful the blood
Each scar a mark of love
Ev'ry bruise upon Your skin
Just goes to show You'd do anythin'
You'd give it all away
Just for the chance to save
No pain could be too great
No shame could too humiliate
There is no price You wouldn't pay
For me
For me
That's why
When I look at You, I see
How beautiful Your blood
Each scar a mark of love
Ev'ry bruise upon Your skin
Just goes to show You'd do anythin'
You'd give it all away
Just for the chance to save
No pain could be too great
No shame could too humiliate
There is no price You wouldn't pay
For me
For me
Just for me
For even me
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