We All Know — a poem

We all know
we should be
doing dishes

folding laundry
sweeping floors
baking cakes

writing novels
songs and letters,

getting new clients
flatter abs and
firmer buttocks

while simultaneously transplanting ferns
and whistling tunes as we hide
in the dunes by the seaside,
plus a bunch of other stuff

instead of blogging poetry.

But should is an “s” word
best kicked to the curb.

And tho a clean house
might lift the spirits,

love knows it’s really
sharing poems on the Net

not money, muscle or Mr. Clean
that makes the world go ’round.

That was a poem for One Shot Wednesday.

Jannie’s current toenail paint is Sally Hansen’s Diamond Strength in “Peach Pave.”

xoxoxoxo

Poem To A Red Hat Girl In A Garden

Daughter, a little less than 3 years before you were born
your maternal grandparents swooped down here to Texas
from Canada (that was December 1998) to help me plant
3 palms, 3 crepe myrtles and 2 variegated pittosporums
in the planter box where all has grown so tall and lush.

Long way to come to plant a garden — 2700 miles, but
it’s never too early to start planning a good blog post!
And you know what? I really like how the little purse
you held yesterday for these pix is the one you carried
as a flower girl* in North Carolina when you were four.

Now you’re 9, closer to 10, and ‘way over halfway to 18.
And you know what else I like? That your grandparents
were born, and I was born, and your dad was born and
everybody else was born and I like how it’s always spring
somewhere, and always a great day to love and be loved.

~~~ end of poem ~~~

(Oh, and I like how Kitty got into the first photo beautifully!!)

Posted by Mom with love on Easter Sunday afternoon as the aroma of roasting prime rib fills the house.

xoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxo

* Yes, my darling peeps, you’ll see the flower girl photos one day, of course!!

14 guys in kilts — a poem in 55 words

on an April morning smelling on and off
of maple fudge boiling on an old wood stove,
she sat on a bench where no bills were owing
and nothing sad had ever or could ever happen,
her camera zoom lens having almost as much fun as
14 guys in kilts dancing the can-can in an Easter parade.

Those evershall remain 55 Friday Flash Fiction words for The G-Man.

xoxoxooxox

Iris, a poem

I met Iris when I was 6 and she 76
and to this day she remains the
sprightliest woman I’ve ever known.

She’d break into Russian dance
on the kitchen floor while bending
over to pick up a dropped cookie,

and keep flinging herself all the way
’round the old oak table on the linoleum
installed just after the first world war.

She’d scale the rose trellis and rescue
some wailing cat or child or husband
and not lose a drop from her teacup.

She’d take us all sailing on her ship
and fend off every pirate with a mere
wag of her long skinny index finger.

I met Iris when I was very young
and she even younger, and I’ll never
forget her blue eyes that danced like

a squirrel who’d finally gnawed a hole
into a chef’s pecan and walnut pantry,
a squirrel with many mouths to feed.

Iris died at noon on my 111th birthday
as the last oak leaf burst from its bud,
summer tuning up in the orchestra pit.

And I still miss her.

(irises I photographed in Zilker Gardens yesterday)

And guess what?? This is my first foray into One Shot Wednesday, whoooohooooo — holy cow, I’m IN, Dudes, I’m so totally freaking IN!!!

xoxoxoxoox

Thank You, Alopecia Areata

If I hadn’t developed a few bald patches on my scalp in the past month

I wouldn’t be sharing the interior of the beautiful new Westlake Dermatology building with you.

Took these a few days ago after my alopecia areata diagnosis and initial treatment.

A nice lady shot my scalp up in several places with something to hopefully restimulate hair growth.

Apparently, my own immune system is messing with my follicles.

Very naughty of it.

This could be stress related. So I’ve identified a couple little things bothering me and let them go.

Plus, I’m going to get my thyroid, iron and blood count checked next week, have a look-see.

I bet the patches will fill in just fine and dandy. Eventually.

And won’t lead to alopecia totalis, or universalis.

(Hopefully.)

“Regrowth could take a year or two,” said the needle lady.

I see her again in a month.

You ever hear of or experience this hair loss thing? (Feel free to e-mail me, if you prefer privacy.)

Anyhoo,

I look at it this way —  I don’t have anything life-threatening.

I’ve had almost 47 really great hair years.

Yep, I’ll be 47 tomorrow, April 4th. (Happy birthday me!)

And with a “comb-over” on top, and the back patches hidden under my long locks, you can’t even tell I’m missing hair!

Whoooohoooo.
 
Thank you, alopecia areata for keeping me humble, making me thankful for all the great things I do have, and for giving me these lovely photos to share.

xoxooxo