3 poems and a child in a tree (now with preamble)

Three hours ago I jolted awake after two straight months of Super Blogging to realize the camping gear (from early October,) and the Halloween stuff could maybe go back in the garage to make room for the Christmas tree.

So I clean house today.

And introduce you to my hubby’s new radio station website I put together last week, which will do in a pinch.  And let me tell ya – it’s been a pinch, as we have to file an intervention with the Canadian Radio and Television Commission by Dec. 18th.  But whatever happens, it’ll be for the best.  Maybe our radio station could go satellite only?  Any way you look at it, my Jimmy rocks (is quite handsome and has majorly gravity-defying buttocks.)

Above… a preview of the “Thankful Unveiling” I’ll post tomorrow if WordPress plays nice and lets me put in all the photos I want. Jim started building that “Backyard Adventure” in March and it’s now finished on the exterior. (Yay, Jae!)

Now, on with 3 poems and a child in a tree and back to my cleaning mission!

The Migraine

light pounds

thoughts pound

large fonts pound

small fonts pound

a jet 5 miles up pounds

a scratching mouse 2 rooms away pounds

but breathing might not pound

so I fall into it

float on it

feel it

eat it

drink it

taste it

digest it

hoping it will

make me whole again

and eventually after sleep it does

The Kung Fu Instructor

The Kung Fu instructor is inscrutable.

If only he’d come right out and

say he loves me or he hates me

I could get on with this business

of being the me I think I am.

My Cat Thinks He’s A Rooster

My cat thinks he’s a rooster.

Why do you blog?

That post the other day ended up being quite a hoot,  for me anyway.   Felt great to finally admit that I’m really a Russian violinist named Boris who has 62 cats and loves to do cartwheels in produce aisles.

One question I really liked, “Why do you blog?” was posed by the ever-elegant Blogger For Hire Vered and part of my answer to her was “to become really really famous and have people ’round the world now and far in the future think I’m wonderful and maybe someday I’ll get a bumper sticker fashioned in my honor that says “Jannie Funster Rocked!” Sure, part of me thinks it’d be cool to be famous but mostly I think it would be better to be this good old unfamous-yet-much-loved Jannie.

I actually think the biggest reason I blog is for the same reason I love to share songs I wrote – to be heard.

And I ask you — why do you blog and / or how did you first get into blogging ?

More priceless than all the golden bras in the world, and the happy flinging thereof

Recently Liz Strauss over at her very Successful (and outstanding,) Blog asked “What’s Priceless To You?” to which I responded….  “My daughter’s laugh.  My husband’s whistle.  My dad’s elfish grin.  My mom’s beef stew.  My cat finally coming to snuggle beside me now that the nights are cold.”

How about you?  What’s priceless in your life? 

Doris to register nine

What if I told you there was a world where  “leaves the color of toffee lipstick settle on the surface of small bodies of water like recaptured kisses,

where you wrap the morning around you like a robe of silken mist,

where poems wash up in drifts on the furniture,

where depressed demons drown their sorrows in chocolate cake at Denny’s,

robots fall in love with curling irons,

and even the Marlboro Man eventually trades in his old black skillet for a dream kitchen and a yard in the ‘burbs?”

Wouldn’t you want to get lost in that world?

And often?  

I do!   And I more than highly recommend it. 

Update:  those lines above within the quotes are all from Shay’s poems, just so y’all don’t get to thinking I’m suddenly brilliant. 🙂  Even “Doris to register nine,” is hers, which I think is a freaking wonderful line, maybe even a title for a song.

A good poem

A good poem is like a cocoon,

a secret hideout, a tree fort

where no one can slap you

as you’re drying dishes

or throw shoes at your back

as you’re running away.

There are never enough.

Good poems, that is.

Please gather a million

in an Easter basket

and bring me nothing but time

and coffee

and sweatpants

and chicken pot pie

and sleep to read them by.