a fragrant breeze flows through the window
amidst sirens. the 24-hour news channel is on
but I don’t listen.
the february breeze is cool not
rose branches – thorny and dead but
sweet. helicopters whirl.
sheen curtains dance
the picture of Jesus looks up
past the grandfather clock.
tissues strewn across the sofa
toys all over the floor
pictures lead up the stairs.
I stare at a schedule
and cross out so many things.
summer is better
after time passes
and water slides open.
flowers grow with weeds
among blue grass decorated
with fence rows never-ending.
In the book Pizza, Pigs and Poetry, Jack Prelutzky asks, “Have you ever written a poem about a pizza?” Well, no. But I can cook up some prose.
Here goes: It was January 8, 1999. While at work I ordered a pizza for lunch. A whole pizza. Just for me. It was Elvis
‘ birthday so I thought I’d celebrate by eating pineapple
on my pizza for the first time. A little Blue Hawaii
Surprisingly, I ate the pizza by myself and didn’t blow up like hot air balloon
. Before I ordered a luau
for lunch that day, I tried to lose a few but something didn’t fit right. And it wasn’t just my jeans. Why didn’t I feel guilty for eating so much?
When I ate the juicy fibers of the pineapple with the cheesy saucy crust, I was happy. Little did I know I was pregnant with my first child. I didn’t find that out until seventeen days later. That day I ate my pizza in utter bliss though I didn’t know why I was so happy.
I was bingeing, after all. Ruining my figure. I took acting classes at the time and the camera already packed on pounds. My coach noticed and told me to drop a few. Maybe it was the rebel in me or the growing life inside of me that said, “Hey! What the heck is wrong with you? Since when do you let someone else’s ideals tell you what to do?”
Since then it’s hard for me to pack away a whole pizza in one sitting. I doubt that bliss will visit me again while eating. Instead it transferred into motherhood which I could never fit into a pie.
1. A lot of things can happen
2. All of these can kill you
3. So DON’T PANIC!!!
The first compliment I ever got from a well-known person (and Pulitzer Prize winner) was on an essay I wrote entitled “It’s Hard to Be Happy When You’re Feeling Really Crappy.”
I wrote it after a 2 week stay in the hospital from a severe kidney infection where I envisioned, as a 24-year-old, sitting among my older relatives comparing colonoscopies. The kidney specialist said my infection was the worst he’d ever seen. Yay! Finally! Number one at something! Something to brag about at my high school reunion.
After getting out of the hospital, I borrowed Dave Barry turns 40 from the library to cheer me up.
Mistakenly I thought Barry was funny because nothing bad happened to him. But in the book he writes about his parents committing suicide only about a week apart. I learned a person like Barry can recover from the most horrific of traumas and still make people laugh.
I sent Mr. Barry the essay and he sent me back a postcard signed “Dave Barry, M.D.” It didn’t matter what he said, because I don’t recall his reply. I was just giddy that he even read it and took time to mail me a postcard.
What I look forward to is continued immaturity followed by death. ~Dave Barry
Holly turned 10 years old about 2 weeks ago. I found some questions I wrote down that she asked from 3 years old on. None of these I could answer for her then and I still can’t now:
make Himself? (when I said God made everything)
*Will I need surgery
to have breasts
? Why does a woman want surgery to have bigger breasts? (after I explained what boob jobs are)
*How big is a cold? Because if it fits in my nose, it’s pretty small.
My only response is to ask questions when I can’t answer her, such as:
*Why do I bother to put a hamper
in your bedroom when your dirty clothes are everywhere except in it?
*Can the theory of relativity
be applied to the time in between picking up toys and throwing them on the floor?
*Why did your then two-year-old sister stare at her food on the table but didn’t hesitate to eat it off the floor?
*Seriously, girls, who is John Galt?
whoa warren g harding! lay off the beans!
While homeschooling my almost 6-year-old, she requested her favorite set of flash cards: the U.S. Presidents. I thought they might be too hard for her but she took to them quickly.
I showed her a card of our 18th president, Ulysses Simpson Grant
. She said, “Ulysses Simpson Graham Cracker.”
I asked her why the twist on names? She said, “This is Funny Camp. I learn to tell jokes.” I said that’s nice but sometimes we have to take our learning seriously.
So we went along with our serious faces learning the names of the presidents. Then I showed her Warren G. Harding
Always closing, she said, “Warren G. Farting.”
through grace angels intercept
before demons take over
the most gracious way to go
when violence takes them
where is grace in that
it’s not what they take away
but what they leave behind
and not two travel
the wrong path,
one ascends so the other
the road not taken as Frost wrote
the path not trampled
the one without the stamped-on heart
If you’ll be mine I’ll
tear you apart then throw you
to the wolves hungry.
I’m not hip to the hackneyed mushy kind of love sentiments. My favorites are from Albert Einstein because only he can compare romance to science:
Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.
Women marry men hoping they will change. Men marry women hoping they will not. So each is inevitably disappointed.
Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That’s relativity.
Even better are quotes that compare love to a disease. Because basically it is.
We don’t believe in rheumatism and true love until after the first attack. ~Marie Ebner Von Eschenbach
Love, and a cough, cannot be hid. ~George Herbert