A simple breath, the bubble forms
then floats in search of things adored
keen awareness, filling bareness
collections placed and interlaced
a meaning soon restored.
She dipped below an ocean wave
And gave with grace a treasure saved
of centuries old, its story told
seasons more to yet unfold
A single pearl unscathed.
From Collections from Breathing – a WIP book of poetry
Forgive me if I’m buggin’
and I do a little pluggin’
But I’ve got a bit of news I’d like to share
You see, the inspiration
Came from grandkids fine donation
Of ideas of which they planted I ensnared
I made a little book, you see
of children and diversity
So I posted it without an ounce of qualm
And if you’d like to see it
If only for a wee bit
you can find it now on Amazon.com
Yes, You Can! available on Amazon.com
We do it from time to time. Right?
I’ve seen you do so (when I wasn’t disappearing).
“WordPress? Blogging? Later …” you’ve said.
Well, here’s a quick re-emergence, a brief “shout out” to say,
GIVE ME A MINUTE. I’M ON A ROLL.
Why did they leave?
Was time too short to leave footprints in the sand
or did they level the playing field to erase proof of their presence?
Did they call to me before bidding adieu
when my ears remained distant?
Discouraged I’m not.
Beneath the sea
A plethora of life.
I wonder why I wander
in this forest thick sans light
how the birds can fly above it all
peering down upon this “sight.”
What must they think of us below –
– this self-discovery mass –
who struggle dusk to dawn each day
to fly a life first class?
But I will not give up this path
dark or light, while restless
for awed discovery of things unknown
makes this wanderer breathless.
The human course, it often baffles –
the politics, ego, discord –
who wants the giveaways of maniacs?
No, they can keep their judgement raffles.
But if something makes our bellies churn
the core, an apple rotten,
then curious it makes our eye
perhaps, it’s then, we learn.
painting by CD-W
Sweat puddles and drips down to her seven-year-old feet
like the ice cream will soon do.
A sweltering Texas summer.
Grandpa grins through his cigar, proud of his summer income.
Peaches in boxes and sacks.
Peaches in crates
lined up on tables beneath his covered stand.
A pocketknife cuts off a slice of sweet fruit
and extends toward a willing customer.
Grandpa smiles again, pleased with the satisfaction on the consumer’s juiced face.
The ancient Black man, mouth empty of teeth, dismounts his horse.
Grandpa readies a fresh peach. “Afternoon, Washington.”
Washington nods, mumbles, shows his gums.
Grandpa adds another peach to his hand. “Take these for your ride to town.”
The man smacks his curved-in lips together,
up and down, up and down,
a toothless man’s “thank you.”
The walk-in cooler an instant relief.
But the bushels of peaches offer no jokes,
no Grandpa conversations.
Outside, parched again, she accepts the quarter and returns Grandpa’s smile.
A short walk toward the small diner.
The lady in a pink uniform and matching hat says, “Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?”
The ice cream, scooped. The cone, topped with a pink, cold delight.
Fifty steps back to the peach stand.
Fifty steps back to Grandpa.
The ice cream drips and threatens to disappear.
But the heat is no match for Grandpa’s disposition.
His smile and character remains solid, strong, and real.
(photo of Grandpa taken in the early sixties)
She was told how fun it would be to watch the parade in small town Fredericksburg, Texas. “Exciting for a four-year-old.”
“Look at that float!” “Carolyn, do you see the clown?”
No. All she saw was the backsides of wiggly people in front of her. The tall, thin man’s suspenders holding up the back of his pants. Arms that pointed to the sky holding miniature American flags.
But she could see behind her – from the grassy field all the way up to the sky.
And there it was. Something she could lay eyes on. Something she found curious and exciting.
She let go of the hem of her grandmother’s, hand-sewn, polka-dot house dress and began to run.
How did he get up there?
Would the man hurt himself when landed?
She continued on, her eyes following the man’s decent from the sky.
The pokey grass would not deter her. Nor the buzzing of summer wasps around her head. The near collisions with jumping grasshoppers were not a distraction.
The man was getting closer.
Panting, yet familiar voices frantically called her name.
When her parents and sister caught up to her, Carolyn pointed to the man.
They were right.
Exciting for a four-year-old.