The Grass Would Have Hitchhikers

I was seven, and the chickens were babies.

They lived in a home-made incubator, kept warm by light bulbs.

I lived with my parents & flock of siblings in our newly purchased home. Lots of land, lots of barns.

My dad had ordered ‘em. The chickens. He built their house inside the Red Barn. He’s smart that way.

I can’t exactly remember how they arrived, but one day there they were- all fluffy yellow and sweet, and the incubator was the center of the universe for a little while.

“Go outside and get a few handfuls of grass,” Dad said, directing us out of the Red Barn and onto the lawn, “then bring them back here.”

It seemed like an odd request, but I didn’t give it much thought. It was almost dark as we ran out into coolness of the dying day, playful as the lightning bugs that danced around us. Grass in hand, we dashed back.

“Throw the grass into the incubator.” Dad instructed.

We did. To my surprise and delight I saw bugs skitter out of the grass, and observed as excited little chicks scrambled to capture them in their tiny beaks.

I was seven… and it was the coolest thing in the world that my Dad had known to orchestrate this little spellbinding spectacle- that he knew the grass would have hitchhikers. He’s smart that way.

Advertisements
Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Summer Love

I grabbed my love one summer day
When I was feeling…. how should I say?
Well… frisky, but in an adventurous way,
I said, “Nocturnal is nice, but routine,
“Why not try daylight, surrounded by green?
“Look, it’s sunny and warm, imagine our luck,
“Let’s find a place outside where we’ll…

Fulfill our sweet dreams
In a bower of green,
To the soft melodies
Of the birds and the bees,
Our naked desire is all we require;
Sweet pleasure found under the trees.

Here in the woods most people like
To take a picnic or a hike,
But we don’t need boots or a basket of food,
Just fresh air and sunshine to set the mood;
A bed of ferns, a soft caress
Some tender touches to undress
Our love-life in a rut was stuck
But now we just can’t wait to…

Fulfill our sweet dreams
In a bower of green,
To the soft melodies
Of the birds and the bees,
Our naked desire is all we require;
Sweet pleasure found under the trees.

And though al fresco makes me smile,
The conditions are perfect just once in a while;
In the winter it snows,
In the spring- mosquitoes!
And in mud season, puddles and muck;
But it’s worth the wait
‘Cause I’d really hate
To miss this chance to…

Fulfill our sweet dreams
In a bower of green,
To the soft melodies
Of the birds and the bees,
Our naked desire is all we require;
Sweet pleasure found under the trees.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Courtesy Beer

I hopped on my bike one fine day in July
The sky was clear and bright
I was headed to Bentley’s for to meet my guy,
When I saw a curious sight-
A highway rest-stop filled with bikes
Guys and gals like me
When a Maine State Trooper flagged me down…
I was wonderin’ what the problem could be.

Goin’ to Bentley’s with a roar
Goin’ to where the good times are in store,
The cold beer’s a treat
And the men are sweet
Who could ask for more?

I’m a law abidin’ gal, so I pulled right in
And off my bike I did hop
“Don’t be alarmed,” the trooper said,
“This is just a courtesy stop.
In order to let all you bikers know
The latest Augusta news-
The lawmakers there, you see, have been swayed
By certain people’s views…
It seems that there’s a sizable crowd
Who happen to think that bikes are too loud.
There’s a law against making them them louder, you see,
Than they are when they come from the factory.”

Goin’ to Bentley’s with a roar
Goin’ to where the good times are in store,
The cold beer’s a treat
And the men are sweet
Who could ask for more?

“Well,” I said, ’cause I’m not shy,
And ’cause he looked like a reasonable sort of guy,
“It’s not very courteous, I must say
To pull folks over when they’re on their way
To having fun this beautiful Saturday!
And those folks in Augusta,
Those genius boys,
If they’re so disturbed by too much noise
They should just shut up, because I’m sure we could bear
To make due with a little less hot air.”

Goin’ to Bentley’s with a roar
Goin’ to where the good times are in store,
The cold beer’s a treat
And the men are sweet
Who could ask for more?

“And furthermore…” I was on a roll,
(Though digging myself deep into a hole),
“They should make a law against baby cries,
Or a law against thunder when it roars through the skies
Or ear-splitting jets
And why haven’t they yet
Made stricter laws against barking pets?
Why is it that those Augusta boys
Only pick on us when they’re thinking of noise?

Goin’ to Bentley’s with a roar
Goin’ to where the good times are in store,
The cold beer’s a treat
And the men are sweet
Who could ask for more?

At that the lawman scratched his head.
“You’ve got a point…” he slowly said.
“Come to think of it, you may be right.
My neighbor’s dog is noisier than ‘cycles in the night.
And there’s no doubt that those squealing tykes
Assult my ears more than passing bikes!
Stop making sense, Miss Smarty Pants
Or, I’ll warn you, there’s a very good chance
That you’ll be sitting in the County Jail
Rather than sipping Bentley’s ale!

Goin’ to Bentley’s with a roar
Goin’ to where the good times are in store,
The cold beer’s a treat
And the men are sweet
Who could ask for more?

“Oh, come now, sir.” I giggled, just for fun
“You’ve been too long in the noonday sun.”
I took out my hankie and mopped his brow,
And then, in a whisper, I asked him how
He’d like (if it didn’t hurt his pride)
On the back of my bike to ride
To Bentley’s for a courtesy beer-
“It won’t take long, it’s very near-
Now hold on tight, around my waist-
Think how good that beer will taste!”
Then he and I left with a deafening roar,
And he didn’t bother bikers any more.

Goin’ to Bentley’s with a roar
Goin’ to where the good times are in store,
The cold beer’s a treat
And the men are sweet
Who could ask for more?

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Pool Party

I wanna go to a pool party.

I can’t go as myself. I’m not a pool party kinda gal.

I’ll adopt a persona.

This is my pool party me: Rich. Independently wealthy. I don’t have to work 10 hours a day at a soul killing job, and people don’t tell me, “you look tired.” ‘Cause this new pool party me of mine- she’ll be well rested.

I’ll have shopped for a very flattering bathing suit. I’ll go to a special shop that offers more than the paltry selection of suits for tall ladies that most mundane stores do (if they have tall sizes at all). It might be 2 piece or one, but my fabulous 50year old body really rocks it. I look stunning.

I’m not sure if my pool party self has a disfiguring scar on her leg. I think she does. She doesn’t like to pretend that things that have happened didn’t happen.

My pool party self is a better conversationalist than my real self. She doesn’t stand quiet in the corner. She doesn’t talk much either. She knows exactly how to seek other party goes out and get them to talk about themselves. People love to talk about themselves. She’s a good listener. People like that.

My pool party self is not allergic to pool chemicals, like I am. Or maybe my Pool Owner friend is rich and sophisticated enough to have one of those salted pools that don’t need chemicals. It’s sultry hot on pool party night, and I want to swim. The sky is changing from electric blue to black blue as I backfloat….the magic pool party fades to night.

 

Posted in prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Spirit

“The wind blows where it wills, and you can hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” -Jn 3:4-8

Spirit now; now that we
Are born of you
May we travel with you?

Like the wind, Spirit.
We’re learning to spread our wings…

When our eyes were fixed on the ground
We did not know where you came from
Or sense where you were going.

But we’ve learned to lift our eyes
Lift our hearts up to the skies

That’s what we were born for.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Eat the Weeds

The irony of all my toil,
An early start with potting soil,
In April sun on windowsill-
You’d think the special treatment will
Give pampered plants starting jump…
I dreamt of red tomatoes plump…

But somehow they look second rate;
I mourn their limp, bedraggled state.
I set them out a week ago
When gone was risk of frost and snow
With fervent hope that they would grow
Faster than the weeds….

The thing that’s most incredible
About these weeds, you know-
They’re tender, young and edible,
As if intent to show
My ’hothouse’ efforts are in vain
And I’d do better to refrain
From forcing plants on windowsills
And bending nature to my will…
Relax, let nature sow the seeds-
Then smell the flowers and eat the weeds.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Seasoned with Salt

Today I told myself I could do whatever I wanted.
Hard work yesterday, obligations tomorrow, but today….
Be free, be happy.

The thing that I wanted
Most in the world
Was to hula hoop by the ocean.
So I did.
All morning, until lunchtime
Caught me un-hungry.
As I hula hoop danced
In my happy place
I realized that (for me)
Hunger is boredom, frustration and anger
That I take out on innocent food.
Today
I’m on a Happy Hula Diet
Seasoned with Salt
Air.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment