Cookie Inspired Haiku

Girl Scout brings cookies,

Yummy, sweet deliciousness.

Back to it…Who’s next?

You have secret staff.

Made of yummy chocolate.

Happy cubicle!

If you haven't guessed, Girl Scout cookies arrived recently. I had a box of thin mints at my desk.

All the personality of a bar code

Bars and spaces parallel

Unique, yet unnamed, and carries

Not even as much individuality as a number.

Tired of repeating the same answers,

I try to go off script.

No luck.

To this operator/ scheduler/ untitled worker I am just another account.

Anonymous.

Unimportant.

Routine.

One of many, all alike.

I am a bar code.

A featureless set of lines, unreadable by the human eye.

Scan me, I may contain information.

Data.

Feelings? Symptoms? Pain? Forget it.

Follow the script, the whole script, and only the script.

Is this any way to provide health care?

If I can get past the operator/ scheduler/ untitled worker I might be a person. Maybe.

Then again, maybe not.

Retreat

In the garden

I can be me.

I can relax.

I don't have to pretend to be normal

Or fake happiness.

No plastic smiles stick on my face.

Social skills optional; the tomatoes want water, not conversation.

In the garden

I have no deadlines.

I can slowly pour the water onto the plants

Letting the moisture sink into the soil

Nourishing the plant roots below

and

Encouraging growth above ground.

In the garden

I can hold entire conversations in my head

No one need know what I'm thinking

Indeed, the talk is quite dull to most.

In the garden, my thoughts are my own

Until I decide to share them, if I share them at all.

A small plot of ground,

My garden is my retreat.

When I need a break.

The Stockpile: Ten Years Later

-based on a poem written in 2002 and "inspired" by Homeland Security

Remember after the Twin Towers crashed?

Remember the panic, the advice

from government leaders

to prepare for anything, everything

by buying

Bottled water, analgesics, thermometers,
Batteries for the flashlights and radios,
And emergency rations, enough to last six weeks or more.

Remember,
Nuclear Power Plants are nearby,

Viruses are everywhere, and
Quarantine is inevitable.

But now --

Osama bin Laden is dead and his organization

weakened.

Our economy is in recession, and cash flow is very tight.

Think about it.
Closets packed with canned food,
Over-the-counter meds,
And cases of bottled water?

No.
Shop, yes. And replenish the woodpile, too.
But I’ll buy a bottle of wine
A good book,
Cheese and crackers.
Seeds and seedlings for my garden,

Not stockpiles of panic.
We’ll cozy up by the fireplace,
In our favorite blankets and quilts,
To enjoy each other,
And take care of our family.

We’ll continue living our lives.
Common sense, love and caring,
and family
Make survival after any disaster
Worthwhile.

A Very Special Author

originally posted in March 2007; originally published in WSRA Journal in 1997

When we were young
And could pick up a book,
A man with a gift
Made us all take a look

At a cat with a mission,
A feline with style,
Dressed up in a hat
With a hint of beguile.

The cat made us smile,
The Grinch brought a tear.
While the Whos down in Whoville
Inspired a cheer.

Those red fish and blue fish
Or green eggs and ham
The Star Bellied Sneetches
And that Sam-I-Am

The poor little boy
Wearing five hundred hats
Got caught in the oobleck
That fell and went splat.

His stories had morals,
Were strong with conviction,
Even though written
As young readers' fiction.

A clear point of view,
The compassion he saw,
Like"...a person's a person,
No matter how small."

The elephant Horton
Who said what he meant,
That he could be faithful,
One hundred percent.

And think of the Lorax,
The one who said, "Please,
Oh, Please stop destroying
The Truffula Trees!"

His creatures were special,
Both comic and tragic,
Some small and some large,
With an aura of magic.

Think of the characters,
Ageless and timeless,
And how he could make
Something rhyme that seemed rhymeless!

The point of my story,
I'm sure you have reckoned,
Someone quite special
Was born on March second.

Creator of Yertle,
And Thidwick the Moose,
A talent unequaled:
The dear Dr. Seuss.

Recipe for a rough morning

Take one dark and dreary day,

with the preceding poor night's sleep full of

Dreams that upset and confuse.

Sore eyes wanting to close,

Shoulders tense with unease.

Pick up a soft and sweet rabbit asking for a hug. Snuggle and pet.

Find lumbar pillow. Insert behind lower back in recliner.

Reach for a flavored coffee: half caffeinated, so as not to over stimulate.

Add a layer of cozy blanket throws.

Take a deep breath.

Close eyes.

Empty mind of confusion and worries.

Take another deep breath.

Rest.

Happy first birthday!

It's time to open your gifts.

Then: play with the box!

Shy Violet

Shy Violet was quiet,

more thoughtful than active.

Pale in appearance, her colorful side hidden to most,

The morning sun would show her loveliness

To those privileged to be allowed near.

Shy Violet had

Rainbows on the walls of her small room.

Only those who woke early enough

could enjoy an acquaintance with the inner beauty of

Shy Violet.

When I moved into my final dorm room my senior year in college, I found a small handwritten note in the desk that said "This room painted in Shy Violet." The walls appeared white except in the day time sun, when the violet shade would deepen. This was strongest around noon in winter when the sun would shine through the leafless branches of the trees on the riverbank outside my window. Midday was the only time that my hanging crystal would get enough sun to make rainbows on the light purple walls.

Beauty in simplicity

My garden isn't lovely
in the conventional sense.
It is home to vegetables, not flowers.


Shades of green
With an occasional spot of color:
Golden squash blossom, yellow bean, orange and red tomatoes


But the real beauty
Among the deep green of the spinach or the deep rich brown of the composted soil
Is hearing my kids call out, with complete honesty,

"Mom's playing in the dirt again!"

Spring poems and photography

Please visit Spring, a creation of a fellow gardener and poet.