Slippery out There

I slid down the driveway

  trying to scrape off the van

I slid up the path

   Attempting to take the kids to school

I slid around the corner

   trying to limp the van home

Then gave up

   And drove to the shop

Ice or no ice

It is time to get the brakes done $$

Miserly me is squeaking in 55 slim words for G-Man today. Won't be able to afford any more once I get the repair bill this aft!

The Visitor

Stumbling in
with a fearful grin.
Will they show smiles
or toss me out to snow piles?

Why soever do I doubt
my fain erstwhile clout
for hugs did abound
& remembrances astound

dear friends counted true
time no match for you
inquiries honest thought
and sincerity truly bought

This passage marches on
and workmates, some gone,
but delightful none the same
despite leaving the repair game.

For they were mates by
punch-clocks cry.
Yet friends of mine
those forever I find.

$$$

Hey-

I can just barely squeak this under the wire

I am going to link this up to One Shot Wednesday

and perhaps do a little more visiting tomorrow.

The Interpretation of a Poem

calico cat naps

snuggled under purrs of love

stretching the moment

Last night I read poetry to my girlies before I went out. I read selected poems from the chapbook that I created for my book club. I read some of my poems, and some from many other poets, known and not-so-much. At four and six, they don't care if the poets are wildly famous or not. They just like the sound of words strung together. 

In fact, the ladies of my book club didn't really care if the poets within the pages of the chapbook were known or not either. I know that I dragged some of them to the table of poetry, but for their part they were game to play along with my suggestions. Did I get any converts to a passion for poetry? Yes? No? Probably not so much, but they all claimed to like the experience. I read a few poems and they all exclaimed that the poems sounded so much better for the reading of them. I myself often read aloud words as I write them down, as I too like to hear how something sounds. If it doesn't sound right or flow right, then words are just scribbles on a page. 

Ah, but true poetry is all in the readers interpretation. This I found fascinating over the evening. I was surprised by people's reactions to poems, that I had never thought of. Poems that I had grooved on, were passed over, while other poems were held in high esteem. Interpretation and personal bias is key. No one is right or wrong in their opinions, and I hope that I allowed everyone to express themselves, without fearing to hurt my feelings. No matter, the experience was a good one and an experiment I might try again. 

Of the poem at the top, I wrote it for my daughter. T kept encouraging me to read another poem and another, until it was almost time for me to go. She likes to hear the poetry I create, and I in my turn love to share my meager creativity with her. She suggested that I should write a poem about a cat, so I used our dear Miss Kitty as inspiration this evening. She seems always to be a sleepy ball of fur, and now I should take my cue from her. 

Good night my friends and thank you to those of you who allowed me to share your few precious words with me. I am indebted to your kindness and offer you payment in loving kindness sent to you. Peace.

The Colour of Poverty

Brett and I lingered over our candle-lit dinner, and reflected on our day.  While I had taken the opportunity to lounge the day away, he had ventured out with his camera slung around his neck, intent on capturing the heart of Malawi via his lens. Children had swarmed around him, jumping, posing and begging to have their pictures taken. Laughter followed him around the beach and through the village, as he wandered. The sparkle in his eyes told me that he had enjoyed every minute of it.

I had seen that myself, when he ambled up the beach with his entourage of boys giggling and yelling. They had stopped at my towel where I was reading, and their antics were a sight to behold. Gregarious boys were laughing and running circles around us. Shy girls quietly clung to the outskirts of the circle, a part of the fray, but by their nature, removed. A few daring girls came over to feel my hair and skin, to see if it felt any different than their own black counter-parts. I encouraged their curiousity and admired their beauty as well. It was a delightful exchange and the mirth was infectious. By the time the group dispersed, I was smiling and laughing too. 

Over dinner our conversation was a little more serious though.  While the children had been happy and friendly,  their poverty was all too apparent. They were dressed in nothing more than rags. Excessive wear had robbed the clothes of any colour that they once may have sported. The contrast between their childish glee, was strangely muted by their drab monotonous colour palette. While it did not dampen their enthusiasm, it did diminish our joy.

One image remained in my mind of a little boy in the group that had been wearing a pair of trousers that were bereft of a crotch or bum. His little “chaps” spoke volumes of the standard of living that was so disparate from my own, so far away.  While Brett reminded me that he probably kept his better clothes for school, that could not shake the vision from my eyes. I would not have kept his clothes for rags back home, but here he was running around in public without adequate covering. I am not overly prudish, but his exposure hurt my heart and soul.

 As we watched the last light of the day disappear, we wondered what we would learn the following morning. It would prove to be interesting, as we would see exactly what some of these children did wear to school. It was the last day of the term for the students at Mwaya Beach Primary School. A couple of boys that Brett had met on the beach had invited us to tag along with them to hear test results and tour their classrooms.

I watched the full moon rise into the sky, before being driven under my mosquito net for the night to dream of my date at the chalkboard.

Saturday's Email of the Week: Got a Guffaw

Thank God it's almost Spring and chapstick won't be so necessary any more. Ew!

  

This will be particularly interesting info for those that suffer from chapped lips.

THE ORIGIN OF CHAPSTICK An old cowhand came riding into town on a hot, dry, dusty day. The local sheriff watched from his chair in front of the saloon as the cowboy wearily dismounted and tied his horse to the rail a few feet in front of the sheriff. "Howdy, Stranger." "Howdy, Sheriff." The cowboy then moved slowly to the back of the horse, lifted his tail and placed a big kiss on the horse's butt hole.  He dropped the horse's tail, stepped up on the walk, and aimed toward the swinging doors of the saloon. "Hold on there, Mister," said the Sheriff, "Did I just see what I think I saw?" "Reckon you did, Sheriff. I got me some powerful chapped lips." "And does that cure them?" the Sheriff asked. "Nope...but it keeps me from lickin' 'em."