Tick, tick, tick, tick …
I do not like the looks of a tick.
The looks of a tick make me quite sick.
I do not like how a tick can stick,
Stick, stick, stick, stick until you flick it off your arm.
I do not like that a tick can bite,
Bite, bite, bite, bite until your sticky blood runs warm.
I do not like a tick bite itch
Itch, itch, itch, itch until you pitch a royal fit.
A royal fit because a tick bite made you itch.
I do not like ticks, not even one.
I do not like ticks. They are not fun.
I do not like the looks of a tick.
I do not like how a tick can stick.
I do not like the bite of a tick.
I do not like that ticks make me sick.
I do not like ticks, it is true.
I do not like them, how about you?
I freely admit I totally dislike every single tick. They drive you to distraction; some can make you sick.
You do not always notice them, until they’ve burrowed in. You scream and slap and scrape and scratch, wearing your skin quite thin.
Brush your hair? You’ll find them there.
Hike across rocks; find ticks in your socks.
Ticks will show up any place, behind your ear… right on your face.
They hitch rides on your winter jacket, hiding in the closed front placket.
Those moving freckles on your arm? Brush them off before they do you harm.
Ticks will drive you crazy, that is really quite certain. Just stand in the middle of the room. Avoid touching any curtain.
Carry a book of matches wherever you may go to burn them off, blow them up, stop their blood flow.
Ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks…the bane of pine tree forests. Spray your oil, rub your skin, make sure you get your rest.
You will need it if you live with ticks.
note: need to work on the meter
I stopped for a quick taco
One wicked, frigid night.
I sat in my car to eat it,
Heater on, snug and tight.
I stared off into space,
Not thinking ’bout very much
Until my eyes focused
On a sight that made me clutch.
There was a man
Across the parking lot,
Kneeling on the ice,
Hammering at a single spot.
He wore only a hoodie,
No gloves, no hat, no coat.
It really made such little sense;
Where was his winter coat?
I sat there watching while I ate,
My muscles getting tense.
And as I sat there wondering,
I began to take offense.
This man, this freezing person,
Had been sent to chip the ice
Off a front parking spot, with a hammer –
a Hammer!… to chip the ice!
He was unaware I was watching.
He just did what he’d been told.
I figured his manager was a dick,
To send him coatless into the cold.
I did not say a word to him.
He never looked toward my car.
I started it up, and drove away,
just down the street, not far.
I went into King Soopers,
Bought Ice Melt and winter gloves,
Then drove back to the fast food place
Everyone knows and loves.
I pulled up very near him,
Hauled out the bag of Melt,
Then handed him the gloves,
Unsure just how he felt.
He took them, and he turned his back
As he pulled them on his hands.
I saw his shoulders shake before he turned again,
Opening the bag, tearing off the bands.
I wish I’d had a heavy coat
To keep him warm and well.
I wish I’d stormed back in the shop
to give his manager hell.
Instead I headed off to home
With just a small, quick wave.
He waved back, then back to work.
It’s a good memory to save.
In this day of loud resistance, screaming protests, major demonstrations, it is easy to think you have to do something big to make a difference. Sometimes, though, one person can do the most for another by just being aware they are there.
Life can be hard…look for ways to soften it, eh?
At age sixty six
Employment still defines me.
Weekends ever rock!
Anna visited with her Pop and Mom when she was almost two.
She wobbled around and chattered away just like R2-D2.
Early one morning after she settled in,
She warbled she wanted Pfoops-pfoops.
“What?” we said, laughing out loud,
“Did you say that you like Poop-poops?”
She frowned, then shook her head and pointed her tiny finger,
“No no no! PFOOP-PFOOPs! PFOOP-PFOOPs!”
We really could not get it, thinking she was making a big oops.
She sat down, looked up at her Mom who calmly explained,
“She just wants her Fruit Loops.”
Anna is all grown up now. I wonder if her darling daughters eat Poop-poops, too?
There lies the rub — how to pull the tale together.
The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire
One hundred forty six people dead in fifteen minutes.
One hundred forty six,
Mostly young women
Some children and men.
Not all burned, some jumped, some smashed,
as people stood below and watched.
to be continued
JOHN MAKES HIS DEAL
“The Devil,” thought John, “will ultimately lose.
I shall reach my goal,
then cleverly slip loose.”
Oh, John, thought Lord Lucifer, you are not the first
to think you can beat me;
to avoid being cursed.
So it began, the battle to win
against all odds,
despite John’s great sin.
John signed it away, his life and his soul,
thinking he would take it back,
once he reached his greatest goal.
He believed that God would ultimately save him;
assuming that no matter what,
He could keep all his Heavenly Father gave him.
Of course, he was wrong, for God gave him his free will;
free will to choose which ever route
would help him top his hill.
God hoped He would be chosen to help John succeed;
that He would be the inspiring source
to which John would disclose his need.
But God knew with free will, another choice existed;
another choice to help John win,
though that win would end up twisted.
It is not that God stops loving you, when you to Satan turn.
It is only that because He loves,
You have the choice to burn.
So, to the story of John Phillips, already on his way
To winning the ultimate top writing prize,
His soul bargained away.
04/01/18 The beginning…
Anita Shreve has died
She died yesterday, they say.
Her book, The Weight of Water,
brought the murder on the Isles of Shoals
to living, sweating, breathing life.
Her other books, did much the same.
The Pilot’s Wife, from the very beginning,
grabbed your gut, doubling you over just as in the book,
I wish you a good journey to the heavens, Madame,
where your work soars, and to where the hearts of all you touched
with your talent and words lift in thanks for your existence.
You are cured of your cancer, now. You are free of the pain,
and we shall hold you in highest esteem.
Thank God for you!
“Poems from the Book of Hours” exposes Rilke’s soul; his mind, his heart,
all while he declares that should You, God, remove all his parts,
his eyes, his ears, his feet, his arms, his heart, his mind,
still his blood shall embrace Thee; shall carry Thee to the world.
How is it he has such surety when he later asks,
“Was wirst du tun, Gott, wenn ich sterbe?
…nach mir has du kein Haus, darin dich Worte, nah und warm, begruessen…”
What WILL You do? Where will you live, God, when I die?
His questions, and his prayers lead NOT to despair,
but only to the confidence that reasons escape us due to our limited abilities,
which can be stretched, strengthened, expanded until finally all will be clear.
Lord, God, this Holy Season, fill our hearts and minds and souls with joy and knowledge,
that though there be powers beyond our understanding, You are there to guide us to All