Late August

 In late August, the honey in my little plastic bear

has turned to near solid amber,

zinnias still stand tall but now with

yellowed leaves,

gayfeather have lost their luster,

white cone flowers show black bug bites,

and autumn creeps ever closer.

Bedlam

Conflicting statements

rescinded truths

screams and rants and shouts

and wails.

Faces tense with rage

insincere smiles 

and pouting mouths

spilling lies and bile.

And then there's 

raucous bird song

drumming rain

sighing winds and

deep exhales.

Exit the bedlam.

Save yourself.

Gerald's Picnic

 

“Hey Gerald. I came as quickly as I could. What’s so important?”

“Sherry, I have put together an amazing surprise for you. It was a lot of hard work to get it all here, but you’re worth it baby. Nothing’s too good for my lady.”

Sherry turned her attention from Gerald to take in the sumptuous and romantic meal spread before her. Fried chicken, biscuits, fruit, a beautiful cake, and glasses of wine, already poured, covered the entire picnic table.

“Oh Gerald! It’s stupendous! Did you really do all of this just for me?”

“Of course my love,” he replied, anticipating the passionate appreciation Sherry would demonstrate later. “Let’s start with desert, shall we?”

Gerald leaned in for a kiss, but Sherry went to sample the rich cake. She would have liked to have dived into it, but she restrained herself.

“I still can’t believe you carried all of this out here by yourself. It must have taken you a long time.”

“Don’t give it another thought my dear,” he crooned. Just as he leaned in to try and steal a kiss, another couple arrived at the table. Gerald’s face turned red and he quickly suggested that they leave.

“But Gerald, we haven’t had our lovely dinner yet. You went through all this work and…”

The other woman at the table looked at her and Gerald, disgusted. The man swatted at them, but not before Gerald grabbed a juicy grape and made a hasty retreat.

“I can’t believe how fast those pesky ants moved in on our picnic,” the man said to the woman. “I was only gone for a few minutes to meet you in the parking lot.”

Gerald now knew that his plans for a romantic evening with Sherry were ruined. She had left with such speed that she had all but left skid marks from her fast moving feet. But hey, there were plenty more lady ants – and picnic tables in the world.

Summer

Remember the way they rattled,

the coins on the dash as we

drove over washboard roads,

in perpetual pursuit of something to do?

 

We were nonstop restless

drowning in summer heat and itching

to wrap ourselves in some sort of

mischief or mayhem or both.

 

She will respect this, we said,

as we dove from the cliff above the quarry

splashing into breath-taking water

desperate to impress.

Writing so much there's no time to write

I know. The title doesn't seem to make sense, but in my reality, it does.

I have been so consumed by writing things for my clients that I have had no time, or maybe it's no energy, to write for myself. I normally enjoy writing poetry, flash fiction and the odd essay. But lately, none of this.

This isn't unusual for business writers. It is, however, still frustrating. 

I'm going to change this lack of balance. I have stories that are pushing to be told, and I will comply.

I Love A Parade

 

The last marching band turned the corner and the drum beat echoed against the city’s buildings before gradually fading away. I looked around. Parents began to gather their belongings – chairs, blankets, coolers, tired and sweaty children clutching handfuls of candy thrown from floats and snatched from the street. Soon traffic would resume and the litter left by spectators would be ground under tires or lifted in the breeze to be deposited randomly around.

I thought back to parades I attended with as a child with my family. We lived just up the hill from our school district football field, so we’d nestle into the grass and watch the parade before the annual homecoming game. When I was in upper grade school I belonged to a city-wide drum and bugle corps. I loved the discipline of the practices and routines, but, being a deeply shy child, I quit before I had to perform. This unfortunate choice came on the heels of being ‘promoted’ to the front line. I was fine if I could blend into the background, but no way did I want to be front and center. The horror! 

When I was in high school I played in the marching band first with my flute an piccolo, and later in the flag corps. I didn’t have the option of quitting because participation was a mandatory component of being in band, and I loved being in band and playing music. 

Later, I would take my own children and foster children to parades. They too liked to scrabble in the road for candy, but the drum’s first downbeat, followed by cadence, sent chills up my spine – in a good way.

Canadian wildfires

Smoke from Canadian wildfires

tints the sunset and my eyes red.

My longs rebel and my heart

aches for the displaced,

the people and animals who've 

lost their homes and habitats.

I think about our U.S. president

and what it takes to make us

want to leave here, possibly move

there, among the raging fires

and winter ice, but without

a despot for a ruler.