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There are a few
Who I’ve known
Through these keys
(Not the telephone)
Who are in my soul.
They slipped thru somehow
And whereever they go
From here to Moscow
I hope for their pleasure
Their good times and laughter.
And pray they always
Find their way to safety
Because they are good
And their lives do matter.
Though we passed in the street
I would not have a clue
It was them I should greet
And their hugs I should capture.

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When I was growing up my parents purchased a small cottage on a lake about

ten miles from our home.  Originally it had just been a bedroom with a

kitchen wrapped around it and a bathroom on one end.  It had two large

windows facing the water and my parents added a porch in front of the windows.

During the summer months we would sometimes live in our little cottage. It

didn’t have a bathtub or shower so we would all gather down by the water

with a bar of soap.  The sand went out a ways and there was a small pier at

one end of the property line.  And so the limits of our bathing area were

well defined.

Early morning was the time for this ritual. And then we would walk up the

hill and through the trees for breakfast.  It was my three younger sisters

and my parents sitting around a large round oak table that I remember. It

was located on the porch and it had wheels.

Next to it was my portable bed. And the windows between the porch and the

kitchen were permanently open.  So the smells of eggs and bacon cooking

floated through the porch on their way out the large screened windows and

down to the lake.

There were no curtains on the porch and it was flooded with light at

daybreak.  And then the squirrels would start running around on the roof.

There was little chance that I could sleep under such circumstances

but it didn’t matter. Continue Reading »

Learn to be calm and you will always be happy.

The season of failure is the best time for sowing the seeds of success.

Let my soul smile through my heart and my heart smile through my eyes, that I may scatter rich smiles in sad hearts.

Paramahansa Yogananda

Bright and early Sunday morning.  What’s Happening?

I don’t know.  One thing may be happening.  Or another.  Or Both.  Since we have returned from our vacation comments around here from just about everyone have stopped.  And when that happens the blogger has to ask him or herself. . .what is happening?

Maybe the vacation stuff was a degree or two more interesting and entertaining than your normal fare around here.  Readers are waiting for something as good before commenting.  Or maybe it is the Labor Day weekend.  Everybody is off enjoying their own vacation.  I hope this is the case.

Or maybe it’s me.  Maybe I’m having a letdown because I can’t take photos like this one now.  And so I don’t know what to do.

Probably this last thing is at the heart of the problem.  There are always things to write about and take photos of in your environment.  It’s more a matter of attitude.   Am I excited about life right now?  That’s the issue.  And I would have to say “No” to answer that question.

And two things can happen at this point.  I can lay low and say nothing.  Wait for the life springs to start flowing again.  Or I can explore this other world.  I can write about it.  Take photos of it.  And share some of it with you.

Any suggestions?

Or, more importantly, what are you doing this Labor Day weekend?

Bio

He retired at fifty and recently began blogging to avoid having too much free time and perhaps going out of his mind.  A dead poet who has not yet introduced himself formally now inhabits his brain and helps him write poetry.

The blogger lives with his beautiful wife and three dogs in Richmond, Virginia. He and his wife have five children and six grandchildren at last count. They travel a great deal and these adventures are documented in his blog Virginia Breeze.

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Bugs

When he was eight in the 50’s

His gang dug long ditches

And covered them

With boards and dirt.

You needed a password to get in.

His mother was afraid.

Her child was underground

And possibly food for worms

If the construction methods

Were not up to date.

So he was sentenced to the back yard

Alone. Behind some bushes

He dug his own place

But had no boards so used

A few branches and straw.

Then his little sister wandered by

And fell through the ceiling and cried.

His father felt he had tried to capture her

In a pit like a wild animal

So he was beaten with a belt

In the cellar and he cried.

Later he went out in the yard

And relaxed in the grass

With his arms thrown wide

Looking at the sky

Letting the mosquitoes bite

Until it didn’t hurt anymore.

The bites became kisses

And the pain went away.

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A few days later he became ill

And his mother was alarmed.

She called the doctor

And he called the hospital.

The boy went there for weeks

And nearly died.

Peacefully.

He had a nice time

A vacation as everyone

Sat by his bed.

Perhaps even thought

About the place he might go

And all his new friends

Amid safe construction

Methods. Underground.

Recovery was slow

But he ran once again.

And his parents learned

A valuable lesson.

Don’t hold too close

The ones whom you love.

Or you may find

They have left you

Above.

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Bugs is a submission to Poets Wear Prada for an Anthology Selection- BUGS