What a Bother

the boy became when
he knocked on my door
every week asking if he
could mow the lawn earlier
this summer.

I didn't need him to help
because it was a bigger bother
showing him how to keep
the custom up - to - snuff
on my green design.

He didn't quit bothering me until
I caved in to his innocent smile.
Primarily he needs food
and pet litter money to help
support his rabbit habit.

I was bothered last month
when he wasted time petting
the cat and talking to the dog.
I answered in a huff when
he asked me about my day.

Today before starting, the boy knocked
again, disturbing my contemplative
reverie. He tenderly handed me the
cat saying, "She will be frightened
when I turn on the motor."

I hope the grass grows fast
this week so he will hurry back
and come knocking at my
door - to bother me some more - and
disrupt my disturbing intensity.

Blessings

I count my days blessed
to the degree eagles and
heart rocks find me.

I count my days blessed
to the degree seals and
whales play with me.

I count my days blessed
to the degree golden light
starts and ends the day.

I count my days blessed
to the degree our family
makes sweet memories.

I count my days blessed
to the degree Loverby
kisses and holds me close.

I count my days blessed
to the degree I devour
books on the porch swing.

I count my days blessed
to the degree a friend
stops by and lingers long.

I count my days blessed
to the degree my children
stop to help and hug me.

I count my days blessed
to the degree meteors sprinkle
the heavens above with light.

I count my days blessed
to the degree bumblebees
and butterflies visit the garden.

I count my days blessed
to the degree berries fill
my basket for free.

I count my days blessed
to the degree enthusiasm
for life lifts me high.



Thank you for blessing me. Why not me? I love you, Star Breather. Smooch. 

Bathsheba

is her second name. She's black,
a demi panther queen 

who comes to torment me
when the bath water starts to run.
 She rushes to hold court
 on my bath towel laying folded
on the closed lid of the toilet seat. 

She turns it with one tweak of 

her whiskers into velvet comfort 

cushioning her rightful throne. 

I close the curtains shyly

for some privacy, thinking 

the steam will do my wrinkles good,
 and teach her not to stare. 

Just when the dozing begins

 a delicate tap of water

splashes my dreams awake. 

She doesn't like separated from 

the unlucky object of her current

 affections, or curious obsessions. 

No closed curtains for this Queen 

unless it's her idea. Resigned,
I know there is no escape
 from her round, unblinking eyes.

She sits regally on the corner 

of the tub finishing her 

slow and thorough bathing routine -

oblivious to being an entertaining
nuisance to me - her unpaid
 lady in waiting. 

Knock at the Front Door

Notice the new wood on the right side of this picture. This is our new fence. 

We're redoing our twenty plus year old cedar fence before it falls down completely. The style is called a good neighbor fence like the last one - the slats are staggered and it looks the same on both sides. The new one is two feet higher for more privacy. It frames borders and yard with a warm, golden glow. Loverby did a splendid job - the results are enviable. He's a mathematical genius, a craftsman with wood. I love it. 

What we didn't replace were the two built in gates that led from our yard to the neighbor to the west, and the neighbor on the north side. What was common and normal way back then is no longer desirable in our culture at present. We can't even talk over the fence without a ladder anymore. Good neighbor fences need a new name. There is nothing neighborly about them. There will never be a beaten path through our yard to theirs. We all feel enclosed and safe, and isolated in our comfortable walls. We have complete privacy. I am both glad and sad about this. 

There never will be a fence out in the front. Please come knock on our front door. It is has a big welcome for you. Maybe a pot of soup is still warm. I'll put the tea kettle on and we'll sit on the porch swing and linger till the sun drops down over the roof, then the horizon. If you stay to linger longer, I'll light candles. I hope the path to the front door gets deep ruts and never gets overgrown. I want neighbors who need to borrow a cube of butter or a cup of flour once in a while.

Malcolm Guite

Malcolm came out to the wild, wild west 

to kindle us and turn us on. 

  He is the last living village lamplighter 

who knows how to

trim dead wicks and polish

our globe glass so it casts light again.

Afterward, we see poetry in each other 

crystal clear, shining with the 

original glow.

  
I want to nestle under the spell of 

his dancing words and twinkling eyes

forever, but he lives across the pond,

making this is impossible. When time 

is short with someone who wraps 

his arms around the world, the only

thing to do is tuck up close 

 wherever he is, for as long

as possible, and listen.

Be all there - still and quiet, or dance

 along if you must. 

Every poem and song had a double

shake of English flavored BAM! 

 I believe he could spice, rehydrate,

and tenderize the most ancient 

hide bound leather and make 

it not only tasty, but resurrect it 

so it would be able to 

give milk and moo again. 

Here's another poet who honors 

that long ago last supper's last request,

"Do this - you are my poema, and so are they -

 go make poetry now, in remembrance of Me.” 

This is my tribute to an incredible poet, musician, writer, scholar, and warm human being.  

He blessed us greatly at Kindlingsfest 2012 on Orcas Island. Dick Staub coined him as being the closest thing to a real live hobbit that you'll ever meet. I didn't ask to see his feet for proof, but his pipe convinces me. Only someone from the shire could be so full of life and vibrant joy. 

You can try to keep up with him by following him on Twitter.

Lancia E. Smith wrote one, two, three posts from an interview with him. She captured his essence with her words and photos.

He is involved with preserving the G.K. Chesterton Library and is a chaplain at Girton College, Cambridge. 

Spongy

I say I do, 

then promptly proceed 

to do nothing

for the rest of our lives 

except soak up

every ounce of love 

and affection you give. 

Full and heavy
like a sponge -
  someone please -
 squeeze me, 

wring me out hard,
so I will be useful 

and absorbent
again.