Spatter

Florida Rains

We call them gully washers. Torrents of rain with thunder and lightning in a short span of time on a summer day. They're violent, they're dangerous, they're exciting.

They were an integral part of my Florida childhood.  The day would always begin with sun and an abundance of cumulus clouds. It was oh so hot and oh so humid. You looked up and you just knew that by afternoon a storm would come. Sure enough, as the day went on the clouds would grow taller and darker and heavier, laden with moisture...the earth's sweat having risen up to them. More and more, hotter and hotter until at last the distant rumblings began. The storm announced its coming: I am strong. Better take cover. I am bigger than you. I am coming, I am coming. Better take cover.  In the distance out over the glades you could see the rain...a solid sheet coming out of a cloud. Look to the glades, always from that direction.  Still sunny here, but better take cover. The wind picks up, the air becomes electrified, the sky becomes a darkened blanket. You know it's close now. Better take cover. Take cover now!  Crank the the windows closed. Spatters of rain striking your face...needles. Tension now crested. I am coming...one last warning. Then...in an instant...relief. I am here.  The storm arrives full of power, taking ours.  Blowing rain...flashes...cracks of thunder. Over and over until finally gone. 

In those times, you could almost set your clock by these storms. They came every day around 4 p.m. and were gone by evening. Now days, it's still hot and you believe it's got to happen just like it used to, but so frequently, it doesn't. Nature's cycle has been disrupted by man's insistence of imposing himself. What once was part of the Florida landscape is now more of an occasional guest.

More Weekend Wordsmith writings here

Weekend Wordsmith: Grudge

To have a grudge is to resent...hold against...envy...loathe. To this I say: 

Let it out
get it out forever -
it has no place in your sacred soul.




More Weekend Wordsmith writings can be found here.

April Fools...Not

Wouldn't it be nice if somebody cried out and announced that the George and Dick administration was just one big April Fools Day practical joke? Unfortunately, it's been all too real and the joke isn't funny.

For more thoughts about April Fools, go to Weekend Wordsmith. 

Paddy O'brien

While making pictures with the clouds
I saw a lion with mane so proud,
so peaceful looking at me -
little did I realize
(when I could not stop my eyes from finding him)
that you were he -
It sounds so impossible,
so incredible,
that you're not around to do
all that we did together
be it in fun or confidence.
But now -
how could one so small
leave such a huge emptiness?
I just blinked,
turned my head
and my lion separated into nothingness.

This poem was written about my cat Paddy O'brien who died in 1971.  I had been out of town and when I returned, my mom broke the news to me.  After she told me the time he died, I realized it was at the exact same time that I was driving home...making pictures with the clouds.

Start Your Engines!

South Florida streets are known for their danger. Just check our auto insurance rates! But this time of year, it gets especially nerve-wracking as the normal chaos is exasperated by people rushing to get holiday shopping done.

Looking at all the cars weaving in and out of lanes, I could've just as easily been on the local speedway. You'd think someone had called out "gentlemen, start your engines".  Driving becomes a competition sport.

Take last night.  I was driving on a surface street on the way home from a bite to eat.  In a flash, a car zoomed up behind me, then veered into the lane beside me.  The driver...let's call him Mr. Crazy...sped up.  I knew he was going to cut back in front of me.  What happened next nearly stopped my heart.  The truck that was in front of Mr. Crazy started to brake for a turn.  Mr. Crazy was busy looking back at me to see when he could cut back in without clipping me.  Well, you can't look backward and forward at the same time so Mr. Crazy missed noticing that the truck was slowing down.  Mr. Crazy's initial calculation for the space he had changed and he didn't know it.  If I tell you his car cleared the truck by inches, I wouldn't be exaggerating.  It could've gotten real ugly...for him...and even for me.  Certainly, the result would've been more than a fender bender...and more than a dent.

I got home and immediately upon exiting my car, "kissed the earth". No, I sure don't miss commuting to and from Miami every day! 

Fortunate One

There are those who have the good fortune to be fortunate.  I'm one of them. I'm wealthy with it. I don't know why. I'm no more deserving than the next person.  All I know is that I am and it's made all the difference.

My fortune isn't monetary wealth, though I'm by no means poor.  And my fortune isn't fame. My fortune is that I land on my feet.  I've landed on my feet so many times I can't count them.  Some of those times bring a smile...some scare me to think about, even today...but all of them have shaped my life.  And they'll continue to since the choices I have yet to make will call upon what I believe to be true: I'll be OK.

I become still with appreciation. I consider it  a major asset on my balance sheet.

Fortune is measured
By what's important to us.
Wealth has many forms.

More "fortune" can be found at Weekend Wordsmith.

 

Grass

The grass no longer grows and is content to pause for winter's beauty.


Post Note
The above is my first attempt at writing an American Sentence, a poetic form created by Allen Ginsberg and brought to my awareness by Becca.  They are haiku-like poems that like the Japanese haiku, contains seventeen syllables. 

For more Weekend Wordsmith writings, click here.

A Mountain Or A Hill?

As I sit on my deck, and as I sip my afternoon wine, I look out onto Panther's Knob and it occurs to me that I'm not sure if I'm looking at a mountain or a big hill.  The mountains on this side of the Parkway are gentle and we're sort of on a plateau to begin with. Consequently, the height of our mountains tend to be deceiving in revealing their height.

So, when does a hill become a mountain, anyway? I'm thinking I should remember this bit of trivia from high school...but I don't.  I always get a bit frustrated when I "lose" information, but, hey, there's lot to remember and the older I get, the more there is.  So, it's nice to have Google, Wikipedia, etc. at hand to assist. 

What I found out is that there is no universally accepted standard definition for the height of a mountain or a hill. It seems that some hills can be called mountains and some mountains can be called hills - it's just a matter of the original name given to the relief.  But the Encyclopedia Britannica requires a prominence of 2,000 feet.  Another  less  respected source  said a hill becomes a mountain  when you have to get off your bike and walk.  Well, for me that would  mean  that a highway overpass would qualify!

It looks as though Panther's Knob is just over 3000 feet, so by anyone's definition, I guess it qualifies as a mountain. 

How I Eat Oreos

 

for the record...

when I eat Oreos
I eat them whole. 
no twisting, no licking, no deciding what to eat first.
I want it all and I want it all at the same time...
chocolate and creme
hard and soft.

and...for the record...
when I eat them, I dunk them.
oh, not sopping wet...
but just enough to let the milk caress  its form
without destroying its texture. 
It's an art form to do it properly. 

but...for the record...
I don't eat them much at all.

Poetry #2

I usually try to space out topics a bit - just to give a breath between them. But as it happens, this week I'm ignoring that practice.  This post will be my second in just a few days that has poetry in it. 

The first reported my experience at Floyd's Spoken Word Night.  By the way, if you're interested in a less personal accounting of the night - including pictures - click here. 

Now here, poetry appears again. This time, it's in response to the weekly challenge at Weekend Wordsmith  to write something about a given word.  As luck would have it, this week the word happened to be "poetry". 

So here's #2:

Some poetry is filled with so much imagery and word play that I can hardly comprehend its meaning.  Afterwards, I sit in silence, letting the space fill, and feel the heart of it.

By comparison...my poetry comes in spatters. Thoughts perk up from within to find voice and I put them down quickly before they get lost.  They're elusive, these butterflies.

Some of my poetry rhymes...some doesn't. But all reveal me. All have heart.
If you sit in the silence that comes almost as soon as my words begin, the space will fill...and the heart of it known.

Here are two:

CROSSING OVER

the time is gone
it isn't there anymore
the place it stays
different than before

DUALITY

oh the  joy, the joy
the inescapable pain
of being human