It is quiet
not peaceful
Just quiet
Morphine sleep
not restful
Induced sleep
Vigil in the darkness
not comforting
Dreading the silent darkness
Feels lonely
not alone
Just lonely
It is almost time
not today
We need more time
We are afraid
not spoken
But we are afraid
“Am I dying?”
not today
He is dying
Must be strong
not forever
For him I will be strong
I will break
not out loud
After, I will break
Superman
will Always be
Superman
♥
I walked to the window
Looking for rain
Only to find there was none
So what did I see
Instead, on the trees
But three inches of white, and then some
It heartens me though
To know what I know
The government is not the only
High paying gig
Where none give a fig
Whether wrong or right, they’re just phonies
Weathermen, you see
Could squirt shit when they sneeze
Then turn ’round and call it baloney
So, like our po-li-ti-cos
That’s just how it goes
They feed us baloney shit sammies
But next time, I think
When that breeze starts to stink
I’ll send a pic of a dick being slammied!
(Yes, you have to sing it!)
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me
A bill that was way oh-ver due
On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Two fucking chances
To eh-splain why the bill was oh-ver due
On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Three dirty looks
Two fucking chances
To eh-splain why that bill was oh-ver due
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love said to me
“Four bill collectors
Three rotten voice mails
Two fu-cking chances
Now eh-splain about that fri-hi-ggin bill”
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love went to work
Missing fiiiiiiiiiiiiive of his teeeeeeeeeeth
Fo-hor missing buttons
Three rips and tears
Two-hooo franctured toes
And a mouth full of oh-ver due bill
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love asked of me
Please call the dentist
Foooor my mis-sing teeeeeth
“Fo-hor days ago
I lost my mind
Please do not kill me
And from now on you ge-he-het the mail”
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love brought to me
Seven wrapped up presents
Six pounds of chocolate
Fiiiiiiiiiiive din-ner coupons
Fo-hor smelly candles
Three movie tickets
Two-hoo spa-ah days
And a day for our dog at Pup’s R Us
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love asked of me
Please stop obsessing
Let me say “I’m sorry”
We can have a re-do
IIIIIIIIIIIII was a shiiiiit
I promise not to question
What you do or don’t do
Because I don’t know shit
When it comes to making it ah-all work
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love hid from me
Fear of what would happen
D’nial that was his mantra
Refusal to believe that
The fact his Mother was right
His wiiiiiiife wazzzz such a biiiiiiiiiiiitch
Oh-ho-ho who does care
That he had invested
More than you may know
And that his partridge left long-ong-ong-ago
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love said to me
1 thru 9 are awesome
10 thru 12 are missing
This is so distracting
I only wanted quiet
Is that too much to ask for
Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive Golden Rules
Fo-hor pleading men
Three spanish prayers
Two birds in a bush
And I won’t tell the partridge he is di-hi-hi-in-er
No I won’t tell the bird that he is toast
T’was the year before this one, exactly this day
They had dealings with elves Satan had sent their way
Cleverly disguised as movers, those elves
Had completely and thoroughly, distinguished themselves
As minions of evil, true thugs, nincompoops
Whose Coup de Grace was an utter Grace de Poop
Pa on the phone with Satan’s head guy
Ma was outside screaming her battle cry
When all of a sudden, there rose such a clatter
Pa sprung from the house to see what’s the matter
He saw flashes of fire coming out of her eyes
And heard “I. Am. Leaving. Before someone DIES“
Little did she know that was only the beginning
Of the Battle O’ the Bunglers (Satan ended up winning)
But through all the breakage of glass, wood, and legs
They stopped trying to fill their round hole with square pegs
Try though they did, there was no talking to Boss Putz
They had no control over Dumb, Dumber, and Numb NutZ
So they did what they could to get through that last year
Now damn it all, damn it all, there’ll be Christmas this year!
What a difference a year makes!
P inkish hues of spider’s silk
O ranges, yellows, whites like milk
R eds and greens in varying tints
C apture the sun’s rays as they glint
H ere on the mums, there on a wing
P rompting retreat to shade covered things
O ppressive, this air you can cut with a knife
E ven the bird, like dragon, still life
T oday’s one for dwelling, musing, no movement
S o hoping tomorrow will bring some improvement
Labor Day.
The last holiday before the official end of summer.
And this is a steamy one for sure.
Humidity levels are through the roof so if you venture into the sun, you’ll braise…not bake 🙄
It is a day to celebrate the working person.
A day to ‘not’ work [as long as you don’t work in retail, then it’s a day to go Christmas shopping].
I know, right?
Anyway, since I don’t work outside the home, it is just another laundry day, with the added bonus of baking turtle brownies. (turtle brownies: nuts and caramel in the brownies, um yeah mama)
Baking? Today? In this heat?
Ummm, my indoor thermostat says 68, and as he knows me well…he knows that should his digits read below 68, I shall haul off and punch him in the face!
So yeah, it’s a baking day 🙂
As happens in the summer, more bloggers are out living life rather than inside writing about it, hence, less blogging more jogging. At least it seems so to me.
And while I wasn’t out there jogging (God forbid!) I was ‘out there’.
So Labor Day does tend to remind me that it’s time to come in once in a while and ease back into the fall yarns (get it?) so when winter comes, I’ll be knitting stories with the best of ya!
I don’t have any particular “What I did on my summer vacation” tales to weave, but I do have a snap or two that do paint (crafty eh?) a pretty picture of some of the fun we had.
Like…the time Matty spent back in the lower 48. Three weeks of sun and disc golf and beachin and boozin (ahem) and cousins and Grandfolks and…well, you get the idea
For myself…most of my time was spent in the same places as the boys…I just had my hands on something other than a beer bottle.
[Ah shit, that’s a lie. I had one hand on a bottle and the other on the camera.]
Okay? Geesh! Can’t get away with crap around here!
So my time was spent catching mountains and moonlight…
then rivers, lakes, and lilly pads, roads and bridges too.
I had a couple days where the pickens were slim; a tree and some deer, and an old car pullin in. A whirlygiggly butterfly and dead people’s ground; a downpour and a pond sign for an absconded pond.
But you all know what I’m like, always a barn or two; then Supe with his sidekick, and a damsel lunching, eew eew…
This is a glimpse of what I’ve been laboring with. And if I do say…
Life is Good!
Hope you all had an enjoyable, relaxing, family and fun filled summer.
I look forward to seeing more regular attendance now that Blog U is back in session.
🙂 R
![601968_10200708127816450_595730632_n[1]](https://50-shades-of-gray-hair.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/601968_10200708127816450_595730632_n1.jpg?w=660)
I have ordered dreams
With a side of happiness
Where’s the fisherboy?
She waits, as she always does, on the south side of the room
The same chair, straight, hard
The only softness is the faded paisley upon the seat
But that comfort is not for her
The oak warms in the sun
But remains cold and hard against her black skin
As she hangs on its back, waiting
For her special someone
To notice
The beams streaming through the door beside her
Unseen but felt
Tickling her, bathing her, tempting her
With promise
The promise of adventure
Oh how she wishes she had the wings of a bird
Like the one she paints
In the dark
From memory
She’d fly through that door
Out there
The sun, the clouds
Fire and rain
She misses them
She almost remembers
Diluted, like watercolor
She draws the lily as she remembers it
She can see it
A light spot in the dark
Of her memory’s eye
The myrtle that should be blooming by now
Longing to set her gaze on the ordinary
That she may set her sights to the extraordinary
This Is what she was born to do
Nothing else
But she has no control
Not over when, not over where
Hers is not to ask why
Hers is but to seek the truth when it is asked of her
Truth in beauty and the beauty in truth
This…is what she remembers…
This…is what she’s missing…
So she waits
Today?
Tomorrow?
As long as she is here
In the same room, on the same chair
She is blind
So she begs
“Uncover my face. Raise me up so that I may whisper in your ear
Be my wings so I can soar over field and stream
Capture the beauty of now
To keep with me for then
Our adventure is out there”
“Let me teach you to see the beautiful in the ugly” she pleads
“Let me show you the extraordinary ordinary” she whispers
She feels
Familiar hands, comforting hands
She’s flying, lifted and carried outside
It begins…today is the day
Eye open wide, taking it in
Capturing life as it happens
Not perfect…
Not posed…
Just life…
Nothing is too small
Tomorrow, she’ll wait again
But today…she flies
Today she is…
Awake
As we approach our nation’s day of independence, I had a thought or two that I’d like to share. In honor of all who fought, died, survived, and still fight so we may enjoy…our country’s ultimate day of freedom…Happy July 4th America
seventeen hundred and seventy six
this day in that year our fate we did fix
we rallied and warred and we bled the fields red
all for the right to our freedom instead
of the yolk from an empire determined we bow
to king and to country, the collective high brow
we started ignorant, starving, and poor
equipped with nothing but freedom’s allure
one hundred times two add to that thirty-eight
the years then to now, the days fate to fate
our beginnings were humble, and not always sainted
to think what we’ve done to the darker and painted
all we can strive for is continu-ed learning
to treat all as equals, we all have that yearning
for the freedoms hard fought and hard won from oppressors
it’s not up to us to now be the aggressors
but when those who still fight for the simplest of freedoms
can’t live and can’t love and can’t grow their own kingdoms
I will not say war is always the answer
but fight we should still against any agenda
that takes away rights to live free and live true
a war worth waging, battles must ensue
to live in a world that allows you to be
everything imagined, the power of we
I hate that our country is still fighting wars
but hate more would I if we sat on the shores
of our own piece of heaven, at the same time deny
the same to others who’d enjoy it but by
the happenstance of geography
but for that they’d be me
but for where I was born
I could easily live in a country that’s torn
should I feel guilty? should I feel blessed?
to one I’ll say no, to the other I’ll say yes
I won’t lay claim to guilt not my doing
but nor condone I, those who hope our ungluing
a believer am I of “get what you pay” for
but not when one has and the other is dirt poor
if you cannot fight for the basic of rights
then why should we feel bad for fighting their fight?
goliaths are bullies, and davids are smaller
but bigger’s just bigger, not better, just taller
the true winner wins when the heart is the weapon
big losers lose when they continually lessen
the right of the people, equality all
pride goeth ‘fore the mightiest fall
in honor of our freedom, in honor of our fight
a prayer I’ll say ‘fore this morning is night
may all who seek peace and all who seek freedom
know you’re not alone as long as we are one
nation of davids, scrappers are we
a nation of davids, who’ll fight ’til you’re free
Let Freedom Ring
Often times, with(out) rhyme or reason
I cook up a poem and sprinkle it with season
My words, just like the food that I cook
Can appear as one thing upon first look
Simple, country, amateur dishes
Like green eggs and ham or chips and fishes
But should you be willing to read ‘tween the lines
Or take the next bite, I hope you’ll find
Layers of meaning like layers of flavor
Words that surprise and tastes to savor
The nuance of herbs and hints of spice
The question I leave you with “naughty or nice?”
And, if you care to, witness you will
The care that I use to practice this skill
Whether gliding the pen ‘cross the paper’s bow
Or fondling keys, like I’m doing now
Salting or peppering, kneading or rolling
For grilling or frying, baking or boiling
My use of the pen or the knife does not matter
The result is the same whether poem or batter
I want you to love it and then ask for more
Not for the praise, not to keep score
I want to feed both, the mind and the belly
A creamy word-spread to go with hot jelly
It’s said all a good cook needs in the kitchen
Is to express love through food (and to feed dem dats bitchin’)
So what does it take to make a good poet?
A mind a bit quirky and not afraid to show it
Let’s cook
😉
50 Shades of Gray Hair 
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