Seeing as how it is Spring Break and Kellie and I are going to spend the next few days hiking, I figured I would get the blog in today. What does that mean? Well, I don't have any new pictures. Kellie took the picture above at Cooper Park in Mountain Home Thursday. According to Plant Identify, the bloom is either a Lily Magnolia or a Japanese Magnolia. The odds are about even, and the shrub had no plaque to identify it.
Today, our special guest returns, my aunt, Marty Gerlach. She is the only "guest writer" that I have ever had on the blog, but I welcome others to send their poems to me. I am always interested in looking over and sharing the works of others. Please email any idea you might have to mbt1966@yahoo.com. I check that email nearly every day.
Anyway, here is Aunt Marty's poem. I think it explains itself.
Mom’s Pantry
I'm sure it was built as a pantry.
There were drawers for silverware
And sturdy shelves above for canned goods,
But that's not all we found, so beware!
We as sisters were delegated
To prepare the sale of Mom's estate,
To clear, clean, and sort it out,
But we were clueless as to our fate.
We took a deep breath and stepped in,
And gently pulled the string to the light.
And stood aghast at the task before us.
This was going to take all night!
It would seem this was no mere pantry,
Although we did find a coffee pot.
Everywhere there were signs of "life savings,"
And it appeared to be quite a lot.
These caches were stored in boxes.
Some labeled with faded ink.
There'd be no telling what we'd find first,
Or from what year I could think.
We opened a box of funeral cards.
Printed with words that Catholics pray,
Our Belgium relatives we figured,
But truthfully could not say.
After some reverent minutes of browsing
Over the dead from long ago,
We silently returned them to the box,
And reattached the ribbon and bow.
Next to this box we found
Obituaries from the past.
Clipped carefully from the Dispatch,
You should have seen what she amassed.
They were our Flemish relatives of course,
But our friends and neighbors, too.
It appeared Mom dared not part
With anyone she knew.
As we lifted a smaller container down,
A rattle echoed from the shelf.
It was a box of broken rosaries.
Mary said she'd deal with this herself.
Time was soon consuming us.
And at this point it would seem,
That we could get ahead of this chore,
By not working as a team.
So, we began to each take a box,
And revealed to the other its contents.
It was double duty on the sorting.
And it didn't take long to make sense.
Mary found a box with various cords.
From lamps with plugs attached.
Some from Mom's many coffee pots,
They were saved after being detached.
I got lucky finding greeting cards,
And chuckled at how dated they were.
Oh! but that box had a peculiar smell
That I could hardly endure.
When Mary opened her next box,
To the ceiling she rolled her eyes.
And, smiling, tossed it over to me
So I could enjoy the surprise.
It was a box full of zippers!
Cut from jeans, shirts, and pants.
I guess Mom wanted to be prepared
If she needed them off chance.
We laughed out loud at this one.
And perhaps you don't even know.
But one thing Mom hated most
Was sitting down at a machine to sew!
And now things turned silly,
As I found a bag of ruined hose.
What purpose could these possibly serve?
I guess only Mother knows.
Next, a cigar box of elastic bands
Cut from frayed underwear.
This was a no brainer to toss.
We were sure that no one would care.
A box of old shoelaces turned up.
Some were tiny and thin.
From a baby's shoe we imagined,
What else could it have been?
A heavy box was my next dig.
This must have been an important thing.
As it contained many odd envelopes
Tied tightly with heavy string.
Tin containers of buttons were discovered.
The colored ones split from the white.
At least she had them organized
And saved with a little foresight.
Next was a box of postage stamps.
Some as cheap as two cents.
Torn out from various letters.
Now saving these made sense.
Then, Mary found the Holy Grail.
A box from Papa's store.
With bold "DeKeere" heading the checks.
Our emotions struck to the core.
The shelves were nearly done.
The drawers were next on our list.
Mostly filled with small items
And junk that wouldn't be missed.
But in the back of a drawer we found,
Wooden rulers with our names and year.
From ol' St. Mary's grade school.
This almost brought on a tear.
Cast iron hooks held firmly,
On walls paint-splotched and weary.
Each had provided a special service
At least that was my theory.
One hook caught our eyes instantly,
And sent us a memory in a flash!
It lovingly held Mom's red scarf,
The one she wore to burn trash.
The "Red Stick" was there, too.
The punishing rod of old.
Why did us kids never hide it?
I guess we were never that bold.
The task was suddenly ending.
We looked at each other and sighed.
We wouldn't even be doing this,
If our Mother hadn't died.
Coats, hats and fly swatters,
Were discarded from that room
But for being a kitchen closet,
We never found a broom.
And now, a poem of my own--
I did not take this picture. It is from Wix images.
Moonshow
The broad, bare moon is round,
A perfect, lusty form
Until the green Earth covers her,
But not to keep her warm.
It’s jealousy that spurs our globe
To censor her at night,
To conceal our nudist neighbor,
Keep her peepshow out of sight.
Three nights ago, I caught her show.
She began it early.
She strutted through the glitzy black,
Symmetrical and pearly.
Her only veils were thinning clouds
That mystified her glory,
A sight no mortal’s ever seen--
But that’s another story.
Each night, the pageant starts again,
And I watch as a judge.
I see the poor moon’s earthly stain
Grow from a mottled smudge
To quarter blot, then half a spot.
Still, the Earth keeps swelling
Till stars alone sport in the sky.
What a lonely dwelling!
But then, I note a glistening curve,
A tempting, lustrous sliver,
Shedding Terra’s covetous garbs,
And causing me to shiver.
And there she is, the broad, bare moon,
A perfect, lusty form,
A jolly exhibitionist
Who keeps my earthblood warm.
And finally, I did write a poem about the bird's nest that was lined with the shed snake skin that I showed and wrote about last week. Here is the picture of the nest again, and my poem follows.
A Brave Bird
The nest was in a sumac bush
Grown on a rocky hill
Less than four feet above the ground
And near a well-worn trail.
A bird had formed with leaves and twigs
A swaddle like a cup
And it was out in plainest sight
And no wise covered up
As if the bird was crazy brave
And tossing out a dare,
“Come get me all you creeping things
And hunters in the air!”
Its foolish pluck attracted me
And I peaked in to see
Whether the bird had met success
With stupid bravery.
I found no eggs inside the nest
But it was plain as day
That fledglings had been nurtured there
Perhaps last June or May.
Though down clung to the spikey twigs,
I was surprised to see,
The bird had used a skin sloughed from
Its mortal enemy.
A shed snakeskin turned smooth side out
Made up the aerie’s walls.
The hide still had the eyeless hoods.
My gosh! That bird had balls.
To take the thing it dreaded most
And wrap it ‘round its brood
And treat its helpless nestlings as
A late snake’s living food—
I hope that brave bird did survive
And raises young for years
And teaches them what it has learned,
To thrive in spite of fears.
Well, that is it for today! I hope when I get back in a few days that this post has had 40 readers or more. Most of all, as always, I hope that you ENJOY!