(Just ask how long it took me to choose font colors)
image created by picmonkey.com (I didn’t know it could do that!)
via Creature
She never gets tired of the sympathy visits.
The hugs, the tsk tsks,
the chorus’ of “oh, you poor dear”
So what she broke a bone?
It’s not like her heart lay open – split in the middle like a bagel ready for toasting.
I know she smiles when her visitors leave
How she says, “that’s better” while stuffing bon-bons in her cheeks.
Then another knock on the door and her face turns solemn again.
What a sham by a scam artist!
Doesn’t she know that people have real worries to contend with?
I can’t sympathize with the plight of an artificial pansy.
“All things are relative,” you say?
Well, I’m glad she’s not related to me.
image credit
via Sympathize
Missing a loved one?
A special place?
A special object that you once held dear?
No matter what has transpired …
via Beloved
She believed there were only pros to fusing things together
the bricks to build her house
the quilts to keep her grandchildren warm
the neighbors at the parties she threw
She was a pro at fusing things.
Nothing came apart.
Nothing tore.
Nothing fell.
No one was left out.
And all because she was generous with her love,
plentiful in her resources,
abounding with energy.
In all these things, she was profuse
never lacking
seldom flawed
and never felt defective.
In her wrinkled, aging hands
she held the world together.
I want to be like her when I grow up.
Image one credit
Image two credit
via Profuse
Is reflection the conveyor
of a message thinly sent
to serve as object’s layer
in an undersized percent
Or,
is reflection the conveyor
of a purposeful intent
to show the viewing player
the beauty of accent?
via Conveyor
Do not rain on my parade
unless it’s with feathers,
or glitter
or golden moon powder
You may not like the floats I created
my choice of marching bands
or the tethered balloons
reaching for the endless sky.
Perhaps the spectators are not to your liking
the cheers from old and young alike
may be too loud for your ears.
If you want to rain on my parade
do not come
But if your heart opens
and your mind changes
I will let you in for free.
image credit
via Stifle
I was standing in my flight section of fifty-four men. All the ranking men had gone except for the second lieutenant, who was greener than a gourd. He was the squadron commander over everything, and he walked straight over to me and asked, “Soldier, you’ve done previous service, haven’t you?”
“No sir,” I said, standing in rigid attention and trying to figure out why he asked me that question.
“But you’ve had previous training, haven’t you?”
I thought real quick. Hell, I’d had previous training alright—previous training in ranching and sandwich making, not to mention in bank robbing conversations, fighting, and escaping. So I said, “Yes sir, I’ve had previous trainin’.”
“Where at?”
I knew what he was thinking, so again I lied through my teeth and said, “ROTC, sir.” Every officer likes to hear that.
“Can you drill men?”
Shoot, I’d seen enough picture shows to know how to drill men. Any idiot can drill men. I’d been drilled all my life—told what to do, what not to do, when to do it to boot.
“Yes sir!” I said.
He called over the little corporal, pointed to me, and said, “This is your new assistant.”
I had no inkling of an idea of what it meant to be an assistant to a corporal, but I learned quickly enough. An “assistant” meant wearing a piss pot, a little blue helmet that identified you as an assistant just like a piece of tape with your name on it identified you as the newcomer at a Baptist revival.
Little Corporal put that piss pot on my head, and I marched those soldiers straight to the classroom. Then I went to the PX to drink some more coffee.
(new logo for my children’s books)
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper by C. Dennis-Willingham
via Inkling
It is quite indisputable
we all can act delusional
I believe it to be suitable
to live a life unusual
The world is not inscrutable
it’s alive with things quite beautiful
and everything’s improvable
Just try.
photo credit
via Inscrutable
I dreamt I sat on a low branch of Grandfather tree. It was dark when the man walked toward me, twigs growing out of his head like petrified breadsticks.
I reached down, determined to break off each one so they would not interfere and grow roots to our ancestral tree. Each time I snapped one off, his twigs became thicker and stronger, harder to break off.
Still dreaming, I went to bed and saw the shadow once again- not from my friend the pecan tree lurking outside my window, but from the silhouette of the man I knew him to be.
It was not the Shadow Beast, but a real beast, lurking in the shadows.
In my waking moment, I knew he had to be stopped.
Excerpt from a CD-W novel
photo credit
via Silhouette
If I ignore the mechanical trills made by the five-o’clock traffic, I can concentrate on the shadows from the bridge. Each year at this time, the shadows lay firm to the hillside and stir pleasant memories. #grateful
via Trill
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 