When the intercom at the doctor’s office said, “operating room one is ready,” I imagined it was for me – that I would go into the sterile room and the doctors would remove the lump in my throat and replace the emptiness in my chest with something, anything that would fill the hole.
RIP my little soulmate.
I live where dragonflies spew tiny fire to light my non-harmful cigarettes
and grass grows blue and trees sprout leaves of fuchsia.
I live where the monsters bake cakes that, when eaten, guarantee good dreams
and snails give piggy-back rides through golden mountains.
I live where three-legged dogs drive jeeps and give free rides to the carnival
and carousel horse take breaks so you can feed them granola and honey.
I live where every living being is peculiar and wondrous, wearing their mix-matched clothing or none at all.
I live where lies that spring off tongues evaporate before they reach the air and meaningful words are collected, free for consumption.
I live where injuries and sicknesses are healed by blowing dandelion tuffs
and the only disaster is when the flavor leaves your gum.
Would you like to come for a visit?
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A “new” “day” so I’m giving it a try. Ronovan Writes
Days spent dripping ink
droplets splash on white currents
new to darkening
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The giant crocodile guards the mote. I take comfort in that.
Still, I have been betrayed by the two youngsters.
Only moments before I, the former queen, had taken the royal noodle and knighted them. I addressed them formally, calling them “Sirs”, then watched as they leaped into the concrete pool, both with smiles on their young faces.
Pleased to have done my duty by making two boys happy, I settled upon my noodle horse.
“It’s a great stallion,” I said, peddling my legs in the water.
Sir Paddy, the younger one of only 5 years, scoffed. He threw an invisible something my direction.
“Now,” he said. “You are riding a snail.”
The nerve of that rascal!
“How could you?” I demanded.
Laughter.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, Sir Paddy wasn’t finished with me yet. “Whoosh. And you are now a chicken.”
How quickly one can be thrown from greatness into insignificance.
I bwok, bwoked in a pitiful and timid display as I tread the water at a snails pace.
Seven- year-old Sir Russ (the one who taught me what a sarcosuchus was in the first place) had another idea. Poof. “You are now a dragon chicken.”
Things were looking up.
I flew off my snail, flapped my wings with enough force to swell the pool. My bwoks roared. Fire erupted from my beak with enough heat to put the ninety-seven degree Texas heat to shame.
Quickly, before the two tricksters had any more ideas, I flapped out of the pool toward my water bottle and for a bit of respite.
Because, occasionally, grandmother dragon chickens need their rest.
A tiny cabin
secluded
A cool breeze across socked feet
the smell of pine
the sound of water rippling between the stones
the taste of calm
a dream of the awake
“The world is my oyster” means the world is yours to enjoy. Happiness is at your fingertips. Such a positive statement. Or is it?
Yes, there might be a pearl inside but an oyster is hard to open. Even Pistol from Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor (who coined the phrase), was ready to use his sword to steal his fortune (get to the pearl).
Well, we can’t steal happiness.
An oyster is hard to open.
I suppose we could fork out the $50+ bucks for an oyster machine on Amazon. But that would be like having our joy handed to us on a silver platter at the cost of no effort.
An oyster is hard to open.
To start with, you have to have the right too kind of knives and a durable, cut resistant glove. Metaphorically, you need to have power and a thick skin.
Do we agree that opening our oyster to find the pearl is not an easy task?
But aren’t the best-reached goals the ones reached with grit and determination?
Although some of the oysters I managed to open over the years had no treasure inside, I still managed to collect many pearls. I hope you have, too. And probably like me, some were harder to obtain than others. Were they worth the effort?
Let’s toast to our pearls, past, present and future.
How I hate the passing moments
my missing Muse with no bestowments
lying in a barren field
her eyes shut tight, lips tightly sealed.
Evading me, my patience, wanes
my inspiration muscle strains
She hides between the narrow cracks
a fruitful pen now turned to wax
But who I am to rush her pace
while she attends the marketplace
of bold ideas, the fresh, the new
and delivers them in rendezvous
Who can we believe anymore?
What is this master light I see
at once a flicker
now jamboree
no haze of fog
but grand and clear
Blazing, brilliant, vivid beams
could it be meant for me?
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 