.
.
The Girl in the Swing
Just this side of a coulee, on the outskirts of the city,
We find ten year old Helen, in a new tree swing, sitting.
A gift from her grandfather, bought new in a box, dangling
from a prime tree in the pasture, capable host for hanging.
She is timid at first, getting used to the feel of strand,
Squeezing the cord accordingly, in the palm of her hand.
In time she will ascend to heights unsurpassed, in flight,
but for now, she takes in stride, the ride, future bright.
Over the years, she would be found there, floating aloft;
Drifting, dreaming winsome at times, perhaps in deep thought.
On the day she turned eighteen, she became of age, an heir,
At the apex of thrust, seeing civilization, just over there.
She had a plan in motion, had consulted a trusted adviser,
Only this confidante knew her intents, no one else the wiser.
This would be a gamble, a big step to take, to subdivide,
What began on a hunch, the numbers crunched, on this glide.
Her scheme, on the level, as level as the turf they surveyed;
In no time at all, gravel was spread, then black top laid.
Utilities in place; word on the street, lots here for sale;
Initial pricing steep, then descending, on a sliding scale.
Phases One and Two served to settle, recoup her investment;
The third and final were put in a vault, serving as profit.
Within weeks, all the lots for sale were gone, save for one,
The prime lot, the ground her willow tree proudly rested on.
From her perch, over time, she witnessed neighborly things.
The seasonal comings and goings a divided commune brings.
Families milling about, in the warm months, a barbecue glow,
When the winter cast its spell, taking turns shoveling snow.
More and more, inhabitants spoke of the girl, in hushed tone.
Her time to stay varied, as she appeared daily, always alone.
One can only surmise, what all, curious onlookers had to say.
From the looks some cast, they seemed to wish she'd go away.
One day, fate intervened, as fate will do, on the path to walk.
As several neighbors gathered, one approached, needed to talk.
True, he had received a new job option, requiring he relocate.
False, he nodded toward the empty swing, intent to insinuate.
In an effort to keep up with the Jones, he put on a facade.
The others did not take in stride, or see through his fraud.
He made it official the following week, house on the market.
Within weeks, similar signs cluttered yards, like a blanket.
To everyone who played the real estate market, a big surprise,
As each house sold on the initial showings, very first tries.
With offers to assume mortgages "as is," owners sold cheap.
Most got out while the getting was good, took the same leap.
In time, all the houses sold went into rental service mode.
There was only one family unit left to hold onto their abode.
The renters came in a hurry, fine houses in an area perfect,
A full time maintenance firm in place, zero property neglect.
The new dwellers never noticed, (transients are just that way)
The girl in the swing, who was still found there every day.
They never judged or cast aspersion, even on a lark or whim.
She had every right to be where she was. It was fine by them.
None of them knew, she was their landlord, did not presume.
There was nothing about her that gave them cause for gloom.
At first sign of spring, the first barbecue, she was invited.
She respectfully declined, but took note, she was not slighted.
When they left her, she could not resist a turn and smile.
She thought aloud, saying, "I might join them in a while."
She was brought back into the present, by a gentle voice.
A little girl of nine to ten before her, spoke by choice.
She and her mother were the only home owners to not leave.
The mother scolded the child, and was told, no need to grieve.
The youngster spoke boldly, when apparent opportunity arose,
As the girl in the swing gave her the floor, in full repose.
"I was just wondering, if sometime I might sit in your seat."
Hearing this, the mother cringed, wanting to take to the street.
She arose from her throne, with a natural glow on her face,
And hoisted the child, spun and put her secure, in her place.
Speaking in mock admonishing tone, said to hold on tight,
As she got behind, and gave it a push, with all her might.
To the mother, she offered, "Don't feel I've been taken to task.
For so long have I waited... She is the first to ever ask."
Michael Todd (2015)
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Sleeping On a Train (sonnet)
.
.
Sleeping On a Train (sonnet)
Try though I might, I can't sleep on a train.
Not enamored with the sounds of those wheels,
No magic in coarse, rhythm-racket refrain,
Ghostly frightening, to senses' appeals.
Claustrophobic, stretched out in this slim berth;
Hands in corpse-fold; attempts vain, at slumber,
Humming dead-train songs, for all they are worth,
Such as, "Wreck of the Old... (pick a number.)"
That cow catcher can't divert a whole herd.
Loose coin to flatten, and we jump the track!
We'll meet our reward without warning-word;
Can't bear a thought of tunnel's fade to black.
Give me winding roads, grant me wings to fly;
Anything but rails, where I'm sure to die.
Michael Todd (2015)
.
Sleeping On a Train (sonnet)
Try though I might, I can't sleep on a train.
Not enamored with the sounds of those wheels,
No magic in coarse, rhythm-racket refrain,
Ghostly frightening, to senses' appeals.
Claustrophobic, stretched out in this slim berth;
Hands in corpse-fold; attempts vain, at slumber,
Humming dead-train songs, for all they are worth,
Such as, "Wreck of the Old... (pick a number.)"
That cow catcher can't divert a whole herd.
Loose coin to flatten, and we jump the track!
We'll meet our reward without warning-word;
Can't bear a thought of tunnel's fade to black.
Give me winding roads, grant me wings to fly;
Anything but rails, where I'm sure to die.
Michael Todd (2015)
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Find the Time
.
.
Find the Time
A touch of morning, new year: realize,
Customized to-do lists, spread around;
It really should not come as a surprise,
These tasks I could do, while still above ground.
Pretty pictures, snapped and framed, hung to view,
Afghan crocheted, preferred colors, size, style,
Antique table repaired, new stain, screws, glue;
Unique one and only's, from this strewn pile.
Send shout outs to shut ins, along life's way:
Comfort and solace, or leave them laughing.
Give flowers to the living, brighten their day;
Risk versus reward? Free, what I might bring.
I own the lamp post, where I tie my horse;
These tasks in hand, planned; I'll do, in due course!
Michael Todd (2015)
Disclaimer: This is not so much about new years resolutions as it is about directives. It is about time management and obligations, both to self and others... I got the idea for this, following a conversation with Paula Dawn Lietz. In the exchange, she pointed out that everything takes time, and we just need to find a balance.
.
Find the Time
A touch of morning, new year: realize,
Customized to-do lists, spread around;
It really should not come as a surprise,
These tasks I could do, while still above ground.
Pretty pictures, snapped and framed, hung to view,
Afghan crocheted, preferred colors, size, style,
Antique table repaired, new stain, screws, glue;
Unique one and only's, from this strewn pile.
Send shout outs to shut ins, along life's way:
Comfort and solace, or leave them laughing.
Give flowers to the living, brighten their day;
Risk versus reward? Free, what I might bring.
I own the lamp post, where I tie my horse;
These tasks in hand, planned; I'll do, in due course!
Michael Todd (2015)
Disclaimer: This is not so much about new years resolutions as it is about directives. It is about time management and obligations, both to self and others... I got the idea for this, following a conversation with Paula Dawn Lietz. In the exchange, she pointed out that everything takes time, and we just need to find a balance.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Snow Angel Suite (for Paula Dawn)
.
.
Snow Angel Suite (for Paula Dawn)
I. Snow Angel (Prologue)
Up well before dawn, that light at break of day;
Snow ceased in the night, another round on the way;
Batteries fully charged, loaded; clean the lense,
Glance out window, too fogged to see the night sky;
Last night's apple crotata and coffee, on the fly;
Out she goes, her intent to shoot some old friends.
Making her way to the gate, gauging snow, ankle deep;
Scan shadows from front porch light, thorough sweep;
One deep breath for good measure, a dizzying effect.
Making a mental note, let that serve as a wake up call.
Pulling up her scarf, disguise serves to hide a scowl;
In untypical fashion, she's knowing not what to expect.
II. Snow Blind
Three hills and three valleys successfully trekked;
View crest of a pine ridge, sun rises at it own pace,
An old familiar place, but she's never felt so alone.
An arcade of animals is what she has come to expect;
Hillside barren, yields nary a track in snow to chase.
Where are her animals, she asks. Where have they gone?
She muses to herself, "Maybe I have gone snow blind?"
Resigning herself to make it up that hill, to the top;
If she spots no willing participants, she will recede.
Setting forth on a clear path, all the angles aligned;
In motion, all is symmetrical, toward a place to stop;
Hope is in sight, allowances vanish, that she concede.
III. Summit on the Ridge (Part One)
Black Bear, basking in the shadows, flat of his back,
Groundhog twitching, muttering to no one in particular;
Cougar says, "You cannot assume credit or take blame."
Marmot says, "He's not listening. He enjoys the flack."
Gray Fox concludes, "For all his predictions, I am sure
he is sincere, and not just about seeking the acclaim."
Squirrel and Chipmunk shadow boxing, to Stoat's delight;
Porcupine plays, off to the side. None will get near.
Gray Wolf circles, alone in near distance, by choice;
Rabbit runs about, proclaims "She's coming into sight."
Stoat flashes warning, "Be quiet, lest she might hear."
Within moments, she's close enough, they hear her voice.
IV. Snow Angel
Arctic winds appear, in a flash, swirling, as if on cue,
She resigns, she could leave empty handed. That won't do.
She feigns indifference and spins, falling on her back.
She will create an image in the snow, since others lack.
As the girl shimmies and twists and windmills all about,
The animals in hiding, curious, can not figure this out.
Once her perpetual motions subside, she's come to rest,
Knowing full well, her snow angel will be her very best.
Hearing a cracking sound, she looks to see a projectile;
A tree top gives up the ghost, descending like a missile!
Reflexes take charge, she rolls away from impending harm,
Ever thankful to her mother earth for sounding that alarm.
A treetop falls in the forest. Only she can hear the sound.
She takes her cue as time to be on her way, homeward bound.
Glancing down at her camera, she got nothing on this trip.
She pirouettes, takes single shot, no focus, from the hip.
As the blizzard intensifies, she searches for a landmark.
Any will do, but here at midmorning, it feels like dark.
She found a barbed fence, or it found her. Call it fate.
She was in too big a hurry to guess which way to the gate.
She grasped the strand, sliding down, cutting her arm.
Sliding under, tore her pants, certain cause for alarm.
To avoid sliding into the pond, last obstacle to defeat,
Which she did; Smelling wood smoke, her journey complete.
V. Sermon from The Mount
One by one, each animal emerged from its hiding station.
As the girl was making her way down the frozen grade,
Lynx proclaimed, "We were wrong." Do not create rumor,
when face to face; go that route with an apparition,
down a road, where truth and innuendo merge and fade.
"It was she who taught you to have a sense of humor."
One by one, each animal froze, looking at each other.
The voice that spoke, not one of their own, that tone
came from one that bore feather, one who looked down.
"She led you to a place you can't go back, don't bother
with the how and why, or dwell on a time that is gone,
when you cast glance of aspersion, in fear or frown."
A the voiced boomed, each looked up toward the skies
to see a Great Gray Owl secured, regnant, in a birch.
"Witnessing your transformation, you never noticed me;
She speaks, you gather her message and all it implies."
They all nod in approval, at the sermon from the perch.
His departing last words, "Sorry I broke your tree."
VI. Summit on the Ridge (Part Two)
Fox said, "Owl made some good points. She is sly as I,
and I am sure I can speak for us all, a collective,
we all owe her a debt of gratitude, we can't repay."
Rabbit said, "Sure, but that is no reason to not try.
What I learned from her, not to take more than I give."
He wished she was still here, and had not gone away.
Bear said it was best if he followed, to make sure
She was safe. "When she left, she seemed... shaken.
While I am gone, you all be on your best behavior."
Bear took notice of Wolf, eyeballing the mule deer.
"Harm that deer, Sir, it'll be your last step taken.
I will feed you to the fishes, to even that score."
VII. Hearth and Manor
Later, that very same evening, a chapter comes to close.
Sitting alone in the manor, a time to reflect, suppose;
One who many would proclaim to have been annointed,
Is dealing with a bout of melancholy, disappointed,
At the puzzling events of the day; only Heaven knows.
She walks about the room, gazing at paintings on display.
Stirring the blaze in the fireplace, poker keeping at bay,
Hand on a hearth that has stood one hundred years,
Resolve engaging, as her mind is shifting gears,
Recalling a potential visual clue, hidden in her cache.
She sits on the sofa, with a needle and thread, to sew
her demin disaster of the day, torn pants in the snow.
Her arm is a little tender, from a barbed wire scrape,
No major call to alarm, but it does impede her grip.
Turning them inside out, a good ruching, it won't show.
VIII. Shadows Blend
All of her chores of the day are done,
her focus now devoted to just one end.
Unsheathing the camera to look for one
image of the day, where shadows blend.
She peruses the picture taken in haste;
stroke of luck, not grainy or blurred.
Over shot her errant angel, a wasted
click; no disaster, and nothing furred.
She plays with the image, resolution,
snow and trees, ridge line inclined.
Still life bearing witness, confusion;
one last glance. What does she find?
A single set of eyes, the gaze intent.
Magnifying glass removed from drawer,
Maybe this wasted day, time well spent,
She confirms another set, then one more.
Why would they see her, choose to hide?
Thought of prank never crossed her mind;
For sure, each set of eyes was open wide.
She over zoomed the image, only to find,
The eyes melded with snowflakes, in pairs,
Wild ravages of winter mix, animals tame,
Whirling and tumbling ice, frozen stares,
Dispelling myth of no two flakes the same.
Too late to consort with brush and canvas,
she knows to not commence, fighting sleep;
hating to put it down, knowing she must;
Clenching her fist; hold images, to keep.
Calls it a night, laying head on a pillow,
Reasoning, not all she saw, is as it seems.
Likening to classic design, blue on willow,
she sees her painting, complete, in dreams.
IX. Portrait
Pairs of snow flakes in perfect unison,
all laid out on display, for us to see;
under auspice of science, art; as one.
Look at how they float, defying decree.
Are there skeptics? None are stating their case;
doubters among throng, concede, it is true;
absolute, symmetrical, points in place,
with nary a blemish in sight to view.
Never before witnessed by eyes of man,
leaving nothing to confound or dispute;
in plain sight here, no way to spin this plan;
each detail of tandems, found resolute.
Two snowflakes just alike, no room for doubt;
zeal yields for those who can't figure this out.
X. Snow Angel (Reprise)
First day of April, she steps out, no thought of risk.
Unseasonably cool this year, winds are up and brisk.
She sets out, in the direction she found a ploughshare,
in search of a new image capture, not a worry or care.
Turned around, (to look at the sun would be cheating),
taking advantage of opportunity, as these become fleeting.
It may take a little longer to get back, to traverse,
but you will always find her trusting in her universe.
She happens on a storm cellar, all that's left of a domain.
Stepping down, inside, curious as to what might remain.
Shining a light, seeing all four walls, forlorn and bare;
from where she is sits, see could see all of nothing there.
An epiphany falls, as epiphanies tend to do, if we wait.
She realizes she is sitting squarely atop a wooden crate.
Prying it open, she finds, in mint condition, dinner ware,
a full set of weeping willow dishes, packed with loving care.
She recalled her dream, on the evening she caught a vision,
when painting the snowflake eyes became her life's mission.
Mon espoir est la vôtre à part. Je vous attends pour commencer,
on a note that fell from between plates. When did this occur?
Translation, "Love is in the air. I feel it in my heart."
She concluded, "Seems someone was off to a pretty good start."
Packing the dishes, with care, she pressed the lid secure.
Climbing from the cellar, she mused, "This concludes the tour."
Making a bee line for her house (she was never really lost),
"Some discoveries are just not for sharing. Consider the cost."
For all the words and works of art she chose to put on display,
Countless more, only seen by her... She's just made that way.
Michael Todd (2014)
Written for Paula Dawn Lietz. Her Website is...
http://www.pdlietzphotography.com/
.
Snow Angel Suite (for Paula Dawn)
I. Snow Angel (Prologue)
Up well before dawn, that light at break of day;
Snow ceased in the night, another round on the way;
Batteries fully charged, loaded; clean the lense,
Glance out window, too fogged to see the night sky;
Last night's apple crotata and coffee, on the fly;
Out she goes, her intent to shoot some old friends.
Making her way to the gate, gauging snow, ankle deep;
Scan shadows from front porch light, thorough sweep;
One deep breath for good measure, a dizzying effect.
Making a mental note, let that serve as a wake up call.
Pulling up her scarf, disguise serves to hide a scowl;
In untypical fashion, she's knowing not what to expect.
II. Snow Blind
Three hills and three valleys successfully trekked;
View crest of a pine ridge, sun rises at it own pace,
An old familiar place, but she's never felt so alone.
An arcade of animals is what she has come to expect;
Hillside barren, yields nary a track in snow to chase.
Where are her animals, she asks. Where have they gone?
She muses to herself, "Maybe I have gone snow blind?"
Resigning herself to make it up that hill, to the top;
If she spots no willing participants, she will recede.
Setting forth on a clear path, all the angles aligned;
In motion, all is symmetrical, toward a place to stop;
Hope is in sight, allowances vanish, that she concede.
III. Summit on the Ridge (Part One)
Black Bear, basking in the shadows, flat of his back,
Groundhog twitching, muttering to no one in particular;
Cougar says, "You cannot assume credit or take blame."
Marmot says, "He's not listening. He enjoys the flack."
Gray Fox concludes, "For all his predictions, I am sure
he is sincere, and not just about seeking the acclaim."
Squirrel and Chipmunk shadow boxing, to Stoat's delight;
Porcupine plays, off to the side. None will get near.
Gray Wolf circles, alone in near distance, by choice;
Rabbit runs about, proclaims "She's coming into sight."
Stoat flashes warning, "Be quiet, lest she might hear."
Within moments, she's close enough, they hear her voice.
IV. Snow Angel
Arctic winds appear, in a flash, swirling, as if on cue,
She resigns, she could leave empty handed. That won't do.
She feigns indifference and spins, falling on her back.
She will create an image in the snow, since others lack.
As the girl shimmies and twists and windmills all about,
The animals in hiding, curious, can not figure this out.
Once her perpetual motions subside, she's come to rest,
Knowing full well, her snow angel will be her very best.
Hearing a cracking sound, she looks to see a projectile;
A tree top gives up the ghost, descending like a missile!
Reflexes take charge, she rolls away from impending harm,
Ever thankful to her mother earth for sounding that alarm.
A treetop falls in the forest. Only she can hear the sound.
She takes her cue as time to be on her way, homeward bound.
Glancing down at her camera, she got nothing on this trip.
She pirouettes, takes single shot, no focus, from the hip.
As the blizzard intensifies, she searches for a landmark.
Any will do, but here at midmorning, it feels like dark.
She found a barbed fence, or it found her. Call it fate.
She was in too big a hurry to guess which way to the gate.
She grasped the strand, sliding down, cutting her arm.
Sliding under, tore her pants, certain cause for alarm.
To avoid sliding into the pond, last obstacle to defeat,
Which she did; Smelling wood smoke, her journey complete.
V. Sermon from The Mount
One by one, each animal emerged from its hiding station.
As the girl was making her way down the frozen grade,
Lynx proclaimed, "We were wrong." Do not create rumor,
when face to face; go that route with an apparition,
down a road, where truth and innuendo merge and fade.
"It was she who taught you to have a sense of humor."
One by one, each animal froze, looking at each other.
The voice that spoke, not one of their own, that tone
came from one that bore feather, one who looked down.
"She led you to a place you can't go back, don't bother
with the how and why, or dwell on a time that is gone,
when you cast glance of aspersion, in fear or frown."
A the voiced boomed, each looked up toward the skies
to see a Great Gray Owl secured, regnant, in a birch.
"Witnessing your transformation, you never noticed me;
She speaks, you gather her message and all it implies."
They all nod in approval, at the sermon from the perch.
His departing last words, "Sorry I broke your tree."
VI. Summit on the Ridge (Part Two)
Fox said, "Owl made some good points. She is sly as I,
and I am sure I can speak for us all, a collective,
we all owe her a debt of gratitude, we can't repay."
Rabbit said, "Sure, but that is no reason to not try.
What I learned from her, not to take more than I give."
He wished she was still here, and had not gone away.
Bear said it was best if he followed, to make sure
She was safe. "When she left, she seemed... shaken.
While I am gone, you all be on your best behavior."
Bear took notice of Wolf, eyeballing the mule deer.
"Harm that deer, Sir, it'll be your last step taken.
I will feed you to the fishes, to even that score."
VII. Hearth and Manor
Later, that very same evening, a chapter comes to close.
Sitting alone in the manor, a time to reflect, suppose;
One who many would proclaim to have been annointed,
Is dealing with a bout of melancholy, disappointed,
At the puzzling events of the day; only Heaven knows.
She walks about the room, gazing at paintings on display.
Stirring the blaze in the fireplace, poker keeping at bay,
Hand on a hearth that has stood one hundred years,
Resolve engaging, as her mind is shifting gears,
Recalling a potential visual clue, hidden in her cache.
She sits on the sofa, with a needle and thread, to sew
her demin disaster of the day, torn pants in the snow.
Her arm is a little tender, from a barbed wire scrape,
No major call to alarm, but it does impede her grip.
Turning them inside out, a good ruching, it won't show.
VIII. Shadows Blend
All of her chores of the day are done,
her focus now devoted to just one end.
Unsheathing the camera to look for one
image of the day, where shadows blend.
She peruses the picture taken in haste;
stroke of luck, not grainy or blurred.
Over shot her errant angel, a wasted
click; no disaster, and nothing furred.
She plays with the image, resolution,
snow and trees, ridge line inclined.
Still life bearing witness, confusion;
one last glance. What does she find?
A single set of eyes, the gaze intent.
Magnifying glass removed from drawer,
Maybe this wasted day, time well spent,
She confirms another set, then one more.
Why would they see her, choose to hide?
Thought of prank never crossed her mind;
For sure, each set of eyes was open wide.
She over zoomed the image, only to find,
The eyes melded with snowflakes, in pairs,
Wild ravages of winter mix, animals tame,
Whirling and tumbling ice, frozen stares,
Dispelling myth of no two flakes the same.
Too late to consort with brush and canvas,
she knows to not commence, fighting sleep;
hating to put it down, knowing she must;
Clenching her fist; hold images, to keep.
Calls it a night, laying head on a pillow,
Reasoning, not all she saw, is as it seems.
Likening to classic design, blue on willow,
she sees her painting, complete, in dreams.
IX. Portrait
Pairs of snow flakes in perfect unison,
all laid out on display, for us to see;
under auspice of science, art; as one.
Look at how they float, defying decree.
Are there skeptics? None are stating their case;
doubters among throng, concede, it is true;
absolute, symmetrical, points in place,
with nary a blemish in sight to view.
Never before witnessed by eyes of man,
leaving nothing to confound or dispute;
in plain sight here, no way to spin this plan;
each detail of tandems, found resolute.
Two snowflakes just alike, no room for doubt;
zeal yields for those who can't figure this out.
X. Snow Angel (Reprise)
First day of April, she steps out, no thought of risk.
Unseasonably cool this year, winds are up and brisk.
She sets out, in the direction she found a ploughshare,
in search of a new image capture, not a worry or care.
Turned around, (to look at the sun would be cheating),
taking advantage of opportunity, as these become fleeting.
It may take a little longer to get back, to traverse,
but you will always find her trusting in her universe.
She happens on a storm cellar, all that's left of a domain.
Stepping down, inside, curious as to what might remain.
Shining a light, seeing all four walls, forlorn and bare;
from where she is sits, see could see all of nothing there.
An epiphany falls, as epiphanies tend to do, if we wait.
She realizes she is sitting squarely atop a wooden crate.
Prying it open, she finds, in mint condition, dinner ware,
a full set of weeping willow dishes, packed with loving care.
She recalled her dream, on the evening she caught a vision,
when painting the snowflake eyes became her life's mission.
Mon espoir est la vôtre à part. Je vous attends pour commencer,
on a note that fell from between plates. When did this occur?
Translation, "Love is in the air. I feel it in my heart."
She concluded, "Seems someone was off to a pretty good start."
Packing the dishes, with care, she pressed the lid secure.
Climbing from the cellar, she mused, "This concludes the tour."
Making a bee line for her house (she was never really lost),
"Some discoveries are just not for sharing. Consider the cost."
For all the words and works of art she chose to put on display,
Countless more, only seen by her... She's just made that way.
Michael Todd (2014)
Written for Paula Dawn Lietz. Her Website is...
http://www.pdlietzphotography.com/
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Stolen (Sonnet for Lainey)
.
.
Stolen
Stolen artifact, favored possession,
A pilfering of trinket and heirloom,
Would surely fail in feint comparison,
Precise moment you walk into the room.
Who grants the right for you to look that way?
I'm weak in the knees; you've said not a word.
My wherewithal falls, into disarray,
Composure cannot be manufactured.
There is no synonym for the word, "Love."
Caught up here in the subtle web you weave,
You are all I hope and dream, in and of;
There is but one way I can see you leave;
Granted, a far reach, my expectancy ~
Grasp firm my hand, and steal away with me.
Michael Todd (2014)
.
Stolen
Stolen artifact, favored possession,
A pilfering of trinket and heirloom,
Would surely fail in feint comparison,
Precise moment you walk into the room.
Who grants the right for you to look that way?
I'm weak in the knees; you've said not a word.
My wherewithal falls, into disarray,
Composure cannot be manufactured.
There is no synonym for the word, "Love."
Caught up here in the subtle web you weave,
You are all I hope and dream, in and of;
There is but one way I can see you leave;
Granted, a far reach, my expectancy ~
Grasp firm my hand, and steal away with me.
Michael Todd (2014)
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Russian Doll (for Christine Gabriel)
.
.
Russian Doll
She answered an ad, one calling for a mail order bride.
The trades, in the sixties, replied by postal mail sent.
He strolls onto the set as both of their arrivals coincide.
She was to be a Russian counterpart to this Italian gent.
She'd plied her trade, for grade, at Oberlin, in Norwalk,
That liberal arts college in Ohio, on the honor system;
A bilingual brunette, who could walk the walk, talk the talk;
Ideal counterpart for this "next Valentino," an unknown gem.
Their play opened in Duluth, Minnesota, ran for but a day.
The troupe packed and was bused to the next scheduled venue.
This afforded the actors time to practice lines along the way.
They left town so fast, no one had a chance to read a review.
The plot, one of intrigue, taking place during the cold war,
A time of uncertainty across political and social terrain;
The leading man recited his line, "My name is Rappaport."
Zarya presented her credentials to be his new ball and chain.
Plot called for him to be wed, in order to receive inheritance;
This was all for show, to collect, just an elaborate ruse.
The mail order scheme was a risk, but well worth the chance;
A desperate girl might respond, one having little to lose.
Those in the know, kept to themselves, Rappaport's secret.
Zarya, made head of household, played and dressed the part.
So happy to escape Federation, she'd be forever in his debt,
He envisioned a time they might explore matters of the heart.
By the time the curtain closed, after the second act of three,
The audience was made aware, Zarya came on wings of portent.
Who knew that espionage was her intent, not a desire to flee?
Crowd squirming, confirmed, never trust one with that accent.
Patrons witnessed, as his secrets became Zarya's to reveal.
Rappaport was oblivious to her scheming ways and her intent.
As the final act closed, Rappaport's impending demise was real,
Proof positive, theater goers' time and money was well spent.
As was custom, actors lined the lobby to meet each patron.
Rappaport was deluged with "well done" and even "great show."
Zarya received minimal accolades, as she was revered by none.
Eventually, when time for pass and review, she would not go.
The play, from every angle, in the Northeast, was a success.
Plans were made to take it south of the Mason Dixon Line.
Why they chose such an ambitious move was anyone's guess,
Their current tour, making bank, showed no signs of decline.
After a two weeks hiatus, a vacation well earned and overdo,
The troupe found themselves on stage, in action, in Tennessee,
Two weeks booked, nights and matinees; after that, who knew?
They took Music City by storm, their names blazoned Marquee.
No one in the cast saw it coming, when word came down to all,
The performance about to commence, would be the final fling.
As to why the production was short on funds, was anyone's call.
That everyone would be paid in full, helped to ease the sting.
Emotions in the lobby, running high, after final curtain call.
A man petitioned Rappaport, asking if he would discuss a deal.
They would talk later, if Rappaport could bring the Russian Doll.
That is what the man called her. To him, Zarya was all too real.
The following day, Christine and Rodney signed up for service;
No reason to delay, so for them it was sooner rather than later.
From all indications, the acting business here was hit or miss.
The man with a plan, touted, "Both of you were born to cater."
To appear in stage character, was stipulated in their deal,
He would keep his Rappaport regal air and Zarya, her accent;
With the money promised, neither felt put out, to make it real.
Their employer sold it well, that every night would be an event.
Nashville is chock full of singers and writers who entertain.
For our party host and hostess, the success door opened wide.
Rodney's unscripted performances came off lethargic and plain;
While Christine's stock was rising, his was in steep decline.
Rodney was called into the office, offered a chance to redeem;
He and the girl would make a killing, just for one petty theft.
An audio tape was the object of desire; the want of that stream
was essential to a future success. Rodney took the bait and left.
It seems, a Nashville tradition, is to try for an answer song.
Ever since Kitty followed Hank as a honky tonk angel with heart,
First one gets if right, the other caught up, seemingly wrong.
A successful answer song can be a career milestone, or a start.
Rodney pitched the idea to Christine. "We are better than this,"
Was her stern reply. "Just this one time, Baby, I'm on my way,"
was Rodney's response. Their decision, ultimately, was his.
She said, "Just this once, I'm done, and you're on your way."
The event, a major record release party, held the next night;
Christine's task, to sneak into the mansion's basement studio,
Procure a demo tape with new album songs, and exit stage right,
Before the artist got wise. Spying the drawer, wouldn't you know,
A stiff wind blew through an open window, then a power surge
Brought the lights down. She found herself alone in the dark.
She froze in silence, sure she heard breathing. On the verge
Of panic, Christine's inherent fear, that she was now the mark.
One door opens, as another drawer is closed, heard in stereo,
Christine was busted. Gazing around the room, following a beam,
A man holding a flashlight said, "Where did your partner go?"
She wanted to ask the same, but instead, just listened to him.
He locked the door, just as the lights came back on, to view
his intruder, telling her these walls were lined to hold sound.
Looking about, she saw walls lined with gold records, strewn
next to awards and decrees, documenting success he had found.
What, or who possessed her next, an unanswerable question,
As she went into character, that of Zarya, the Russian Doll.
She spoke with her accent, as the the country legend quizzed on,
As to who sent her, though he knew the answer. He knew all.
"I got a tip. He talks too much when drinking. I understand
why he bears me ill will. Simple truth is, he has that right.
Years ago, I stole an answer song from him, just as we planned.
My accomplice, believe it or not, was his wife, on that night."
"She is gone now. For what it's worth, I want my conscious clear.
My solution to remedy this transgression is to give you the tape.
No strings attached, you just act like you stole. It is here."
She read the label, took it in hand, and made her mock escape.
Christine had no way of knowing, the man had already switched,
so the tape she held would be of no use, when she passed it on.
The singer had no way to know, his perfect plan was bewitched.
The sounds had already been swapped, by another, who was gone.
Her employer and his staff of writers worked through the night.
By noon the next day, the lyrics to a dozen songs were complete.
Chistine told him she could sing; turns out, the girl was right.
She had them all recorded in record time, which was quite a feat.
By the next day, radio stations were spinning the advance track.
This single would take the industry by storm, revive a career.
Before it could make top ten, an answer song played back to back;
Juke boxes and disc jockeys featured both, the rest of the year.
The height of a career is to play the awards show, on the screen.
Television cameras fucused on the legend, sitting on his stool,
While beside him, stood the next big thing, future country queen,
Following his act to a standing ovation. She took him to school.
The following week, a small group of fans rolled up in a tour bus.
The Legend's home was the second stop, according to the guide.
Tourists come, to see the stars, who live better than than us.
Studio door was ajar, inviting curious onlookers to step inside.
They found him in there, sitting at his desk, stone cold still.
An empty bottle of tequila, cap off; seems the worm had turned.
An enthusiastic camera bug snapped a shot, as they often will.
Guide said, "No more pictures! That one will have to be burned."
The Nashville police were called, in event there was foul play.
Coroner closed his eyes, said it appeared his heart played out.
The man with the camera, slipped out, making a clean get away,
Thinking about a week's worth of pictures, they'd take, no doubt.
Call for a shroud misconstrued; florist showed up with a bouquet.
When the news came across the radio, his street filled, a parade
of thrill seekers and sentimental sorts, who always make their way
to toss accolades toward a perfect stranger; a simple charade.
His funeral, celebrity laden, for the former star, casket closed;
A who's who list of stars attended, those who wrangled a pass.
It was a one sided mix of spotlight hounds and friends supposed.
"Amazing Grace" sung, as sunlight streamed through stained glass.
It might come as a surprise, but he had real friends left behind.
Several gathered for a remembrance affair, over on Music Row.
After a night of drinking, conscious clearing, only to find,
one burning question. What of the girl, and where did she go?
The girl in question, Christine, was now touring the midwest,
in a renovated Eagle bus, provided by an exec from her label.
Fleeing the confines of music city struggles, she thought it best
to take her road show north; no desire to be part of their stable.
She played state fairs and rodeos, always ending a tour in Ohio.
Christine and the Russian Dolls, two back up singers for stage.
"Russian Doll" on the inlays of her guitar, so all would know;
Christine, though forgotten in Nashville, was a heartland rage.
She and her bass player found themselves romantically inclined,
Up to and including real love, the lasting kind, not about lust.
At first break from the road, each signed a marriage license.
They stepped away from touring, seeing need for time to adjust.
With a baby on the way, Christine thought it best to retire.
As to where they would live, her choice, where to settle down.
Only one clear choice, she enthusiastically voiced her desire,
and with decision made, she was heading back to Norwalk Town.
This Saturday past, Christine was digging through artifacts;
A local charity had come calling, for an auction impending.
She discovered a box, filled with fan letters, loose stacks.
In the mix, mail unopened, a six cent stamp paid for sending.
She opened and read a personal message for her, in deep detail,
where this guy had taken a picture, then decided to conceal,
but a still voice came to him in the night, telling him to mail
the image to her, which he did, decades earlier, to reveal...
A picture of the country singer, sitting silent graveyard dead,
and just behind him, a familiar girl, striking yet subtle figure.
Christine recalled a picture on the wall, when her employer said
the image was of his former wife. This was her, she was sure.
Christine never knew of the double tape switch, so irony eludes.
She went through life thinking the iconic figure played fair.
Having no question at hand, resolve is a ghost. That concludes
this chapter in the life of the answer girl. We'll leave it there.
Michael Todd (2014)
Note: Many thanks to Christine Gabriel for her inspiration. Christine is a writer, currently in the process of writing "The Crimson Chronicles Series." The first book in the series has been released... Please visit Christine at her website... http://thecrimsonforest.com/
.
Russian Doll
She answered an ad, one calling for a mail order bride.
The trades, in the sixties, replied by postal mail sent.
He strolls onto the set as both of their arrivals coincide.
She was to be a Russian counterpart to this Italian gent.
She'd plied her trade, for grade, at Oberlin, in Norwalk,
That liberal arts college in Ohio, on the honor system;
A bilingual brunette, who could walk the walk, talk the talk;
Ideal counterpart for this "next Valentino," an unknown gem.
Their play opened in Duluth, Minnesota, ran for but a day.
The troupe packed and was bused to the next scheduled venue.
This afforded the actors time to practice lines along the way.
They left town so fast, no one had a chance to read a review.
The plot, one of intrigue, taking place during the cold war,
A time of uncertainty across political and social terrain;
The leading man recited his line, "My name is Rappaport."
Zarya presented her credentials to be his new ball and chain.
Plot called for him to be wed, in order to receive inheritance;
This was all for show, to collect, just an elaborate ruse.
The mail order scheme was a risk, but well worth the chance;
A desperate girl might respond, one having little to lose.
Those in the know, kept to themselves, Rappaport's secret.
Zarya, made head of household, played and dressed the part.
So happy to escape Federation, she'd be forever in his debt,
He envisioned a time they might explore matters of the heart.
By the time the curtain closed, after the second act of three,
The audience was made aware, Zarya came on wings of portent.
Who knew that espionage was her intent, not a desire to flee?
Crowd squirming, confirmed, never trust one with that accent.
Patrons witnessed, as his secrets became Zarya's to reveal.
Rappaport was oblivious to her scheming ways and her intent.
As the final act closed, Rappaport's impending demise was real,
Proof positive, theater goers' time and money was well spent.
As was custom, actors lined the lobby to meet each patron.
Rappaport was deluged with "well done" and even "great show."
Zarya received minimal accolades, as she was revered by none.
Eventually, when time for pass and review, she would not go.
The play, from every angle, in the Northeast, was a success.
Plans were made to take it south of the Mason Dixon Line.
Why they chose such an ambitious move was anyone's guess,
Their current tour, making bank, showed no signs of decline.
After a two weeks hiatus, a vacation well earned and overdo,
The troupe found themselves on stage, in action, in Tennessee,
Two weeks booked, nights and matinees; after that, who knew?
They took Music City by storm, their names blazoned Marquee.
No one in the cast saw it coming, when word came down to all,
The performance about to commence, would be the final fling.
As to why the production was short on funds, was anyone's call.
That everyone would be paid in full, helped to ease the sting.
Emotions in the lobby, running high, after final curtain call.
A man petitioned Rappaport, asking if he would discuss a deal.
They would talk later, if Rappaport could bring the Russian Doll.
That is what the man called her. To him, Zarya was all too real.
The following day, Christine and Rodney signed up for service;
No reason to delay, so for them it was sooner rather than later.
From all indications, the acting business here was hit or miss.
The man with a plan, touted, "Both of you were born to cater."
To appear in stage character, was stipulated in their deal,
He would keep his Rappaport regal air and Zarya, her accent;
With the money promised, neither felt put out, to make it real.
Their employer sold it well, that every night would be an event.
Nashville is chock full of singers and writers who entertain.
For our party host and hostess, the success door opened wide.
Rodney's unscripted performances came off lethargic and plain;
While Christine's stock was rising, his was in steep decline.
Rodney was called into the office, offered a chance to redeem;
He and the girl would make a killing, just for one petty theft.
An audio tape was the object of desire; the want of that stream
was essential to a future success. Rodney took the bait and left.
It seems, a Nashville tradition, is to try for an answer song.
Ever since Kitty followed Hank as a honky tonk angel with heart,
First one gets if right, the other caught up, seemingly wrong.
A successful answer song can be a career milestone, or a start.
Rodney pitched the idea to Christine. "We are better than this,"
Was her stern reply. "Just this one time, Baby, I'm on my way,"
was Rodney's response. Their decision, ultimately, was his.
She said, "Just this once, I'm done, and you're on your way."
The event, a major record release party, held the next night;
Christine's task, to sneak into the mansion's basement studio,
Procure a demo tape with new album songs, and exit stage right,
Before the artist got wise. Spying the drawer, wouldn't you know,
A stiff wind blew through an open window, then a power surge
Brought the lights down. She found herself alone in the dark.
She froze in silence, sure she heard breathing. On the verge
Of panic, Christine's inherent fear, that she was now the mark.
One door opens, as another drawer is closed, heard in stereo,
Christine was busted. Gazing around the room, following a beam,
A man holding a flashlight said, "Where did your partner go?"
She wanted to ask the same, but instead, just listened to him.
He locked the door, just as the lights came back on, to view
his intruder, telling her these walls were lined to hold sound.
Looking about, she saw walls lined with gold records, strewn
next to awards and decrees, documenting success he had found.
What, or who possessed her next, an unanswerable question,
As she went into character, that of Zarya, the Russian Doll.
She spoke with her accent, as the the country legend quizzed on,
As to who sent her, though he knew the answer. He knew all.
"I got a tip. He talks too much when drinking. I understand
why he bears me ill will. Simple truth is, he has that right.
Years ago, I stole an answer song from him, just as we planned.
My accomplice, believe it or not, was his wife, on that night."
"She is gone now. For what it's worth, I want my conscious clear.
My solution to remedy this transgression is to give you the tape.
No strings attached, you just act like you stole. It is here."
She read the label, took it in hand, and made her mock escape.
Christine had no way of knowing, the man had already switched,
so the tape she held would be of no use, when she passed it on.
The singer had no way to know, his perfect plan was bewitched.
The sounds had already been swapped, by another, who was gone.
Her employer and his staff of writers worked through the night.
By noon the next day, the lyrics to a dozen songs were complete.
Chistine told him she could sing; turns out, the girl was right.
She had them all recorded in record time, which was quite a feat.
By the next day, radio stations were spinning the advance track.
This single would take the industry by storm, revive a career.
Before it could make top ten, an answer song played back to back;
Juke boxes and disc jockeys featured both, the rest of the year.
The height of a career is to play the awards show, on the screen.
Television cameras fucused on the legend, sitting on his stool,
While beside him, stood the next big thing, future country queen,
Following his act to a standing ovation. She took him to school.
The following week, a small group of fans rolled up in a tour bus.
The Legend's home was the second stop, according to the guide.
Tourists come, to see the stars, who live better than than us.
Studio door was ajar, inviting curious onlookers to step inside.
They found him in there, sitting at his desk, stone cold still.
An empty bottle of tequila, cap off; seems the worm had turned.
An enthusiastic camera bug snapped a shot, as they often will.
Guide said, "No more pictures! That one will have to be burned."
The Nashville police were called, in event there was foul play.
Coroner closed his eyes, said it appeared his heart played out.
The man with the camera, slipped out, making a clean get away,
Thinking about a week's worth of pictures, they'd take, no doubt.
Call for a shroud misconstrued; florist showed up with a bouquet.
When the news came across the radio, his street filled, a parade
of thrill seekers and sentimental sorts, who always make their way
to toss accolades toward a perfect stranger; a simple charade.
His funeral, celebrity laden, for the former star, casket closed;
A who's who list of stars attended, those who wrangled a pass.
It was a one sided mix of spotlight hounds and friends supposed.
"Amazing Grace" sung, as sunlight streamed through stained glass.
It might come as a surprise, but he had real friends left behind.
Several gathered for a remembrance affair, over on Music Row.
After a night of drinking, conscious clearing, only to find,
one burning question. What of the girl, and where did she go?
The girl in question, Christine, was now touring the midwest,
in a renovated Eagle bus, provided by an exec from her label.
Fleeing the confines of music city struggles, she thought it best
to take her road show north; no desire to be part of their stable.
She played state fairs and rodeos, always ending a tour in Ohio.
Christine and the Russian Dolls, two back up singers for stage.
"Russian Doll" on the inlays of her guitar, so all would know;
Christine, though forgotten in Nashville, was a heartland rage.
She and her bass player found themselves romantically inclined,
Up to and including real love, the lasting kind, not about lust.
At first break from the road, each signed a marriage license.
They stepped away from touring, seeing need for time to adjust.
With a baby on the way, Christine thought it best to retire.
As to where they would live, her choice, where to settle down.
Only one clear choice, she enthusiastically voiced her desire,
and with decision made, she was heading back to Norwalk Town.
This Saturday past, Christine was digging through artifacts;
A local charity had come calling, for an auction impending.
She discovered a box, filled with fan letters, loose stacks.
In the mix, mail unopened, a six cent stamp paid for sending.
She opened and read a personal message for her, in deep detail,
where this guy had taken a picture, then decided to conceal,
but a still voice came to him in the night, telling him to mail
the image to her, which he did, decades earlier, to reveal...
A picture of the country singer, sitting silent graveyard dead,
and just behind him, a familiar girl, striking yet subtle figure.
Christine recalled a picture on the wall, when her employer said
the image was of his former wife. This was her, she was sure.
Christine never knew of the double tape switch, so irony eludes.
She went through life thinking the iconic figure played fair.
Having no question at hand, resolve is a ghost. That concludes
this chapter in the life of the answer girl. We'll leave it there.
Michael Todd (2014)
Note: Many thanks to Christine Gabriel for her inspiration. Christine is a writer, currently in the process of writing "The Crimson Chronicles Series." The first book in the series has been released... Please visit Christine at her website... http://thecrimsonforest.com/
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Quiet Time
.
.
Quiet Time
When I was a youngster, I was at a friend's house, on a Saturday afternoon. We had just watched the Dick Clark show, American Bandstand, and were left with not much else on the tube except for a Shirley Temple movie or snow skiers tumbling down a hillside.
I spied an old picture book on the coffee table, and asked my friend if I could look at it. She said I could, but there was not much to see in it. It belonged to her grandmother, who was living with the family now that her husband had passed away. The grandmother still owned her house in East Tennessee, so most of her belongings were there, but the picture book was among the possessions she brought to Memphis.
Most of the pictures were of her children and grand children. Only a dozen or so photos of she and her husband were to be seen. As I was looking through those a second time, after we had gone through the entire album, I remarked to my friend, that it was a shame the couple never went anywhere, as all the images were obviously from around their home.
Can you imagine my surprise, when a voice from behind me said, that was not the case at all? Neither my friend or I had heard her come into the room. We had no idea she was looking over our shoulder. I apologized for my remark. She said that was not needed. Then she sat between, cradled the picture album and told us some stories.
Quiet Time
Perhaps you can tell, he was camera shy;
He said "I would only do this for you,"
Never stood still, rather wiggly and spry;
I remain challenged to explain just why.
This is his best, in my humble review."
Taken on the night he chose to propose,
I can still see him there, on bended knee.
Dressed to impress in his finest of clothes.
How he stirred up nerve, only heaven knows;
Dreamed of the day he'd ask to marry me.
Life was quite hard in that small rural town.
See his heart's passion, plowed deep through that field;
A living carved out through green shares in brown
Sporting a Stetson, but held like a crown.
Unable to keep his love there concealed.
Here he is dressed for a game of baseball.
Traveling teams, came for barnstorming fun.
Cleats ripped his leg, an unfortunate fall;
Poured Coke over it, no fussing, that's all,
True healing magic, he hits a home run!
We're all smiles here at the sweet county fair.
My prize peaches turned blue-ribbon that day.
Look close, you can see me clutching a bear.
For years, we left it in sight without care
Our children welcomed to find it to play.
Bless his heart, he was born with two left-feet.
Here we are at a Saturday square-dance.
Refusing to give up and take a seat.
Got a mail-order lesson, set complete,
To learn how to Charleston, study his stance.
Here were are on our ride to meeting day.
Never missed a Sunday, not a time late;
I'd visit after, his patience at play.
Notice that porch swing, we'd sit there all day;
Each afternoon, like a wondrous new date.
You do not see, but he was in this scene.
He's the one doing the picture taking.
His hand was steady, his eyes were quite keen;
Said it was like viewing life on a screen;
Knowing well the memories he was making.
We never thought about leaving our home.
We had it all, never feeling alone,
Even when our kids went out on their own.
Neither felt burdened by an urge to roam.
I never knew quiet, 'til he was gone.
She closed the book, then set it on the stand;
Rose to her feet, giving a solemn stare.
There is not a place, I now understand,
Where they had not spent time, just as they planned,
Except that one place.... He was waiting there.
Michael Todd (2014)
Disclaimer: I wrote the draft for this, back in the Spring, as a poem to give to Lainey. She likes Robert Frost. I was trying to write with a rhyme scheme that was similar to a Frost piece. I have seen Lainey do those, in a challenge, and she owns them.... When I realized, I was so far off the mark, rather than shelve the poem, I sent it to Lainey, asking if she would help me with it. What you see here is the finished product she provided. Seriously, I probably averaged a major mistake per stanza... So, unlike that Frost poem, where he came to a fork in the road, and chose one over the other... in my case here, I chose to turn around and go back, to get my bearings, which in this case, was going back to Lainey, in order to get it right. Hey, if she could teach me how to write a sonnet (she did), surely, in time she can get me to where I can do one of these all by myself. But, in the event I cannot, if is always good to know she is there for me.
September 10 is Lainey's Birthday.
.
Quiet Time
When I was a youngster, I was at a friend's house, on a Saturday afternoon. We had just watched the Dick Clark show, American Bandstand, and were left with not much else on the tube except for a Shirley Temple movie or snow skiers tumbling down a hillside.
I spied an old picture book on the coffee table, and asked my friend if I could look at it. She said I could, but there was not much to see in it. It belonged to her grandmother, who was living with the family now that her husband had passed away. The grandmother still owned her house in East Tennessee, so most of her belongings were there, but the picture book was among the possessions she brought to Memphis.
Most of the pictures were of her children and grand children. Only a dozen or so photos of she and her husband were to be seen. As I was looking through those a second time, after we had gone through the entire album, I remarked to my friend, that it was a shame the couple never went anywhere, as all the images were obviously from around their home.
Can you imagine my surprise, when a voice from behind me said, that was not the case at all? Neither my friend or I had heard her come into the room. We had no idea she was looking over our shoulder. I apologized for my remark. She said that was not needed. Then she sat between, cradled the picture album and told us some stories.
Quiet Time
Perhaps you can tell, he was camera shy;
He said "I would only do this for you,"
Never stood still, rather wiggly and spry;
I remain challenged to explain just why.
This is his best, in my humble review."
Taken on the night he chose to propose,
I can still see him there, on bended knee.
Dressed to impress in his finest of clothes.
How he stirred up nerve, only heaven knows;
Dreamed of the day he'd ask to marry me.
Life was quite hard in that small rural town.
See his heart's passion, plowed deep through that field;
A living carved out through green shares in brown
Sporting a Stetson, but held like a crown.
Unable to keep his love there concealed.
Here he is dressed for a game of baseball.
Traveling teams, came for barnstorming fun.
Cleats ripped his leg, an unfortunate fall;
Poured Coke over it, no fussing, that's all,
True healing magic, he hits a home run!
We're all smiles here at the sweet county fair.
My prize peaches turned blue-ribbon that day.
Look close, you can see me clutching a bear.
For years, we left it in sight without care
Our children welcomed to find it to play.
Bless his heart, he was born with two left-feet.
Here we are at a Saturday square-dance.
Refusing to give up and take a seat.
Got a mail-order lesson, set complete,
To learn how to Charleston, study his stance.
Here were are on our ride to meeting day.
Never missed a Sunday, not a time late;
I'd visit after, his patience at play.
Notice that porch swing, we'd sit there all day;
Each afternoon, like a wondrous new date.
You do not see, but he was in this scene.
He's the one doing the picture taking.
His hand was steady, his eyes were quite keen;
Said it was like viewing life on a screen;
Knowing well the memories he was making.
We never thought about leaving our home.
We had it all, never feeling alone,
Even when our kids went out on their own.
Neither felt burdened by an urge to roam.
I never knew quiet, 'til he was gone.
She closed the book, then set it on the stand;
Rose to her feet, giving a solemn stare.
There is not a place, I now understand,
Where they had not spent time, just as they planned,
Except that one place.... He was waiting there.
Michael Todd (2014)
Disclaimer: I wrote the draft for this, back in the Spring, as a poem to give to Lainey. She likes Robert Frost. I was trying to write with a rhyme scheme that was similar to a Frost piece. I have seen Lainey do those, in a challenge, and she owns them.... When I realized, I was so far off the mark, rather than shelve the poem, I sent it to Lainey, asking if she would help me with it. What you see here is the finished product she provided. Seriously, I probably averaged a major mistake per stanza... So, unlike that Frost poem, where he came to a fork in the road, and chose one over the other... in my case here, I chose to turn around and go back, to get my bearings, which in this case, was going back to Lainey, in order to get it right. Hey, if she could teach me how to write a sonnet (she did), surely, in time she can get me to where I can do one of these all by myself. But, in the event I cannot, if is always good to know she is there for me.
September 10 is Lainey's Birthday.
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