Inspired by the lyrics of "Carousel" by Jacques Brel, I first used this title on my newspaper column in the 1970's. The song reflects life as it often appears: "We're on a carousel, A crazy carousel, And now we go around, Again we go around, And now we spin around, We're high above the ground, And down again around, And up again around . . ." I hope my reflections help slow the ups and downs and bittersweet spinning of our lives.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Kona speaks out
While she is not looking, I will take over her blog.
She has ruined an otherwise completely glorious morning. She tricked me. We took a long walk along the beachfront, our customary Friday morning practice, and we even lingered to watch a pod of dolphins leaping gleefully in the surf. We noticed some pelicans skimming the waves in search of food. The warm sun belied last night's chilly winds and lower than average temperatures for late April. What a doggy delight morning!
When we came home, I snuggled up for a nap, only to have her snatch me out of my bed and plunge me into the tub. Before I knew it, she had drenched me. Well, yes, okay, the water was warm; nonetheless, I felt outraged at the trickery. And well, yes, okay, it probably made me smell better as a result, but here's the thing. She rubbed me with conditioner after the shampoo, and now I smell like a coconut. What self-respecting male dog smells like a coconut?
I showed her, though. After she finished drying and combing me, I did a few donuts on the bedroom floor. I messed up those carefully brushed ears. Ha!
I want you to examine this picture closely. Does look like the face of a happy, content dog? Do I look appropriately mistreated and forlorn?
I suppose I must accept this occasional abuse. After all, she has control of the food.
And no, I'm not going to show you how terrifically fluffy I look. It could work against me. And no, I'm not going to admit that I enjoyed my favorite peanut butter-flavored treat afterwards. I could barely smell it for the coconut.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Generations of women
With Mother's Day on the horizon, a pastor friend of mine from Aiea, Hawaii, asked me if I would write a poem for his congregation. He wanted something he could hand out to all the women in his church that Sunday. He nudged me out of my comfort zone with the thought of poetry, but I agreed to give it a try.
To be perfectly frank, thoughts of not uncommon mother-daughter conflicts came to mind first. This, I thought, is not necessarily the stuff of which Mother's Day poems are made, at least not for my intended audience.
I decided to keep thinking.
As I pondered, I glanced at some lilacs and sweet peas on my kitchen table, which inspired this poem, focusing not just on mothers, but on matriarchal influence through generations.
"Generations of Mothers"
As I inhale the sweet scents of purple
From the simple glass jar on my kitchen table
A makeshift vase full of lavender lilacs and violet sweet peas
Grown and tended lovingly in my friend's garden
I close my eyes only to find myself in my grandmother's kitchen
When breezes scented with lilacs and sweet peas lifted me
And today I breathe in my grandmother once again --
Her apples pies, always created with enough extra crust
To allow me to fashion tarts, cutting holes into the tops with her sewing thimble,
Pears blushing in scarlet after their soaking bath in a bowl of red-hots
Her horehound candies highlighted in a crystal dish
Sweet grandmother
Who taught me to play canasta, counting every card
Who watched me scamper through sprinklers on sweltering summer days
Who sat with me on the front-porch swing and shared stories
Who loved me because her only daughter had borne me
Who scrimped and saved to sew my mother's prom dress
Who protected my mother from Pop's periodic binges
Who whispered, "This, too, shall pass"
And turned often to the pages of her well worn Bible
Precious grandmother
Ended her journey after she finished washing windows
Then lay down to rest
Forever
Leaving a legacy of maternal gifts for her only daughter
Her only granddaughter
Her only great-granddaughter
And her only great-great granddaughter
To be perfectly frank, thoughts of not uncommon mother-daughter conflicts came to mind first. This, I thought, is not necessarily the stuff of which Mother's Day poems are made, at least not for my intended audience.
I decided to keep thinking.
As I pondered, I glanced at some lilacs and sweet peas on my kitchen table, which inspired this poem, focusing not just on mothers, but on matriarchal influence through generations.
"Generations of Mothers"
As I inhale the sweet scents of purple
From the simple glass jar on my kitchen table
A makeshift vase full of lavender lilacs and violet sweet peas
Grown and tended lovingly in my friend's garden
I close my eyes only to find myself in my grandmother's kitchen
When breezes scented with lilacs and sweet peas lifted me
And today I breathe in my grandmother once again --
Her apples pies, always created with enough extra crust
To allow me to fashion tarts, cutting holes into the tops with her sewing thimble,
Pears blushing in scarlet after their soaking bath in a bowl of red-hots
Her horehound candies highlighted in a crystal dish
Sweet grandmother
Who taught me to play canasta, counting every card
Who watched me scamper through sprinklers on sweltering summer days
Who sat with me on the front-porch swing and shared stories
Who loved me because her only daughter had borne me
Who scrimped and saved to sew my mother's prom dress
Who protected my mother from Pop's periodic binges
Who whispered, "This, too, shall pass"
And turned often to the pages of her well worn Bible
Precious grandmother
Ended her journey after she finished washing windows
Then lay down to rest
Forever
Leaving a legacy of maternal gifts for her only daughter
Her only granddaughter
Her only great-granddaughter
And her only great-great granddaughter
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