The Snake Mistake

Over the years
I developed fears
Of a certain snake
Who likes to make
Our garage the place
Of discreet efface,
Shedding its skin
Bursting out from within,
Leaving its legacy
To haunt and menace me;
What could go wrong
With a snake five feet long?
Might it someday roam
Right into my home...
Through narrowest stricture...
You get the picture?
So today, I chanced
To look up - yes I glanced
At the spot where I found
The snake-skins abound.
And, you guessed it, Behold!
The actual live snake of old!
Come once again
To grow out of its skin;
An unwelcome guest
And the scariest pest.
What should I do?
If only I knew!
This thing looked satanic -
I decided to panic.
Grabbing a broomstick,
Like a lunatic,
I whacked at the thing
Hoping to bring
It down.
What a clown!
Do you think it was bothered?
Was it scared being clobbered?
It was probably sneering
At my useless spearing.
Moving rather slowly
It disappeared wholly
Into the insulation
To enjoy its vacation.
So now I am tense;
Have I no sense?
Even more now I'm dreading
The annual shedding
Of the long black snake
Who may avenge my mistake.
How long do snakes live?
Do they ever forgive?

The Wait

Restless activity,
low productivity;
Hard to sleep,
trying to keep
Peace of mind
while feeling inclined
To fear the worst,
like your heart will burst;
Because of the weight
of the long, lonely Wait.

One waits for a job offer
As unemployment empties the coffer.
One waits for college acceptance,
Hoping their chosen path will commence.
One waits for blood-work findings
As their pain keeps on grinding.
One waits for biopsy results;
Braving the unknown like an adult.

All feel fragile and nervous,
Needing our sympathy, support and service.
Having a friend by their side
Can turn the tide
Of fear, anxiety and depression,
Giving their fears and hopes expression,
Assured that we care
Because their burden we share
Through the long, lonely Wait.

Speaking of waiting, I haven’t been able to create a poem every day lately, and it feels like too long a time between poems!

Growing Younger

My mind isn’t what it used to be.
Or, rather, it is becoming what it used to be
fifty years ago!
Maybe it’s not so bad being young again…
To have a young mind
is to live in the moment
to be thrilled by the simple things and
to throw off the cares of the world
because they are boring and complicated
I am grateful for
every blessing
every comfort and
every protection
While I grow younger.

I Want to Fly

The last time I saw the stars in the sky
Was 20 years ago (big sigh!)
Stars were falling every few seconds
A heavenly meteor shower beckoned
          I want to fly!
The last time I looked out over the great Columbia River
Was 25 years ago (makes me shiver)
Every time I see that expanse
I feel the pull to take a chance
          I want to fly!
The last time I flew a kite
Was 40 years ago (that’s right)
Such graceful, delightful dips and turns…
By now you’ve pretty much learned
          I want to fly!
The last time I was swung ’round hand-to-hand
Was 50 years ago (it was grand!)
Weightless, free
Soaring, wheeee!
          I want to fly!
A swing is the closest I’ve ever been
To actually flying through the air (makes me grin)
It’s always tempting to just let go and sail
But Ouch!! The landing – Oh!! The wail…
          I want to fly!
          But I’ll not try

This poem reminds me of a time when a swing really did make me fly.
I was four or five years old, swinging on the kind of swing that has a 
handle for hands which extends also down to the feet.  It's like a pump
I guess, and as the handle is pushed back and forth by feet and hands,
it propels the swing.  I was inexperienced and didn't know that one can
go too far up, to the point where the handlebar pushes down past the
dinosaur head decoration. Well, that's exactly what I did, not knowing
the meaning of the word limits, and I went flying off that swing and
landed face first in the sand pit across from the swing set.  I was 
astonished, wondering what just happened! I learned to respect the 
limitations of swings, haha.

My Complaint

My word department is a mess
It needs to be re-wired.
The gal who ran it all my life
Has recently retired.
In her place is a lazy bum
Who won't do what's required.

Keeping track of language
I admit, can be a chore.
That's why there was a system
Of files in boxes and drawers.
But now when a word is used and sent back
She just tosses it onto the floor
While she watches her favorite shows
With her feet propped up on the door.

In her defense she says
She's created a better way;
All that filing and alphabetizing
Was wasting her very good day.
So when I send the signal
To find a particular say,
She just dips her hand in the sea of tossed words
That surrounds her comfortable quay.
Grabbing the first one she feels,
It gets hurled through the matter gray,
Comes rolling off my tongue in a flash,
But it's not the right word 
What?! - Hey!!

At Least

At least have the bed made
I do not ask a lot
Just show me in this little way
That you’ve given me some thought

At least have the bread made
As often as you are able
It means so much to me
Home made bread on the table

At least have dinner made
And then you can feel free
To do the things you want to do
While I’m away from thee

Oh, and please have dessert too
I love that final sweet
I feel just like a king
When you serve a special treat

You may wonder Who
Is asking this of me
It’s not my spouse – Oh no!
He treats me like a queen

It’s me who asks myself
Yes, my funny little quirk
I pretend they’re his requests
Cuz it helps me do my work