Some pursue happiness, others create it. ~Author unknown
I caught a bird, a pretty thing:
White of belly, black of wing.
Of course, my mama had a fit;
Didn’t concern her, not one bit.
I snagged him as he flew through the air.
Why not, I thought? He was right there.
And Mama has taught me how to catch.
A flying object is an easy snatch!
This bird felt different from my other toys:
Lots of feathers, not much noise.
But Mama wasn’t playing with us;
She was inside, making a fuss.
She saw that bird hanging from my mouth.
The next thing I knew, the door to the south
Opened with a crash and there she stood —
Mad as a hornet and that wasn’t good.
Outside she flew; a shovel she’d brought.
Is this some kind of new game, I thought?
But no! She sped without a word
Toward my prize, my little bird.
She scooped him up and shouted “No!”
And toward the fence she decided to go.
Hoisted that shovel and tossed him away.
Oh little bird, come back and play!
Note: Mama says this poetic form is in rhyming couplets. I Monkey have no clue!
In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. ~Margaret Atwood, Canadian poet, novelist, activist, and teacher
Maybe Ms. Atwood was onto something, but I’ll wager she drew the line between the scent of “dirt” and that of “mud.”
Rainy, muddy mess
Who does not thank for little will not thank for much. ~Estonian proverb
The other day, Monkey and I were walking along when a truck pulled up beside us, slowed, and its window slid open.
‘I’ll give you $15 for that dog,’ said the stranger with a twinkle in his eye.
I thought about it for a half-second, then replied, ‘You know, there are days — like when I have to pick up this (and I showed him Monkey’s filled poop-bag) that I might take you up on that offer.’
We had a nice chuckle before he drove off.
The encounter left me pondering how much — or how little — we actually value things in our lives.
Things could be worse. Suppose your errors were counted and published every day, like those of a baseball player. ~Author unknown
Our symphonic band’s first concert of this year took place over the weekend and despite practicing, despite some of us being involved for four (or more) years, we finally found a way to crash and burn.
It was bound to happen, but it wasn’t pretty.
I wish you enough good memories to see you through the bad times. ~Pam Brown, Australian poet
Dallas, April 2015
Soul Dog Dallas, and
I guess I always will.
Two years now. You departed
Right as the Pandemic began,
Leaving me sad and broken-hearted.
At last you’re free from pain and misery.
Time really has helped me process the grief
Of your passing, and I must admit
So has the arrival of a
New Sheltie puppy, Monkey.
He’s not you, nor will he
Ever be, but still
It helps to have
Note: This poetic form is called Double Etheree.