Best Laid Plans

Me, small and meek, and curiously busy
but has not time or moment to seek
more than some housework, which makes me dizzy,
the washing and folding, an occasional weed
to pull in the cracks and crevices
before the weed spreads to seed.

The days, weeks, and moments of planning
to work on a painting, the time is unjust
and what I imagine is time for the taking
is only a matter of time to adjust
my schedule to one or another of lacking
adequate time to begin the said painting.

The frustration experienced while trying to honor
the tug and the pull of different directions
the doer of chores, a wife and a mother,
the sweeping of floors, amidst imperfections,
never ending expectations to bother,
preparing a meal and tasty confections.

What will I do? Will time grant some peace?
Or a piece of time in which to begin
that blasted painting? Or will the mouse
win this battle with men
and nibble away at resolve like a louse
never a moment's piece of zen.

For what happens when hope is lost or is missing
and all of these years hope has been practiced
religiously believed and now it is dashing
like a wave on the shore relentlessly splashes
the moments add up and all of the sudden
one is broken, lost, and is perishing.

My hope is or was to work with a passion
whether cooking, cleaning, or things of that sort
to live each day in some sort of fashion
that elevates beauty, pure thoughts to transport
But life's best laid schemes require so much tension...
naive and hopeful, maybe tomorrow's for art.

Jake Smimabukuro

A quick little poem to ensure
that readers have cause to endure
almost a week's break;
we drove to see Jake
and listen to uke playing pure.

His name is Jake Shimabukuro.
He can only be called virtuoso,
an ukulele he plays
and performs to amaze;
he's become an uke playing hero.

We saw him perform at the Cafe
named Cactus on campus at U T;
an intimate crowd,
spellbound and "wow"ed...
we listened and cheered and were happy.

But now to the new tasks at hand
without which life would be quite bland;
a painting to paint
and supper to bake...
'n staying cool in house air conditioned.

Thoughtless Limerick

Lost for the right words, I am thinking,
but thoughts disappear, or are shrinking;
ever smaller they grow
'til, as you'll soon know
not one small synapse starts it's linking.

So therefore, my mind is a puddle
of nonsense, I am quite befuddled.
I can't seem to think,
my eyes they just blink...
but onward I go, now to muddle.

Muddle through old cardboard boxes,
searching the mess is a shocks-es.
What might I find there?
I had better beware;
there might be a box full of rocks-es.

Or socks-es without the right mate,
just please please contain all the hate,
for with boxes to rhyme
I ran out of time
and thus, sealed my fate, second-rate.

Is it clear that the boxes discussed
in the musty old attic of rust
is akin to my brain
on the border of sane
or at least full of chaos and dust?

Now back to the ole misty fog
that my brain, that ole addled nog,
is trying it's bestest
to have small successes
and write for the readers of blog.

To search all day long, it could happen,
for thinking and thoughts overlappin'
are infrequent it seems
not one thought to scream
about which I could start a rappin'.

And so, gentle reader, adieu;
not one thought from this head came unglued.
Pure nonsense it's been
from the start to the end,
forgive if you think that's just rude.

(First published June 17, 2009)

Ode To Whooping Cough

It's limerick time on this blog,
which happens when life is a fog
of chores left undone
(here's a horrible pun)
and swine flu becomes a news hog.

What happens when life is a mess?
Does one feel the need to confess
that watching TV
and eating (omg!)
a bonbon is life's only quest?

It's true I've been sick for a while,
much ado for a cough that on file
is hacking and wheezy
and even quite sneezy
and something I've come to revile.

Each day is a hope to be well,
completely on track for a spell
of excellent health
(akin to great wealth)
is a story I'm anxious to tell.

Yesterday, I went for a walk
with Hilary, my daughter, we talked
about this and that,
and then you know what?
It happened. I started to cough!

"NO FUN!" I cried, "When will this end?"
I thought I was turning a bend,
a fork in the road,
but my body, it showed
that it still needs some time left to mend.

So, that's what I'm doing today
lying low...keeping sickness at bay.
The best thing by leaps
and bounds and big heaps
is playing the ukulele.

For that I can do while I'm sick,
practice and learn a new trick;
new chords and new strumming,
perpetual humming,
uke playing...my new favorite kick!

(First published May 6, 2009)

Laughing Song

by James Whitcomb Riley

Sing us something full of laughter;
    Tune your harp, and twang the strings
Till your glad voice, chirping after,
    Mates the song the robin sings:
Loose your lips and let them flutter
    Like the wings of wanton birds, --
Though they naught but laughter utter,
    Laugh, and we'll not miss the words.

Sing in ringing tones that mingle
    In a melody that flings
Joyous echoes in a jingle
    Sweeter than the minstrel sings:
Sing of Winter, Spring, or Summer,
    Clang of war, or low of herds;
Trill of cricket, roll of drummer--
    Laugh, and we'll not miss the words.

Like the lisping laughter glancing
    From the meadow brooks and springs,
Or the river's ripples dancing
    To the tune the current sings--
Sing of Now, and the Hereafter;
    Let your glad song, like the birds',
Overflow with limpid laughter--
    Laugh, and we'll not miss the words.

Lil' Bit

A small bit of forest
in our city park
is what I am painting
from now until dark.

It's quite overwhelming
with canvas so large;
the painting is slow,
but at least it's a start.

I better stay focused
(there's no time to diddle)
and paint till exhausted
'cause time is so little.

(First published March 6, 2009)

No More Partridges

The tree branch is gone
indeed the whole tree,
for Reese chopped it down
for himself and for me.

The old tree was rotten
right down to the core;
it will soon be forgotten
though here's one story more....

A year ago December
I wrote a small story;
to help you remember
click here to read more-y.

To sum up, I said
that bird poo was plenteous;
what we wanted instead
of bird poo was just emptiness.

So a year ago, Reese
put on climbing gear,
from his wife got a kiss,
climbed the tree with a prayer.

His goal was to cut
the branch hanging over
the front porch door step
where bird poo was greater.

The job was quite huge
as tree branches fell;
a tree branch deluge
of that I can tell.

Well, Reese was worn out
the job mostly done;
just the trunk standing stout,
just the trunk all alone.

A funny thing happened
the tree seemed to thrive;
the birds kept on crappin'
and bees built a hive.

(The bee part's not real
I needed the rhyme,
the truth is the leaves
started growing in time.)

But reality found
the tree was quite sick;
and Reese took it down
last week -- what a trick.

The photo you see
is Reese working his hardest
to cut up the tree;
cut it all up to sawdust.

I'm happy to say
we are both quite delighted;
the tree's gone away
and no poo has been sighted!

(First published January 14, 2009)