Sights of Summer

My little family is back at the pool;
Granny in her pink hat, looking cool.
The baby boy jumping into her arms,
Knowing she'll allow him to come to no harm.
The young mother teaching her daughter flips,
Not once does her ability slip.
Then she throws her daughter as far as she can,
The child squealing with laughter since it began.
Another mother shows up with camera in tow,
Her pre-teen daughter has a summer tan's glow.
I will miss the people having such fun
When the winter doldrums have begun.

Rhetoric and Retirement

There is a saying that talk is cheap;
That's because most talk isn't very deep.
The talk about our neighbors and the weather
Is about as valuable to me as a feather.
I prefer talk in which I learn something
And talk that, to my fears, give wing.

I have never been good at small talk,
And from angry words I tend to walk.
Are bits of truth hidden within
Casual words of women, and of men?
Or are words simply a way to kill time
Free of the need for reason or rhyme?

I so look forward to time with dear friends
Where words are usually a means to an end
Of seeing each other all the way to our souls;
When with these friends, I feel more whole.
This cannot be done well in a social setting
Something, we who do lunch, keep forgetting.

Over salads, it's hard to suppress the urge,
Our deepest feelings and thoughts to purge.
When the door has been opened, how do we end,
And once again, into the outside world, blend?
I'm trying to remember that retired friends and I
Now have time together to laugh and to cry.

We no longer have to hold in our true selves
That, for years, we had no time on which to dwell
Months don't have to pass while we live away
Wishing for more time together to have our say.
Now we can parcel out our triumphs and travails,
I hope my sense of urgency will soon pale.

The Cajun Cure

I've been feeling a bit disconnected;
This has caused me to feel dejected.
We finally hit upon something, I was sure,
Would, once again, make my soul seem pure.

Yesterday, we returned to my roots,
On the bayou with my Aunt Toots
Also in his eighties, Uncle Roman,
Laughing at surprises for which they can't plan.

The greatest gift they always give,
Is joy in having purpose for which we live.
Next time we take a trip to down below
My aunt's going to teach me Grandma's gumbo.

Grandma and her husband owned a general store,
But, for much of their lives, they were very poor.
They threw away nothing, every scrap was used;
The flavors of the meat scraps, Grandma's gumbos infused.

There was chicken, bologna, salami, and ham,
And always a roux, browned with loving hands.
The rest of her secrets, she never did say,
But the finishing touch was a spice called filé.

I will learn to make it, with Aunt Mabel's advice,
Then we'll sit down to a supper of gumbo with rice.
My cousins will come to share a few laughs,
The finishing touch on a Cajun repast.

Hiding from Homicide

A lot of days, all I do is hide
So I'm not tempted to commit homicide
Against the many who get great joy
Bringing forth tears from small girls and boys,
Thinking they are preparing them
To hold their own as women and men.

Even on the sportsman's field
Their are rules, to which we yield.
Players are matched by size and age;
This, for the cowards, should set the stage.
It is easy to win when there are no rules
And the youngest and weakest play the fools.

Justice dictates that there be fair play,
Or the biggest bullies always win the day.
Many of us are simply overwhelmed by life;
Communities should share each others' strife.
We can act as referees and partners for each other
If we look upon all as sisters and brothers.

Babies as Bombs or Blessings

Watching out my window, I learn a lot about folks as they watch their kids at the pool and walk their dogs. It seems that the men are mostly on stand-by for emergencies, while the women want to bond with someone else, even if it's not with their children. Women also come to the pool with all kinds of equipment for hygiene, safety, and play.

When a woman walks her dog, she has on her exercise attire, something to drink in her hand or fanny pack, a poop bag, and her cell phone. The men wear whatever they are going to wear the rest of the day; if they're drinking anything, it's coffee or a beer; and they decided to walk the dog to get away from conversation. They know that the condo complex supplies poop bags every fifty feet along the water. If they happen to receive a surprise package from their dog, and they happen to be near a poop pick-up station, then they bend and retrieve the specimen. If not near a poop bag, they generally walk on and figure it's biodegradable, so what's the problem?

Wise women want to be prepared; most men think they are prepared. I think it's because many men love the rush it gives them to figure things out on the fly. That's what heroes are made of. Wise women are afraid of domino-effect consequences, so they over-prepare for every event. Men stay lost in their own thoughts until time to spring into heroic action, leading to a ticker tape parade in their honor. I think we could get more dads to change diapers if we presented dirty diapers as bombs needing to be defused before they detonate, catching them in terrible collateral damage.

Dads also seem to believe in the principle of survival of the fittest; whereas mothers tend to their children as if each is a precious and unique jewel. Dads walk and expect their charges to step in line behind them; mothers spend must energy gathering their chicks under their wings and checking to make sure that nothing is swooping down from the sky or sneaking up from the savannah to grab their baby birds in its sharp-taloned claws.

Dad's figure that you gotta let 'em learn the hard way; if they're scared of the water, throw 'em into the deep end. They'll either drown or swim. Because there are now laws against letting your child drown to teach him or her a lesson, once the emergency is dire enough, dad will save you. Then you have to sit out until you can stop crying like a big baby. What doesn't kill you, will make you strong.

Maybe we should have dads walk around with bowling ball-sized hand grenades strapped to their bellies until the babies they make are born. At the baby's birth, we pull the pin. Everything the dads do, they'll have to hold on tightly to the pin in their bowling ball or risk being blown sky-high. Do they want their progeny to be bombs or blessings?

Soaking In the Spirit and Sunshine

Yesterday, I went out and soaked up some sun;
Floating in an empty pool certainly was fun.
I took a book, Gandhi's autobiography,
And read of his search for religious veracity.

When I felt that I had filled my mind,
I'd close my eyes and float to unwind.
What better place to search for eternity
Than under the sky sheltering all we can see?

Summer Slipping Away

Now that the children are returning to school,
Will I see nothing but an empty pool?
And what will I watch instead of young sailors?
The harbors too small for racing Boston Whalers.

Maybe the multi-generation family,
Whose babies look too young for academies,
Will still take their afternoon swim;
I get a lot of pleasure from watching them.

In the cooler early morning hours,
Long before the daily summer showers,
There are people jogging in the sea breeze
And many walking with dogs they pretend to lead.

There's always something to watch,
Looking out my window near the docks
Simply observing the ripples on the water
Often restores serenity to my thoughts' order.