Bravado

Bravado

Queue of quail
Crossing the road
Right in front of my Subaru
And I’m doin’ fifty.

Male quail
In the lead
Shows no fear
And no sign of turning his
Brood to flee.

My foot hovers
Over the brake pedal
Ready to apply pressure
“Please fly!”

Mama quail
Turns tail
Followed by a flurry
Of fleeing offspring.

Papa quail
Toes the yellow line
Holds his ground
As my car streaks by
With only a slight ruffle of his
Feathers.

Vacuuming

Vacuuming

The moment the vacuum
Comes out of the closet
Two dogs get the jitters
Like caffeine addicts
Kicking coffee
Their eyes plead, “Let me out!”
As they dance at the back door.

Cornering like Nascar drivers
Two cats streak at
The speed and blur of shooting stars
Heading for closets to hide.
Husband sits mesmerized
With his PC screen.

The old Kenmore roars to life
As vacuuming commences.
Dead flies, live spiders
Enough cream Himalayan fur
To knit a sweater.
Like magic,
The gold-brown hassock
Relinquishes the haze of Siamese shedding
And resumes its gold-brown coloring.

The carpet is eradicated of
Stiff gray dingo hair.
Short black Rottie contributions
Cling desperately,
Statically,
To linoleum flooring.
Circling the husband’s chair,
No movement there.

Vacuuming complete
Each pet reclaims their favorite haunt
And there is peace,
As well as cleanliness,
Once more.

Dead Tired

Dead Tired

Exhausted.
As flowers drooping
In their unwatered bed.
Near demise.
Muscles aching and complaining,
Ungrateful of the opportunity
To flex repeatedly, monotonously.

Beyond tired.
Tired still has an ounce of energy.
Fatigued has yet the strength to finish
Just one more thing.

The need to rest so great,
That an eternity of it
Might be nearly the time sufficient
To heal this exhaustion.

Good Morning

Good Morning

It is not quite six a.m.,
fifty-eight degrees,
and the sun has just risen
over the hills behind our home.

The goldfinches and crossbills
hummingbirds and black capped chickadees
have been chattering since pre-dawn,
feeding and flitting in the ponderosa pines.

The deck I sit upon,
in my purple Adirondack chair,
is western in location,
so the cool of early morning
wends and winds around my bare legs, bare toes
Like a Siamese cat demanding attention.

God’s good morning kiss is soft
and cool as a breath of air
on my cheek

Sunrise

Sunrise

The hilltop is ablaze
With the sunrise of morning,
Not flame lit by the hand of man,
But of God.
A particle of His glory
Sets the sky on fire
Lemon yellow, pomegranate red,
Seashell coral, plumes of plum
All lavishly dashed
Across cobalt blue.
The sun awaits its cue
To rise
Following such an auspicious announcement
Of yet another day.

Moon

Moon

Moon over mountain
Tricks the eye.
Which is larger?
Earth or sky?

Mountain etched black
In base relief,
Moon steals the scene,
Bright golden thief.

Silver flicks and flashes,
On the gently lapping lake,
Reflecting moon’s glory
For glory’s own sake.

Moon rise triumphant
Mountain lays below
Terrain softly lit
By moon’s benevolent glow.

Company For Dinner

Company For Dinner

The dinner is gourmet
The dessert just divine
And the Chardonnay of choice
A friendly little wine

The room is dimly lit
Conversation flows
It is getting late
But nobody goes

Another cup of coffee
Just a sliver more of pie
Handshakes, hugs and kisses
At the door mark our goodbye

Save the dishes until morning
The food’s been put away
Just the perfect ending
To a very pleasant day

First Thong

Without mentioning my specific age may I just say I am from the generation that wore thongs on our feet, not on our seat? My generation has had to undergo radical verbal counseling to re-train our vocabulary. We now are held accountable to properly refer to what used to be footwear by the twenty-first century title of flip-flops.
Disregard for this clarification of terminology may result in highly confusing and somewhat colorful multi-generation conversations.
"I have sand in my thongs."
"My thongs keep falling off."
"Have you seen my thongs?"
My sister, a size 2, took me, a size none-of-your-business, to shop for my first thong. "You will love it! So comfortable! No panty lines!"
There is only one small catch-one size fits all?
Will all women size 10 or smaller rise, smile and repeat petite-ly after me;
"One size fits all". Please sit down.
Now,will the rest of the room join me in a loud round of making the raspberry sound (tongue between teeth, flutter lips by blowing
forcefully out, resulting in a rude bodily function noise).
Only other women with full figures such as mine will know to what I refer when I ask, "On which set of hip-hills does one place the side lace panels? And, if one takes the higher road, how do you get that ‘comfortable' little hiney-floss to stay out in the open? And, if one does not work one's glutes on a regular fitness regimen, achieving their maximum rock hardness, where is the Lycra control of one's previous granny panties? You know? The ones that give at least an illusion of non-Jello flabbiness to one's derriere?
Good questions all-with no valid comebacks.
One size fits all? My ass!