Too Much

Too Much

Too many ideas rattled in the little lady’s head. There was shopping to do, clothes to find, perhaps some lunch, a brief chat with the man at the market before he told her to move along, a visit with Squishy, her friend on Vine St. But before any of these happened, the little lady had to straighten up. The clothes had to be folded, the food secured out of sight, and cart’s left front wheel had to be freed up again. It was sticking lately. She left home, carefully shutting the corrugated door flap, pulling the plastic awning down and tucking it under a heavy rock. It was always good to leave the house…
johnreedclark 10/15/96

Fresh Paint

A man on a park bench feeds all the birds
Listens to laughing and 'fun-having' kids

His eyes unaware of the tears in his furrows
His eyebrows all bushy they block the bright sun
Remembrance of when he needed no walker
A nod to the youth that spins on the swing
His lips tremble lightly with head tilted sideways
His shoulders they sag from the weight of the world

Sore feet in brown boots with unmatching laces
Throb from the pain also felt in his hips

A fine classy lady sits gently at one side
Whispers and talks with polite elegance
With respect he looks deep into her spirit-like eyes
And talks with her gladly as soul inside cries
All alone in this world with old stained tweed jacket
She visits him often and converses all day

The laughter of kids is warm and so heartfelt
He misses his family and so names the birds

Hours pass quickly the days are a blur now
The children all laugh as he talks to himself
He fondly remembers his own spinning swing
And forgives the children as pigeons are fed
A day not too far now the birds they go hungry
And must learn to fend and to feed for themselves

No longer a walker sits next to the park bench
An elegant spirit no longer says hi
The laughter keeps on but echoes to no ear
Even swing spinning no longer seems fun

The child sits lonely on motionless swing set
Unaware of the tear which seeps from his eye
johnreedclark 2/2/05

Birthers

The original post here has been deleted. I want to de-politicize this blog as much as possible. Enjoy the site. Quick read something up or down the page before I begin to rant again.....grumble....

I'm Rubber, You're Glue*

Name calling. Childish, immature,

pissing contest

Advancing nothing

Congress



*post edited based on reader comment! Thanks (I use the word "Your" instead of "You're" in the title). That's what happens when you type too fast. Sorry

Mushroom Goddess

My grandfather once told me he was happy to be retired. He was able to go to the horse track any time he wanted. I saw a bit of depth in those still sharp eyes. I saw sadness. In those pools echoed the regret of deeds undone. Of potential never realized. Of worth not cashed in.

I visited grandpa years later. It's amazing how quickly time passes. He was older, I was in my 20's. It was his birthday, 80 years old. We gathered around in a sterile, barren room with overly used long tables, the type you see at public functions with so much tape remnants, and straggly bits of crepe paper clinging to the memory of some party.

This table had bits of some earlier meal shared by many, as the previous occupants of this room had been less than fastidious. Grease still shined in a non-pattern across one section of the table, while my end held the uncoveted fallen of hastily eaten pizza.

A mushroom lay posed, perfectly cut, decorated with the right amount of sauce, drizzled with a dash of cheese. An amazing gift from the Mushroom Goddess, it was left here, uncared for, uncleaned, unpraised.

I looked at grandpa, blowing out his candles as he looked at so many strangers. His robe was open, his diaper sagged.

We were all uncomfortable, and eventually grandpa was escorted back to bed. Our goodbyes were unanswered. I looked at everyone cleaning up. I ate the mushroom. It was unfair to leave it behind.

Noodles

Noodles are spindly things. They find themselves twisting and curling, knotting over each other, dog piling on one another. They love being together. They don't care for the regimentation of the box in which they arrive. Better yet, they hope never to be boxed. So it is truly amazing when a young child has cast his or her will against that of the mighty noodle. Glue and noodle, blended with paper to create the ultimate masterpiece a kid can create. An orderly, beautiful portrait of life itself, trying to keep chaos at bay.

To strive for that perfection isn't the goal, though. We become immersed, as adults, in the final product, without enjoying a dab of glue on a piece of macaroni or the funny quandry of trying to remove that stupid orange construction paper stuck to one's hand as we simultaneosly try to finish our semolina masterpiece before the bell rings.

We lose sight of the journey. And that is what this is about. It may not be the most fun and the picture one is asked to portray is often not a favorite subject. It may even be tasking trying to keep all of the individual noodles organized.

We must remember to simply enjoy the creation of the masterpiece as best as one can. Take pride in the making, knowing that a gold star is well earned, even if it can never hang on a refrigerator door.