Back to Writing

My mother has always been a writer. At 97 she still lives alone ten minutes across town. We try to visit each evening.  I really enjoy our talks, usually about our church or our family (my two granddaughters especially) or about our lives in the different churches and parsonages of my Daddy's career as a Methodist pastor or about her growing up days in a mill village in Newton County. Yesterday she asked if I had written much lately and I had to admit that I have done very little writing excepting Facebook posts about politics mostly. So I thought I'd fit a little writing into every twenty-four hours since a big project has just fallen through --- though my wife would remind me that my list of very important stuff to do before my kids inherit my mess is lengthy and I really haven't the time.

I should follow this old advice of my own creation...

The Home Stretch

I haven't done my stretches, as I should.  

My verbs are wretched, stiff as wood.

My nouns are flabby with adjective fat,

wishy and washy as this and that,

gushy and gabby, fallen, flat. 

In the new year now, I highly resolve --

fervently vow -- baskets, buckets, of

rollicking, panting, working verbs,

stomping, splashing, dancing blurbs

to astound, aggrieve, prompt, perturb. 

Here's another...

Poetry

Don't get me wrong. 

I enjoy looking under the hood 

and kicking the tires, 

admiring the styling 

and color 

and detail.

I like knowing the history 

of the make 

and the influences 

that affected the designer.

But mostly I want 

to slide behind its wheel 

and cruise down the river road 

on this warm late April evening 

with the top down 

and Sheila 

nestled 

against my shoulder.