A Little Bug-y

The theme for this Poetry Monday is BUGS.
Ewwww...
I'm afraid I've done a bit of cheating today, owing to the fact that I spent a large slice of last week visiting doctors so they can hem and haw over my torn retina.
So, a little poem of mine,
Then my favourite 'Bug' poem.
Me and my one good eye thank you for reading...and listening!

It pro-bab-ly won't come to you as much of a surprise,

I don't like bugs, don't care their colours or their many eyes,

That is one reason Canada's the place that I call home,

The bugs are less and smaller here and less inclined to roam,

I do not find them in the cupboards, or upon my bed,

Don't find them crawling on the ceiling, don't take show'rs with dread.

My Son in Law is similar for his aversion, too,

When we were all on holiday, he caused a ballyhoo,

When his small daughter was affrighted by a centipede,

Whose many legs and six-inch length crossed the floor with speed.

Grabbing up a garbage pail, he beat that bug full sore,

T’was certain that it’d never threaten his girl anymore.

But I heard every ‘thump’ and must admit, it caused me glee,

Good thing he lives in Canada. With small bugs…just like me!

P.S. Don't ever threaten one of his kids...

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Ready for more?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Now, the expert . . .

Bull Stones

I have spent the past week with my Dad.

At 89 years of age, this former rancher and veterinarian has decided to move to the nearby Senior’s Lodge.

He and I and his good friend, Shirley, have spent the time packing.

Boxing away the memories of a lifetime.

The bronze horse that was a gift from his wife on their wedding day. The painting purchased for that same wife a few years later.

Instruments of torture Veterinarian tools and equipment. His leather surgical kit. A box of assorted needles from the days before disposable syringes. His ‘vet’ bag.

Games and dishes and jewelry and bedding and pots and pans and knick-knacks and pictures and clothing and coins and stamps and furniture.

A lifetime.

Some of them were of interest only to Dad . . . 

Shirley and I were collecting the assorted treasures off the top of Dad’s dresser.

There was a valet tray with an assortment of cuff links, tie clasps, buttons and Hereford-themed pins.

Grooming supplies.

And a tiny container, glass-topped, full of little . . . beads.

Shirley shook it. “What is this?”

She handed it to me. I peered at it closely. Multi-coloured little rocks. “Looks like little bits of gravel. From a holiday somewhere?” I handed it to Dad.

He looked at it and smiled. “Oh. These are stones I removed from bulls’ penises during surgery.”

“Oh.” Shirley and I said together.

I’m quite sure my expression mirrored her own.

How do you say ‘ewwww’?

Oh, right. EWWWWWW!

Dad sat back, looking at the little container, still with that smile. Obviously remembering, fondly, his days as a veterinarian.

Yeah. Some memories are a little too . . . memorable . . . for the rest of us.

Care to go through some boxes with me?

Some of the numerous awards his cattle have won over the years.

The keyboard that figured so prominently a day or two ago . . .