Full Bucket

I don’t have money, I’m not rich,

But still, I have a bucket list.

There’s nothing daring, none risqué,

No scores to beat, no games to play,

I don’t need danger, cash rewards,

And only things I can afford,

So each takes time (to save some cash),

So nothing quick and nothing rash,

You’re won-der-ing what we could do,

With all those guidlines, plus a few,

Well, think no more how it could be,

We’re on a shoestring, him and me,

Yes, I tell you, it can be done,

And still will be a lot of fun.

We find the least expensive lair,

Clean and comfortable’s all I care,

The least of very costly meals,

We search the bargains and the deals,

And so we’ve managed, guy and girl

To see a lot of this old world.

This week, has been the very best,

I’ve crossed the top one off my list,

Yes, dear old Venice topped them all,

I got to see. I had a ball!

I floated in a gon-dol-a,

And climbed some church’s cup-o-la,

Saw famous art to drop the jaw,

With sculptures, hist’ry, opera,

And still our group was not done yet,

Just how much better could it get?

We watched them manufacture glass,

And tucked into some fine sea bass,

We’d navigate by public mode,

Got used to floating as we rode,

And watched gondolas slip on by

Like eels beneath Venetian skies,

(One thing to know, it’s hard to sleep,

With boats to count, instead of sheep,)

We spent each day from dawn to dark,

Explored from Roma to St. Mark’s...

Now as we leave, I’ve got regrets,

There’s nothing that beats this, I bet,

But...

Somehow, I think I won’t quite leave,

Something will help me as I grieve,

Things aren’t bad as they might seem,

I’ll see the Grand Canal in dreams.

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, my friends and me

Have written poems for you to see.

Please go see what my friends have done,

You’ll be so glad. It will be fun!

Jenny
Mimi
MotherOwl

And now you’ve seen what we have brought...

Did we help? 

Or did we not?

Next week we’re back to Jenny’s bit,

We’ll talk of SOAP, my favourite!

In the Trees

I'm cheating a little for this week's Poetry Monday.

The topic is camping.

And I'm reusing a poem I published a couple of years ago.

It's even more poignant to me today . . .

Each summer, since the dawn of time,

We’d pack our kids and dogs and gear

With plans to spend a week, sublime

And frolic with the bears and deer.

For camping was our family ‘thing’,

Anticipated through the year,

And, oh, what praises they would sing

When finally, the time was here.

We parents’d sit beside the fire

And eat and laugh and shoot the breeze,

While younger legs who’d never tire

Would charge together through the trees.

With shouts and laughter as they ran,

Or giggles, hopefully suppressed.

‘Hide and Seek’ and ‘Kick the Can’

And ‘Find the Flag’ and all the rest.

When daylight waned, called back to camp

To spend a moment round the flames.

And crown the glowing, happy champs,

Then plan for the Tomorrow's games.

What fun to hear those voices shout,

And watch their progress through the trees.

To see them scurrying about

On fleetest feet; or hands and knees.

Time’s gone by. It’s what it does.

And still, we’re camping in the trees.

But something’s missing now, because

There’s silence floating on the breeze.

We parent’s camp, as we have done,

With tales to tell and wood to hew,

But in the trees, there is no one,

No voices yelling, “I’ve found you!”

We tell ourselves it’s peaceful, true,

As restful as someone could wish,

We do the things we want to do,

Like eat and nap and swim and fish.

At night, we stare into the flames

And talk about the times long past.

When woods would ring with noisy games

And summer days forever last.

But now our kids are raising theirs.

And time’s a thing that’s hard to find,

And spending days with deer and bear’s

A priority that’s far behind.

Oh, what I’d give for one more day,

When simple fun brought endless joy,

When games would pass the time away,

And woods would echo with the noise.

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 posted poems for you to see.

Now go and see what they have done

I'm sure it will be lots of fun!

Jenny

Delores

MotherOwl

Mimi

And now you've seen what we have brought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Hospitality

It's Monday again.
Time for a little more rhyme . . .
Today's topic was 'Parents'.
And what could be better than something written by one of them?
From my Mom:

How sweet to greet the welcome guest
And give him sustenance and rest,
To sit with him for half the night
In confab serious or light,
Then tuck him in your own soft bed
And on the sofa lay your head.

And in the morning, sweet, indeed,
To yield the bathroom to his need.
Then break his fast with royal food
Ah! Hospitality! How good!
What else, my host, so warms the heart?
Except to see the guest depart!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

And next week in our neighbourhood,

We'll tackle 'Nature'. It'll be good!

A Meeting in the Meeting

- from a story Daddy liked to tell . . .

His wife was tired, she looked a ‘fright’,

With babies, she’d been up all night.

“He said, “Hun, right here, you’ll stay.”

“I’ll go, myself, to church today.”

She smiled at him with gratitude,

Grateful for the interlude.

He happ’ly went, dressed in his best.

And prayed his wife would get some rest.

‘Twas sometime later. He returned,

His face with discomfort burned.

For two big shiners did he sport,

With one aleft and one athwart.

His wife, her eyebrows she did raise,

He reddened at her doubtful gaze,

“I went to church," he said. "I did!

I wasn’t bad there, God forbid!”

“I sat there good as gold. It’s true!

And others sat around me, too.

We listened. All was calm and peace.

The Spirit flowed and fear did cease.”

“But when the congregation rose,

To sing a hymn (and sleep dispose),

The dame in front of me this week?

Her dress was stuck between her cheeks.”

“Supposing I’d do something kind,

I pulled it, thinking she’d not mind.

But she did! She turned about,

And with her fist, gave me a clout.”

“Well, that explains the first one, dear,”

The second one is still unclear.”

He shrugged, “Well, she made such a fuss,

I thought she must desire it thus.”

So—

With wardrobes, to avoid a smack,

Do not put untucked things back.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

Non-Sense

Today, for Poetry Monday, I'm doing a little self-imposed exercise.

Fill In The Blanks

This is a little ditty quoted by my sainted mother throughout my growing up years. And a little bit after that:

There's so much good in the worst of us
And so much bad in the best of us.
That it doesn't behoove any of us
To talk about the rest of us.

Great poem, right?
So this is my challenge to me.
Take the formula and--see what I can do with it.

Hmm . . .

There's so much life in the oldest of us,

And so much fatigue in the youngest of us,

That we can't possibly, any of us

Try to outwork the rest of us.

This is harder than I thought.

Umm . . .

There's so much fun in the angriest,

And so much mad in the happiest,

That no one can (at any behest)

Say just who is the crappiest.

Yikes.

One more try . . .

There’s so much work in the laziest,

And so much laze in the workiest,

That none of the chores, by mother’s request

Will ever get done, though the house is messed.

Aarrgh!

How about . . .

There's so much forgotten by the oldest of us,

And so much to learn in the youngest of us,

The amount that is known by any of us

Is probably the same as the rest of us.

I give up.

Mom’s really is the best!

Today’s theme for PoetryMonday is Nonsense.

Now go and see what my good friends/poetry mavens, Delores and Jenny have for you!
And stay tuned for Next Monday and the topic of  VACATIONS!

Sorting Souls

Just inside the graveyard fence stood a big old pecan tree.

One day two boys came hunting nuts. In actuality.

They filled a big old bucket (though they spilled some by the fence),

Then sat down right there by the tree so counting could commence.

“One for you and one for me,” said one boy, happily.

“And another one for you and then another one for me.”

A third young boy came riding past the graveyard on his bike,

Heard some voices from inside that sounded quite ghostlike.

Slowed and heard a voice say, “One for you and one for me.”

“One for you and one for me,” it continued gleefully.

In an instant, he had figured who was speaking thus,

Left to find someone with whom all this he could discuss.

‘Round the bend he came upon an old man with a cane,

Hobbling slowly down the road in quite extensive pain.

“Come here quick!” the boy said. “Please believe what I just heard!”

“They’re in there sharing out the souls, both Satan and the Lord!”

He said, “Beat it kid, you see it's hard for me to stroll?”

The boy was firm. The graveyard fence then became their goal.

Standing by the bars they heard those fateful words once more,

“One for you and one for me.” As had been said before.

The old man whispered, “Boy, you're right. What you said is true!”

“Let's move closer by the fence and bring the Lord in view!”

They gripped tight those iron bars as they tried to get a glimpse.

But they could not see anything. Though they hung there like two chimps.

At last they heard, “For you. For me. That's all and ain’t this fun?”

“Let's get those nuts o’er by the fence and then we will be done!”

The old man led for a good half-mile, just running like a deer,

Before the kid on the bike shot past and left him in the rear.

'Tis Monday and I know you know that that means poetry.

So visit Jenny and Delores. Now that you've seen me!

From Here to There

Source: I Heart My Snap
Boy on the bridge

Life is a bridge from here to there,

Some years of joy, some years of care,

It's sometimes hard, while forward bound,

To stop.

And take a look around.

At times, clear footsteps on the wood

Will tell you life is sound. And good.

With all things joyful in your track

You look ahead, and never back.

But other times the winds will blow,

And send down hail, and sleet, and snow.

The struggle's more than you can bear,

You're bowed before your load of care.

Then storms move off, as all storms do,

The sun returns, and warmth anew.

And life goes on, from day to day,

With times of toil and times of play.

Life is a bridge from here to there,

Some years of joy, some years of care.

And though it's hard, while forward bound,

Please stop.

And take a look around.

Welcome to Poetry Monday!

The perfect way to start a new week.

Delores and Jenny are also involved.

Zip on over and see what they have done to start their week!

The Sendoff

Another 'Daddy' Story:

It's all true!

“Great Grampa,” said the strong young chap,

You’ve lived a very long lifetime,

Please share with me just what to do,

To stay forever in my prime.”

The aged cowboy tipped his hat

And gave the boy a level look,

“Don’t git your lariat in a knot. There

Ain’t no script and no guidebook.

But one thing I kin tell you, sure,

(Though first, the thought may not appeal!)

It has to do with eatin’, Son,

Each mornin’, gunpowder on your meal.”

The boy just nodded. That, he’d try.

Then every day, without debate,

He’d sprinkle just a pinch or so

Of sulfur, charcoal, and nitrate.

Yep. Every morn on his oatmeal.

It worked! He saw a hundred three,

And when he died, at that great age,

He left a large posterity.

He left his children. (Fourteen!) Yep.

And grandkids? Thirty. It is true.

And great-grands, forty-five of them.

And great-greats? five and twenty. Whew!

And there’s one more thing he left behind,

I’ll mention it and then I’ll quit.

The handsome crematorium?

Now a twelve-foot, smoking pit.

I love Mondays!

Because the week begins with Poetry!

Delores and Jenny agree with me.

Hop on over and see what they've created this Monday.

Oh, and have a great week!

Honey Bun

My husby and I went to dinner today.

It’s something we both like to do.

(Let’s face it, I love it when someone else cooks,

Then tidies and does dishes, too.)

Talk drifted through topics both varied and wide,

Like politics, family and pain,

(With short bouts of silence to fork in some food,)

Then starting the talk once again.

We studied our fellow restaurant customers,

And yes. All our comments were nice.

(I know it was something you wondered about,

We were tempted at least once or twice.)

Then the dialogue turned, as it oftentimes does,

To topics light-hearted, amusing,

(I admit I prefer it when talk turns that way

I find it to be less confusing.)

We were talking of heroes and who we thought great,

Of qualities never found lacking,

And whom should be honored. Whom we should retain,

And which should just be sent packing.

My Husby’s my hero, I’ll freely admit.

Though, compared to the others, he’s…round.

His kindness and his generosity shine,

And with many good things, he abounds.

But Husby decided as the talking went on,

My Stud Muffin he just couldn’t be.

Instead he’d consider himself something more,

He’d be my Stud Bun now. To me.

So know as your reading this, Husby and me,

Are having some wonderful fun,

Exploring and wandering throughout the world,

Just me and my honey(stud)bun.

Monday needed help.

So Delores, Jenny and I decided that a little poetry would liven things up a bit.

This is my attempt. 

Hurry over to see what they’ve done!