Small Leading

 

If you’re ever in the jungle, you will know that Jungle Law

Decrees (you’ve heard it) Lion is the king of one and all,

With Elephant upon his right—the brains of what they do,

It’s been that way for centuries, well, give a year or two.

 

But after a particularly trying pronouncement,

The Elephant had had enough, sought Lion in his tent,

He said, “We need new leadership. Your subjects don’t want you,

It’s time for change, my folks are angry. They will stage a coup!”

 

He added, “I have had a thought and it will be a thrill!

Let’s use our wits to choose up sides, then have a game of skill!”

The Lion nodded sagely, “Sir, your challenge I accept,

And thanks for your idea of this daring new concept.”

 

“A game of football, I propose. We each will choose a side,

And demonstrate our leadership and strength, along with pride.”

The Elephant agrees. And Lion chooses for his first,

The speedy cheetah, sure to give the other team his worst!

 

The Elephant then counters with the rhino, large and tough,

He knows with that guy on his team, he’s sure to have enough!

The draft continues back and forth, past chimp and through gazelle,

Down to the very smallest of the jungle’s clientele.

 

And then they started. Lion got the ball, went all the way,

A touchdown! And the game had barely gotten underway!

But when the donkey kicked for field goal, Rhino nabbed the ball,

And reenacted Lion’s team’s first goal (passed one and all).

 

It went like this throughout the game. Yep. Back and forth they blew,

Till fine'ly at the end and tied, each wanting to break through!  

But once again, the Lion scored, and once again the kick

Was caught by Rhino. And his final run was hard and quick.

 

But somewhere there between the lines of twenty and of ten,

Ol’ Rhino tripped and lost the ball, Lion pounced upon it then,

And just like that, the game was won and Lion was decreed,

The rightful king. And Elephant and all his friends agreed.

  

Amidst the celebrations, Lion thought about his luck,

Then went out to field where the Rhino hit the muck,

Found, battered but still quite alive, a tiny centipede,

A creature unknown for his sports ability (or speed!)

  

“Did you trip him?” Lion asked. (The insect on one paw),

“Yessir,” his small friend told him. Lion said, “I’m filled with awe!”

And then King Lion realized just what had happened, when

His team had won the battle. It was Centipede, his friend.

 

“But if you had the skill to do that at the very start,

Why wait until the end? You’re very hard on my poor heart!”

The centipede just smiled, said, “I'm sorry for your blues,

“But you know it takes some time to finish tying all my shoes!”

 

There is a moral here beyond a simple jungle game,

When choosing who would lead you in your future and to fame,

It isn’t just the loud who’ll gladly give you their two cents,

Sometimes it is the little guy who’ll make the dif-fer-ence!

Today's a challenge--po-et-ry,

We're having fun, my friend and me,

And you get rhyming all for free!

Now you've read mine, so go and see

The other. I know you'll agree,

It's everything a poem should be!

Karen of Baking in a Tornado

The Bench at the End of Pederson Street

 

My Husby and me, when our walks are complete,

Well, we both need somewhere to rest our poor feet,

So we two make our way (in a manner discreet),

To our bench at the end of Pederson Street.

 

It is peaceful right there and the sun, we do greet,

We watch people go by, casual or athlete,

Yes, from there we watch life, it seems pretty complete,

From that bench at the end of Pederson Street.

 

We talk of the past and the memories sweet,

Of those days—what we’ve learned in the world, bittersweet,

Of the triumphs (they’re there), and the breakthroughs complete,

All discussed on that bench on Pederson Street.

 

Diseases removed and some new ones to meet,

A wide-reaching pandemic with terrors replete,

And a host of world problems designed to defeat,

Covered best on the bench on Pederson Street.

 

When climatic changes, our planet mistreat,

Disasters of nature, or manmade appete,

When the natural world thrums like a drumbeat,

We’ll solve all on that bench on Pederson Street.

 

A bunny hops by, leaving tracks small and neat,

A soft breeze wafts on through and it smells warm and sweet,

There is peace come to life with no trace of deceit,

And we see it all there on Pederson Street.

 

If it’s peace that you lack and you feel incomplete,

And this life’s become worrisome, don’t state defeat!

There is peace and a place for you here. Take a seat,

On our bench at the end of Pederson Street.

The Leading EDGE in Home Security

Beware!

We were visiting/staying with my husband’s sister at her home in the country.

Surrounded by acres of Adventure.

Our kids loved it.

They had worn themselves out running outside.

Created worlds with Lego inside. 

And were finally tucked into their respective beds.

The visiting adults had visited a while, then followed their example and were peacefully snoring.

My Husby and I were on the hide-a-bed in the family room.

All was quiet.

I should explain, here, that the family room was situated at the top of the stairs.

That the master bedroom was down said stairs.

And that anyone wanting to use the bathroom would have to walk through our room, between our bed and the only source of light in the entire house, the glass patio doors to reach the only bathroom in the house.

Back to my story . . .

I heard a noise.

As the mother of six, I was instantly awake.

A floor was creaking.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

An adult-sized figure materialized out of the gloom beside me making their slow, careful way towards the bathroom.

For a moment, they were silhouetted against the patio door.

Then they disappeared.

I’m not making this up.

They disappeared.

One moment they were there.

A black cutout against the lighter door.

And the next . . . gone.

I sat up.

“Who’s there? What happened?”

My whisper sounded loud in the stillness.

My Sister-In-Law’s voice from the end of the bed, #$%&! Lego!”

The figure reappeared, rising up from the floor.

Its gait subtly altered, it continued towards the bathroom.

Lego is the best, most imaginative toy ever, but those who have had the misfortune of stepping on one of those little blocks with an unprotected foot know the pain.

We weep with you.

P.S. I've just had an amazing thought! Spread Lego blocks around the house for defense. As long as the enemy approaches barefoot, you've got them!

Calliope

 As a bit of a precis…

 

A member of the Bourgeoisie,

My ride I called Calliope,

Centurion, officially,

A sport coupe—early ‘70s.

 

We had such fun, were so carefree,

Ripped up the roads from A to B,

Music screaming like banshees,

From bush party to bush party!

 

Filled with fine teenaged esprit,

(But also strength to some degree…)

E’en went ‘sparking’ (Oh, dear me!)

In the shade of some old tree.

 

The chores were done, I grabbed the key,

An evening’s fun was meant to be,

But first some fuel from gas tank ‘three’,

Or was it ‘one’? Oh, Lord, help me!

 

Decision made, this devotee,

Filled half the tank, then turned said key,

The engine knocked alarmingly,

“Need gas, not diesel,” my Sweet Pea!

 

With fortune smiling at my plea,

(I’d filled it just half-way, you see)

“Top it with gas,” my dad decreed,

Said, “Burn it off!” to Bro and me.

 

Adventure followed, some whoopee,

Car pounded like some timpani,

Cruising ‘Main’, the sights to see,

With all our friends. So young. Carefree.

 

My sweet car aged despite my pleas,

The two doors sagged to vast degree,

Her parts no longer guaranteed,

And way past her own warranty...

 

Calliope went across the lea,

Retired, spent, discharged, set free,

Replaced by new and great. ‘Gutsy’,

But never quite the same. To me.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?
Next week, we'll write (You will be awed!),
Of SPUNKY, OLD and AWESOME BROADS!





Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Craziest Vacation Memory (February 8)
From Your Pet's Point of View (February 15)

Favourite Word that Starts With D (February 22)
Peanut Butter Day (March 1)

To Smile is to...

Today, I`m thinking about smiles.

I love smiles.

Smiles make you feel good.

They cross all language barriers.

And ages.

One of the first milestones we watch for in a newborn baby is that first smile.

 A smile from someone in nasty traffic is a sure-fire way to put the sun back in the sky and help you relax.

A smile is wonderful news.

A smile is friendship.

A smile is love.

But smiles are weird.

Really.

Can you think of any other species that shows its teeth (Or gums. Remember the baby…) as a sign of friendliness and/or encouragement?

Okay, I’ve seen a few dogs, cats and horses and even a couple of bears use their teeth in an ‘affectionate’ gesture of correction toward their young.

Well I assumed it was affectionate.

But seriously, who figured out that smiling was a sure fire way to say, “Hello! I’m so happy to know you! I hope you have a great day!”

It must have started somewhere.

At some point in time, someone said to themselves: I’m going to show my teeth to those people as a sign that I really like them.

See what I mean?

P.S. I did have a dog that smiled. Muffy. (She of the long, shaggy hair and the wiggly bum and the heart of sweet, sweet marshmallow.) She really smiled. But one day, when she was in the yard and I wasn’t, she smiled at the letter carrier, who then called her supervisor to report a vicious dog.

Yep. Smiles are weird.

Death by Toddler

Oh, she only looks innocent...

The soft cascade of warm water and sweet-smelling soap caresses the aged body, following every curve.

And/or bulge.

Problems and irritations disappear down the drain with the water as total relaxation is, finally, achieved.

The warm water continues.

A state of near-bliss is achieved.
Ahhh . . .

Cue: Sharp strings played in a tight Eee! Eee! Eee! Eee!

The shower curtain is pulled back abruptly.

The shower-er spins about with a startled gasp.

A shadowy figure sticks its head into the cubicle.

“Hey! Gramma! What’cha doing?!”

And ‘Gramma’ collapses and dies of a heart attack.

Okay, it doesn’t quite have the punch of the original Psycho. But the death is just as real.

And permanent.

Death by Toddler!

Coming soon to a shower near you.

Rated: ‘T’ for Toddler. There is no stronger rating…

P.S. Grandma is looking into locks for her bathroom door. It has suddenly come under the heading: Essential.

17 17's

 With all the turmoil, I’m worried today. So how will I handle it? I will tell jokes…

You know, I think working in a mirror factory is totally something I can see myself doing.

(I love this one!) I tried really, really hard to catch some fog the other day. Mist.

Someone stole my Microsoft Office the other day and they are gonna pay. You have my Word.

A Roman Legionnaire walks into a bar and hold up two fingers and says, “Five beers, please.”

(Something I just read…) According to statistics, someone in London gets stabbed every 52 seconds. Poor beggar.

I had an event last week. I broke my finger. On the other hand, I am okay!

Here’s something: You know, you are not completely useless. You can always serve as a bad example.

How many Germans does it take to screw in lightbulbs? One. They’re efficient and not very funny.

Women call me ugly until they find out how much money I make. Then I’m ugly and poor.

My grandfather has the heart of a lion. He also has a lifetime ban at the zoo.

Some horrible person went and stole my mood ring. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Parallel lines have so much in common. It is a real shame they will never, ever meet.

You don’t need a parachute to go skydiving. You only need a parachute to go skydiving twice.

Yesterday, my wife accused me of being immature. I told her to get out of my fort.

This just in: I threw a boomerang a few years ago. Now I live in constant fear.

Just say NO to drugs! Well, if I’m talking to my drugs, I’ve probably already said yes.

I told my wife that she was drawing her eyebrows too high. You know, she looked surprised.

Word Counters is a fun word challenge. 

This month's number? 17!

Assigned by me! 

Ready for more?

See what my fellow Word Counters have wrought!

BakingIn A Tornado                    

Messymimi’sMeanderings           

My Hero

 

At six, the first that I recall,

Was in a book for children, small,

A bear who loved his friends and life,

Caused no pain or hurt or strife!

 

At eight, I moved to Nancy Drew,

And Hardy Boys, to name a few,

And Trixie Beldon, Ames girls, wow!

Were certainly the cat’s meow!

 

From there my heroes came and went,

But mostly had a ‘horsey’ bent,

Alex and Black, and Flicka, Ken,

Sham and Agba, read again.

 

Then others picked by happenstance

Until I found Gothic romance.

Filled with love and hate. Desire,

They set my teenaged heart on fire!

 

I read the classics, heroes there

Who managed on a hope. And prayer,

Each time I read with heart agape,

Of daring deeds and tight escapes.

 

I read a lot and wrote a bit,

Had many heroes I admit,

But none were greater, none more fair,

Than that first, stuffed and ‘small-brained’ bear.

 

‘Tis sixty years since last I stood,

With Pooh in ‘Hundred Acre Wood’,

I know this day’s for him, the bear

Who gave such gentle, reasoned care,

 

Two things of many that he said,

They’re part of me, stuck in my head,

If you don’t mind, ‘cause you’re my friend,

Instead of hugs, these words I’ll send:

 

“If there’s…a day…we can’t be together,

Keep me in your heart and I’ll stay there forever!”

“If you live to…a hundred, I want that, less one day,

So I’m never without you whenever I play!”

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With gentle thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, in poems from near and far,

We'll talk about our favourite car!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!

Topics for the next few weeks...

Spunky Old Broads (February 1)

Craziest Vacation Memory (February 8)

From Your Pet's Point of View (February 15)

Favourite Word that Starts With D (February 22)

Come Fly with Me

This story actually happened. During a flight in 1990 between Birmingham, England and Malaga, Spain.

What fun to involve Sally!

Okay, I didn’t believe it, either.

I’ll start at the beginning . . . Or maybe the end . . .

Sally had a movie job in Arkansas.

Mom and I (and definitely Mort) were a tad worried about all this.

I mean, with Covid and all.

But Sally reassured us she would be all right, that they were taking precautions. It was a great opportunity. She needed our support. She would be taking her lucky bamboo. Etc. Etc.

You have to know that Sally can be persuasive.

Anyway, a big car pulled up outside and honked and Sally, mask and face shield donned, hugged Mom and me, kissed Mort and ran out to meet it.

And silence descended.

Well, not totally so, because we do have Scary Gary living just up the street and if anyone can liven up a normal day in a quiet suburb—with Sally gone and Covid raging—my money would be on Gary.

In the three days since Sally left, he managed to let our neighbour’s pigeons out, crash his bike into the Mayor’s garage, and get his foot stuck in the manhole cover in front of his house.

That last was because he had found a crowbar and pried the thing up, intending to . . . I don’t know . . . maybe go exploring? . . . and it slipped.

For the first time in living memory, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles had nothing to do with my family.

It was a wonderful moment.

Okay, well, not so much for Gary’s family, but you can’t please everyone.

Sooo . . . back to Sally.

She arrived back this afternoon. The same car, or something similar, dropped her out front and she sauntered in, Sally fashion.

When we tried to question her about her shoot, "absolutely nothing exciting had happened".

Of course we didn’t believe her.

She patted a hand with chipped and broken fingernails over a wide yawn.

Mom looked at that hand and frowned slightly. But knowing Sally's history (who doesn't) just smiled and said something to the effect of “maybe you should go take a nap” and Sally nodded and disappeared into her room.

A short time later, we could hear the unmistakable sounds of ‘Sally in Slumberland’.

Mom and Mort and I were just sitting down to eat when someone knocked at the door.

Mort did the honours. 

The Mayor was standing on our front step. At least I think it was him. Have you noticed that even people you know well are nearly unrecognizable when they have their masks on? 

True story.

“Is Sally here?” he asked.

We looked at each other. Mom got to her feet and joined the two at the door. “She is, Bill.” (Mom calls the Mayor ‘Bill’, because he’s her gardening buddy and let’s face it, you can’t call the man digging in the dirt beside you ‘Your Worshipfullness’. Well maybe you can, but it would sound weird.

Moving on . . .

“She’s taking a nap right now. Do you need me to get her?”

He put up a hand. “No. No. That’s all right. I’ll talk to her later.”

“Is there something we can help you with?”

He just raised his eyebrows. “Did she say nothing when she came home? About an incident on the plane?”

Mom shook her head. “Nary a word.”

He snorted softly. “Well, ask her when she wakes up. I’m thinking we need a celebration. As soon as Covid lets us.”

He smiled and left.

Mom frowned and looked from Mort to me. “She didn’t talk to either of you, did she?”

I shook my head.

“Nope,” Mort said.

“Huh. I wonder what that was all about?”

“I’m afraid to ask,” I said.

Mom shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.” She looked over at the small TV on the cupboard near the table. “Switch on the news, Mort. Let’s see what’s happening in our catastrophic political scene today.”

Mort did so.

“You know, Sally should run for political office,” I said as he pressed buttons. “She can make a disaster out of almost anything!”

The weather forecast was on. It provided a soft background accompaniment to our meal.

Then, just as we were finishing, Mom’s head suddenly spun toward the set. “Did you hear that?”

Mort and I looked at her. ”What?”

“They just said Sally’s name.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m sure!”

Mort turned up the volume.

“. . . At the very least a citizen’s award of some sort? Things like this do not happen every day.”

“Oh, no!” Mom whispered.

“Shh,” Mort and I said together.

He turned up the volume again.

But the report was over.

Whatever it was that may or may not have had to do with Sally had finished.

Maybe we’d never know.

Pffff . . . Who was I kidding?

A short time later, Sally joined us, once more glowing with freshness. Mom warmed her meal and set it in front of her and she happily started to chow down on spaghetti.

“So, Sal, honey,” Mom started out. “Anything happen while you were gone?”

“Nope. Oh, the shoot was fun. A bit awkward because of the restrictions, but we got through. Anything happen here?”

I lost patience. “Come on Sally! The Mayor was here talking about you and everything!”

Sally wrinkled a smooth brow. “Really? Huh. I didn’t think he was speaking to me after the Halloween party.”

I shuddered. “Apparently, he’s willing to let it slide.”

“Oh, good.”

“Sally! What happened?!”

She shrugged. “Maybe they’re talking about the pilot on the plane?”

“Yes . . .?”

Sally sighed. “Well, we were up in the air and the big front window of the plane popped out and he got sucked out. And I was there having a tour and I managed to grab his legs and hold on till we could land.” She shovelled more spaghetti into her mouth.

We three just stared at her blankly.

“Whaaaat?” Mom said.

“Yeah. The whole thing was just too weird.” She held up her cleaned plate. “Any more spaghetti?”

Use Your Words is a writing challenge.

Karen’s followers supply a few words every month. Then those words are re-distributed among said followers. You don’t know who’s going to get your words or what they will do with them. 

We have a blast! Sound fun? Join us!

My words this month were: 

blank ~ history ~ support ~ opportunity ~ freshness ~ lucky bamboo

And given to me by my Good friend, Tamara at: https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/             

Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:

 

Baking In A Tornado  https://bakinginatornado.com/

Wandering Web Designer  https://wanderingwebdesigner.com/blog

Climaxed https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com

Part-time Working Hockey Mom https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.com/

The Crazy Mama Llama  https://crazymamallama.blogspot.com/ 

P.S. I've had requests for a recap of Sally's Adventures!

If you're interested, here they are, beginning at the...beginning:

Half Baked

When Mom’s Away

Cat-Astrophe

Plastered

(Crow)Barred

Getting Real

Left at the Fork

Left Hanging

Sally Travels

Hanging Out in Hawaii

Almost Home

Doing the Dishes

Uh-Oh

Job Expedition

House Haunting

Putting the ‘Buff’ in Buffet

To the Hilt

Normal

Stunt-Ed

Nosedive

The Ransom of Sally

Gwen’s Turn

Brakes

A Little Mousy

A Lockdown Knockdown

Truth, Forgiveness and Chocolate

Sallyball

Cookie Sail

Learning Manners

Salloween

Too Cozy Cabin

Sally Sitting

The Rather Scary Story

Story Teller extraordinaire.

Storytellers come in all shapes.

And sizes . . .

I am a storyteller.

I come from generations of the same.

Mealtimes were especially noted for the ‘visit’ after the actual ‘stuffing-your-face-with-yummy-food’ part.

A visit that sometimes went on for many enchanting hours.

When we were raising our children, the tradition continued.

One evening we finished eating, then sat visiting until midnight.

True story. And the very best of nights.

Our children are carrying on with their children.

Case in point:

Our eldest son and his family were camping.

Their favourite part of camping is sitting around the campfire and—you guessed it—telling stories.

Everyone has a turn.

Including their newly-minted, just-turned four-year-old, hereinafter known as LeahSqueeah, or LS for short.

LS came out with such notable efforts as: This one night a guy sailed on a ship. Then he flew away. The end.

Okay, admit it. That is adorable.

But she truly shone when telling ‘scary’ stories.

Picture her. Blond hair a nimbus of curls around her little face. Dark eyes shining.

A creepy, 4YO voice.

And little hands curved into claws.

This is her story:

This one night?

There was a GHOST!

And I DIPPED him in hot chocolate.

And ATE him!

The movie rights are available.

Getting It Wrong

 

Two sweet faces

Occasionally, Moms make mistakes.

I just want to get that out there.

They do.

Not often.

But occasionally.

Moms are busy. Usually keeping at least three balls in the air at any given moment.

It's totally understandable . . .

My younger brother, Blair was playing in the front room.

Quietly.

Because he was always quiet.

Our baby sister, Anita, was playing nearby.

Less quietly.

Because she . . . never mind.

She had disdained her basket full of colourful toys and was climbing up on the coffee table and sliding off.

This had been entertaining her for several minutes.

Then, she mis-calculated. Slid off a little too quickly and bumped something important.

Tears ensued. Bringing Mom in a hurry from the kitchen.

She picked her sobbing daughter up from the floor where she lay in a crumpled, miserable heap.

“Blair! What did you do?!”

Blair looked up from the book he was reading, his mouth a perfect 'O' of confusion. “Ummm . . .”

He, too was picked up. 

And summarily parked on the piano bench.

The 'you've-done-something-terrible' spot.

Blair blinked and frowned thoughtfully. Had he done something? He didn't think so.

He had been quietly reading.

Anita had been playing a few feet away on the coffee table.

“But Mom . . .!”

“Don't you 'but mom' me! You stay there and think about what you did!”

Mom marched back out to the kitchen.

Leaving a very confused little boy sitting on the piano bench in the front room.

Anita, tears forgotten, was back crawling onto the coffee table.

Yep. Moms make mistakes.

Fortunately for the future of the world as we know it, it doesn't happen often.

Least Favourite

These days, with duty, sure are rife,

It goes along with living life.

The chores that make our happy home

A somewhat clean and safe biome,

Now, mostly, they don’t bother me.

They satisfy my need, you see,

To have things neat and organized,

And make the house feel harmonized!

But though my house is ‘mostly’ clean,

Before I (in your praises), preen,

I have one chore that I admit,

Perturbs me just a little bit.

And this is it, I will confess:

I clean the floors under duress,

It’s true, you heard it here, from me,

My floors aren’t what they’re s’posed to be,

Okay, they’re ‘clean’, I would suppose,

No clutter, trash, no dirty clothes,

But cleaning as I did in youth?

It’s really hard, and that’s the truth!

Please understand my sad dismay,

I guess it’s not the ‘chore’ each day,

That fills me with so much concern,

And makes me for my freedom yearn . . .

Each day to get to bended knee,

The further the floors are from me.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With gentle thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, to honour "Winnie-the-Pooh Day"

We'll all, in our inimitable way,

Talk of him. Or take a look

At a fav'rite' guy from a fav'rite book!