We Don't Do That Here!

Paper airplanes whizzing by.

The chatter of little voices.

==========>>>>      Running around, waving arms.

Stomping about.

                        Silence.

A loud “THUD” could be heard down the hallway.  Then the sound of hard-soled shoes clomping on the tile floor.

The footsteps were getting louder.

That could only mean that the feet to which they were attached were also getting closer.

Closer.

                CLOSER.

                                    C L O S E R.

You could hear a pin drop.

“Hey!  We don’t do that here!”

              

     

Footnote: I did not attend Catholic school, so I don't have first-hand knowledge of what the Sisters/Nuns were/are like, however, in talking to others that did survive that experience I'm told it's every bit as fun and joyous as it sounds!.  tomb 

Can It Be Repaired?

I took it to my doctor’s office.  They called my name and I followed the nurse into the exam room.

“Good morning,” he said.

Me:     Hello.

Nurse: How are you?

Me:     Eh, I’m alright.

I fidgeted in my chair.

The nurse took my blood pressure and pulse.

“Normal.”

I smiled.  I was normal!

Nurse:   The doctor will be in shortly, he said as he left the room.

The doctor arrived rather quickly; always a good sign.

Me:     Doctor, do you see this?, I said, holding my hand over my heart. 

It aches.  Down to my bones it aches.

Dr.:     Any place else?

Me:     No, just here.

“Hmm,” he said, scratching his head.

Me:     Can it be repaired?

Dr.:     In time, the pain will lessen and eventually disappear.  How are you feeling now?

Me:     I think I’ll be okay.  I’m normal.

If There Were No Rules

If there were no rules,

What would I do?

Would I run naked through the meadow,

Or sit and eat glue?

I think if I wanted

Maybe, I’d try

Jumping off the roof, just

To see if I’d fly!

I’d splash in the puddles,

Dance in the rain,

Sleep in my treehouse,

Then do it again.

I might even try jumping over a bush,

But last time I tried that I crashed on my tush!!

I learned from my teacher,

One morning in school;

To keep us all safe,

That’s why we have rules!

As Night Falls

As night falls, I pull down the shades, turn down the lights, and get ready for another cozy night in Portland.

I have a cup of tea; sometimes as a treat I have hot chocolate.

Get out my journal and write about what I did today.

I write for what seems like hours.

I set down my pen and my journal.

Yawn and stretch.

s   t   r   e   t   c   h

                                                           

Sip the last of my tea.

Off with the lights.

I’m at peace.

Good night.

I Come From...

… a little town west of the Appalachians, west of the mighty Mississippi, west of the Rockies, and west of the majestic Cascade mountains.

It’s a town divided by a river, across which span several bridges.

To some folks it is a big city, to others a small town.  To still others, myself included, it is a big city with a small town feel to it.

It is known by many names:

• Bridgetown
• Stump Town
• River City
• The Rose City
• Microbrew Central

My little town, my city, my home was named as the result of a coin toss in the 1800s.

It’s not much, but it’s my home, my little slice of Heaven, along the banks of the Willamette River.

I come from …

Gold Lame Thong

During my involvement with Write Around Portland as a class participant, our facilitator, Janet, threw out the term "Gold Lame Thong" on a whim.  For my part, I went with it and pulled this little piece together over the course of the next few days.  I hope you enjoy it! 

Gold Lamé Thong!

One day as I was skipping along,

Not doing much just humming a song;

Who should I spy but good old King Kong, he said,

“Hey, take a look at my gold lamé thong!”

I said, “Whoa, King, baby, that thing’s pretty long,

Why it’s big enough to be a sarong;

Does it even hide your monstrous ding-dong?

That shiny, metallic gold lamé thong?”

Rhinestones and silk and leather won’t do;

Neither will cotton or macramé, too.

To suit his odd fancy, I’d get it all wrong,

He’s just got to have that gold lamé thong!

It’s not made of metal, like a big Chinese gong, and

Not made of glass like a water-pipe bong;

That funny old monkey, he’s in quite a throng,

When he’s not wearing his gold lamé thong!