Fishing With Annie Girls can't fish properly, you know. That's a crock, and you know it. Who says so? Tommy. He says girls don't like worms. You can tell Tommy that Annie likes worms a whole lot more than she likes him.
Speed Demons In our frantic dash through life, we’ve devised microwave ovens, self-checkout lanes, next day delivery, and blazing gigahertz. Thank God for slow summer days that entice sweet corn seed seven feet toward heaven, lingering kisses in the night, and the nine loving months that mother and child are one.
Homework More than a rainy day game in waterlogged Seattle, Monopoly taught us that some properties were more valuable than others; that hotels cost more than houses, but created income; that landlords were cruel masters, always to be paid; that money could be hoarded, but easily spent; that bankruptcy was shameful, and to be avoided; that banking meant extra work; that addition and subtraction could be managed in the head; and most important of all, that success in life might depend on the roll of dice.
Choices Had I but kept my wits about me in junior high school and taken the Intro To Kissing elective instead of Algebra I (as the system insisted), and then, a year later, (when summer ended), in my sophomore season, opted for the Advanced Kissing elective (as the hormones demanded) in place of Geometry 1 I certainly would have notched a better G.P.A. and perhaps gained greater status with the girls.
Ready Or Not Despite a thousand warnings from people who make it their business to know, the weather-- no matter the season-- is worse than Gramma can ever remember, and she, (God bless her gentle heart) has no business except to remember her childhood, a pleasant time when children played simple games like hide and seek. Her eyes, closed tightly against the bark of a shade tree in the front yard, she counted slowly-- ". . . 98, 99, 100. Here I come, ready or not!"-- so that others, forewarned, hiding amid silent giggles-- until, muscles taut, ready for the race back to the maple-- erupt like cheetahs from behind the neighbor's gate.
American Appetite
Narrow are the
Base Paths
Our
Children
Race
Around.
Slender are the
Willows
That
Shade
Our
Gurgling
Creeks.
Meagre is our
Forgiveness
For
Apologies
Unmade.
Precarious is the
Tightrope
Our
Health
Balances
Upon.
Paltry is our
Patience
For
Hindrance
In
Commutes.
And Solid are the
Laws
Our
Democracy
Rests
Upon.
But Wide as the Mississippi is our
Capacity
For
Kindness,
Generosity,
And
Pie.
Can you see a narrow path, just wide enough for one where two men chanced upon each other a long time ago? In the morning glory, witnessed by a wary sun— did they stop and stare, and wonder, friend or foe? Can you hear the roaring silence of unbridled fear, louder than the wails of most destructive storm? When men came face-to-face, blood pounding in the ear— eyes wild for escape, sensing death’s true form? Can you feel the breath of danger cold upon your face, and hair upon your neck bristling to attention? Were two molded statues, crafted from God’s race— rooted as the oak or maple, actions still undone? Can you see the younger of the two, stalwart as could be, his empty palms extended, no killing blade secret there? Was hatred harbored in his heart, more difficult to see— or reflected in his eyes as youthful courage rare? Can you hear the other man, older yes, tall and lean, notch mute arrow and string his deadly bow? Was language infant then, the world still raw and mean— that no words passed between them, oh so long ago? Can you feel a seething warmth lick across your skin, a glistening swath where death simmers hot and near? Were words so few that mere actions cradled sin— and in your throat you stifle the choking grip of fear? Can you see a selfish path where brave men often kill, and must in desperate haste decide another’s fate? Do you see a fiery blacksmith’s forge, hearts upon the anvil— shaping threatened lives, facing heaven’s yawning gate? Can you feel survival's strain, amid death’s insistent call, when the one with most to lose, smiled and stepped aside? Can you feel the forest’s breath release a sigh for all— where two men chose civility over instinct to abide? Can you see a narrow path where many came to walk, and a pleasant widening grew, and many pause to talk? Where empty hands were grasped to show no harm was meant— and where a wordless truce between two men was heaven sent?
