October 28, 2020

Poem: How I Saw What the Gentleman Saw

photo illustration by S. King


Light reflecting off the yellow walls of the hospital room

Gives the scene a warm, nostalgic air it doesn't deserve.

On the bed, a boy cries and screams.

His limbs are spindly, his skin pale, his head overlarge,

Like a six-year-old foetus.

A white-capped nurse holds him down as he flails.

Doctors in white coats wait in the background,

Prepared to fix what's broken.

The boy's mother stands in the doorway

In a blue gingham housedress and brown cardigan.

Her hair is set in curls,

Her face in lines of perpetual worry.

She speaks to the gentleman in the hall,

A friend who has stopped by because.

"It happened again," she says

With perfunctory weariness.

The boy wails, the nurse shushes, the mother shrugs.

"But don't worry about us.

"We'll be all right."

March 21, 2020

Poem: My Children Will Always Be Strangers

digital illustration by S. King, based on a photo by Rene Bernal

My children will always be strangers.
The defining events of their lives,
The bright flags on their timelines;
I saw these as a jaded adult
With decades of perspective
To temper my understanding.
I cannot fathom the imprint
These days leave on young minds.
Whatever shaped me long ago,
The circumstances of my youth,
Are gone or changed forever.
When, someday, I am asked
To answer for the choices made today,
I doubt any reasons will suffice
To those who still remember all
With the stark intensity of childhood.
Each generation has to ask forgiveness
From all the ones who follow.

December 3, 2019

Salted Pecans Recipe

This is my mother-in-law's recipe for salted pecans. I'm posting it here because, well, why not?
It's very simple, and I suppose you could use whatever nut you have in your neck of the woods instead of pecans.

Salted Pecans
Photo by futurestreet


  • One pound pecan halves
  • One stick ( 1/2 cup ) Land O Lakes salted butter
  • Small amount of salt
  • Preheat oven to 300 degrees
Cut up butter and put it on a cookie pan (approximately 12x16). Melt the butter in the oven while it is preheating.  Stir nuts in pan until completely covered in butter. Lightly salt.  Cut off oven and put nuts in and leave until the oven is completely cooled.  More salt can be added when the nuts are taken out.  If the nuts are too salty or have too much butter, shake them in a paper bag to remove the excess.

June 28, 2019

How to Delete the Adobe Cache in MacOS X

All the informational posts I found about this are videos, so here are simple, text-based instructions.


  1. Go to ~/Library/Application Support/Adobe/Common/Media Cache Files
  2. Delete everything in there.
  3. Go up one level to the Media Cache folder & delete everything in there, too.
  4. Now go to ~/Library/Caches/Adobe.
  5. Pick one of the applications and navigate to [Application Name]/[Version No.]/Disk Cache.
  6. Delete everything in there.
  7. Go back to the list of Adobe applications and repeat steps 5 & 6 until you're satisfied. Some applications may not have a Disk Cache.
  8. Empty the trash.

February 19, 2019

Collage: Humility

digital collage by S. King

The collection of photos I found by searching on the word "humility" were, for the most part, not very evocative of that concept. There were a lot of stained glass and illuminated manuscript pictures, a lot of photos of church interiors and showy flowers. Among those, I managed to find three that I thought illustrated humility: a spare jail cell, a wooden figure, and a tree bent down from ice. These photos are by Ben, Saaleha Bamjee, and Saved by Grace.

Right now, spring flowers are just beginning to bloom, but they're still surrounded by winter's dead grass and bare branches. I don't really like the contrast between the beautiful flowers and the ugly, dead winter leftovers. So this piece is a way of trying to pair death with new life, winter with spring, and trying to find beauty in the contrast.

February 15, 2019

Collage: Dialogue

digital collage by Susanna King
I've been in an artistic slump for a while now. For a long time, I didn't feel like creating anything. More recently, I've been inspired to create but felt awkward and out of practice. I wasn't sure how to start again.

These digital collages inspired by a single word have been my go-to creative exercise for years. Even though I couldn't think of a good word myself, I remembered that an email newsletter I get from the Society of St. John the Evangelist includes a daily word for meditation.

Art is a form of meditation for me, so today I meditated on the word "Dialogue." I used my tried and true formula: searching for Creative Commons-licensed images on Flickr using this word, and selecting the ones that spoke to me. The photos included in this collage were taken by Katie Taylor, Olga, and Scott Schiller.

October 13, 2018

Story: Goodbye, Manny

Lily and Caden watched from across the great room as their four-year-old daughter, Carole, played dolls with Manny.  The robot patiently helped Carole change the dolls’ clothes, doing the velcro closures when the girl had trouble.
“You be the mommy and I’ll be the baby,” Carole instructed. “Say we’re going to the playground and the ice cream store.” She handed Manny a doll wearing a ball gown.
“Okay,” replied Manny in his pleasant, medium-pitched voice. “This doll is the mommy and your doll is the baby. We’ll pretend they’re going to the playground and the ice cream store.” He held up the doll in one of his articulated, pincer-like hands. “Let’s go to the playground today,” Manny said, his voice now that of a young woman.
“He’s so good with Carole,” Caden said softly as he sipped his coffee. It was Sunday morning, family time.
“I know,” said Lily. “But I worry he’s getting old. He’s had a lot of glitches lately. I don’t think the last software update agreed with him.”
“Well, when it’s time, it’s time,” said Caden. “Robots don’t last forever.”
Carole made the baby doll talk in a high-pitched voice, bouncing up and down. Manny started to reply, then froze, the waveform display that represented his mouth a broken, pixelated line.
“Manny?” asked Carole, patting him on the arm. “What’s wrong?” She tapped him harder, then turned to her parents. “Mommy? Manny’s stuck again.”
“Again?” Caden asked Lily.
“This is like the third or fourth time since Thursday. Imaginative play, finding lost things, anything that’s too complicated and requires a little thought seems to make him freeze,” Lily said. “This last update was supposed to improve that sort of thing, but for him, it’s made it worse.”
“Sounds like it might be time for an upgrade,” said Caden. “How old is he now? Two and a half years?”
“At least,” said Lily. “Probably more like three.”
Caden watched his daughter poke at the frozen robot’s head while his wife removed a small panel and pressed the reset button. “Yep,” he said. “It’s time.”
Lily stood up. “I’ll make the call today,” she said.
*
“Hospitronix, how can we help you?”
“Hi, yes, our Alphabet Series 3 robot needs to be replaced.”
“All right. Are you looking to upgrade?”
“Yes, we’d like to get the Series 5s.”
“Very good. We can set up the data transfer and delivery for you.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
“When are you looking to retire your Series 3?”
“As soon as possible, I think. Can you come tomorrow?”
  “Let’s see, I can have a specialist come between two and four tomorrow afternoon.”
“That sounds fine. How long does it usually take?”
“Anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, depending on how many things you want to do while you say goodbye. I’ll give you a code for our app and you can select the specific program you want.”
“Will that be enough time to get everything ready?”
“If you make your program selections today, our specialist will be able to get everything ready by tomorrow afternoon.”
*
At two-thirty on Monday, the Hospitronix specialist arrived, carrying a blue backpack and a large, empty duffel bag with a window in the top. He introduced himself to Lily and Caden, who had taken the afternoon off. “Hello. I’m Rob. And you must be Carole,” he said, smiling at the girl peeking out from behind her mother’s leg.
“Are you a grandpa?” Carole asked.
Rob laughed. “Yes, I am a grandpa! You’re very smart.”
“But not your grandpa,” Lily clarified. “Rob is here to bring Manny back to the robot factory.  Remember, we talked about this. Manny is getting too old and needs to go back to be with the other robots.”
Carole’s lip began to quiver. “I don’t want him to take Manny! Manny stays here with us.”
Lily put her arms around Carole, while Rob squatted down until he was eye level with the girl.
“I know you’re going to miss Manny,” said Rob. “But you know how hard he’s worked. He’s getting tired and needs to take a break.”
“Why’s he have to go away? Can’t you just fix him so he doesn’t break anymore?” asked Carole, her eyes beginning to water.
“Sometimes we can’t fix what’s wrong. In Manny’s case, he’s just gotten too old and can’t do everything as well as he used to.” Rob stood up. “But that’s why I’m here, to give you a chance to say goodbye to Manny and make sure you get to play your favorite games before he goes.”
“Like dress-up dance?”
“Yes,” said Rob. He set the bags down and pulled out a tablet. “It says here that your favorite game to play with Manny is dress-up dance, and your favorite snack for him to make is toast with grape jelly.”
Carole nodded.
“Okay then?” Lily said. She tapped the face of her wristwatch and spoke. “Manny, meet Carole in her room.” To her daughter, she said, “Go get dressed up. We’ll wait here for the dance show.”
After Carole ran off upstairs, Caden asked Rob, “Will you be able to transfer all the data to the new robot? Including everything he’s learned?”
“Yes,” said Rob. “The new bot won’t be exactly the same, though, to prevent confusion. And we can adjust the level of learning it’ll need. How much retraining do you want to do?”
“Carole enjoyed teaching Manny so much, I think we should let her do that all over again. Just keep any pre-loaded games and information on the new robot. It should know all about Manny, but not act like him,” said Lily.
“Not a problem,” said Rob.
“But keep all the household chore training,” said Caden.
“Yes,” Lily agreed. “We don’t want to have to do that all over again.”
“Okay, great,” said Rob, making a note on his tablet. “Now, do you want the new bot to be male, female, or neutral?”
“How about a female one this time,” said Lily.
“All right. Series 5s, female primary personality, pre-trained with data upload. She can arrive as soon as tomorrow.”
“Well…” Caden frowned.
“Would you like to wait a day or two?” asked Rob.
“Yes,” said Caden. “I think it would be good for Carole, and for us, to have at least a day in between. Could you deliver the new one Wednesday?”
“Absolutely,” said Rob, noting the date on his tablet.
Just then, Carole shouted from the top of the stairs, “We’re ready!”
“All right!” called Caden. “We’re sitting on the sofa! Let the show begin!”
The adults arranged themselves on the sofa as the great room’s lights dimmed. Peppy dance music began streaming from the wall speakers. Carole hopped down the stairs, followed by Manny with his careful, rolling robot gait. Both were wrapped in brightly-colored scarves with sequined bands around their heads. At the bottom of the stairs, Carole yelled “One two three go!”
The little girl waved her arms and twirled around while the robot spun first one way, then the other. Finally, Carole stood still and said “Ta da!”
The music stopped and the lights came up. Manny and Carole bowed to their audience, who applauded and whistled.
“Great show!” said Rob.
“Now can we have jelly toast?” asked Carole.
When the snack was finished, Lily said it was time to say goodbye to Manny. Rob opened the panel on the back of his head and connected a small portable storage drive. “All of Manny’s memories will be stored in here, so when you get a new robot, they’ll be able to learn from him,” he said.
Carole began to lose her calm. “I don’t want a new robot,” she said. “Why can’t we keep Manny?”
“Sweetie, we talked about this,” said Caden, holding his daughter on his lap. “Manny is getting too old to do everything he needs to around the house. He’s starting to break in ways we can’t fix him. It’s time to let a newer robot do the job, okay?”
Carole nodded, her eyes big and serious.
“All right, everyone. I’m going to put Manny to sleep so he can travel back to the factory with me in this big bag here. It’s time to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Manny,” said Caden, shaking the robot’s hand.
“Bye, Manny,” said Lily, patting the robot’s head.
Carole climbed off her father’s lap and threw her arms around the robot’s shoulders. “Bye, Manny! I’m gonna miss you!” She looked at Rob. “Can he call me from the robot factory?”
“Yes,” said Rob. “If it’s all right with your parents.”
“That would be fine,” said Lily. She’d read that the Series 3 personality could be stored inside the Series 5 until it was no longer needed. Once Carole knew Manny was okay, Lily figured the girl would be so enamored with his replacement, she’d probably forget about him after a while.
Carole gave Manny one last squeeze, then stepped away. Rob put a small chip into a port in Manny’s back.
“Goodbye, everyone,” the robot said. “Goodbye, Caden. Goodbye, Lily. Goodbye, Carole.”
The robot’s eyes slowly dimmed and his head tipped forward, as if he were falling asleep standing up. Rob gently lifted Manny and laid him in the large duffel bag so that his face showed through the window in the top when it was closed.
“All right,” said Rob, lifting his bags. “Have a good evening. And please let me know if there’s anything else Hospitronix can do for you.”
As Rob walked out to his car, Carole hugged her mother’s leg and waved. “Bye, Manny,” she whispered.

October 8, 2018

Dialogue: The Hummingbird


Photo illustration by Susanna King. Window photo by Paul. Hummingbird photo by Yugen.




“Quick! Look out the window!”
“Just a sec.”
“You’re going to miss it!”
“Hold on, I’ve got to set this down… Okay. What is it?”
“It’s gone now. It was a hummingbird. You’ve got to look right when I say, ‘Look!’”
“I couldn’t. I was carrying a big pot full of water.”
“You always make excuses like that. You never want to do something right when I tell you to do it.”
“If I’d rushed over to the window, I would’ve spilled water all over the floor and maybe dropped a heavy pot on your foot.”
“But what if it had been a life and death situation? If I told you to run and you stopped to finish whatever you’re doing, you might not make it.”
“But this wasn’t a life and death situation. It was a hummingbird. I’m sure it was cool, and I would’ve liked to have seen it, but I don’t think it was worth risking potential injury and messing up the kitchen.”
“But it’s not just this time. Whenever I say ‘Look at this!’ or ‘Come here!’ you always have to ask why, or you say ‘Just a minute.’ You’ve got to trust me that I know what I’m doing.”
“And you need to trust me that I can hear from your voice that it’s not an emergency. In a real emergency, I promise, I would drop everything and come right away. I’m sorry I missed the hummingbird.”
“Look! It’s back!”
“You’re right. It is pretty neat.”

March 30, 2018

Poem: Honey

photo illustration by S. King, 
original photo by Stew & Vee Carrington

The honey inside of me
Is so old,
It has hardened
And crystallized.
Heat me with
Your fire,
So I might melt
A little.
Soften what
Is hard in me
And I will share
Some sweetness
With those nearby –
The sour,
The bitter,
And the salty ones.



March 4, 2018

Poem/Song: Highway 9

This morning in church we read the story of Jesus chasing the merchants and moneychangers out of the temple from John (John 2:13-22). The reading reminded me of the second half of a song I wrote several years ago. Chances are slim to none I'll ever get around to recording it (ask me to sing it for you next time I see you though). But song lyrics are a kind of poetry, so I thought I'd share them here. I particularly like the sense of place and time this song evokes for me.


photo illustration by S. King, photos from Ponderosa Lodge '88 and '89


Highway 9


We drove down Highway 9
From Ashton to Rocketown
The sun was up
Our defenses were down
You drove so fast
We didn’t care
About the day & the time
In the rest of the world
We just wanted to be there
On Highway 9
Between Ashton & Rocketown
The radio is loud
There’s enough to go around
Sand in your shoes
Leaves in my hair
We’re in the mountains
And at the beach
We are everywhere
On Highway 9
Between Ashton & Rocketown

If you had told me then
How my life would be today
I’d have told you that’s
Impossible, I will never stray
From Highway 9
Between Ashton & Rocketown
The road’s still there
But it has a new sound
Traffic and noise
Billboards everywhere
I have to make
My own way now
I don’t belong there
On Highway 9
Between Ashton & Rocketown

December 7, 2017

Poem: Protest

digital collage by S. King, using a photo
by Brad Spiess
The rock is in my way;
I have to move it.
But,
When I push against
This obstacle,
I uncover all
The nasty things
Living beneath.
"Why did you move that rock?"
People ask me.
They blame me for
Exposing
The hidden creatures
Lurking below it.
They tell me,
"Stop!"
As if it's
My fault they see
Something ugly
Crawling out from
Underneath that rock.
The rock is in my way,
And I will move it.


December 1, 2017

What Democrats Believe

My take on a summary for the Democratic Party's agenda.
In the wake of last year's election, there's been a lot of soul-searching among members of the Democratic Party. One point I see raised often is that Democrats don't have a clear message or statement of beliefs. I recall a local Democratic Party meeting back in February where we scoured the state party web site for such a statement, and found nothing. The problem, of course, is not that Democrats don't have a clear set of beliefs, but rather that we're not very good at articulating them.

Earlier this year, the party tried to improve their messaging with the proposal "A Better Deal." I can understand the thought behind this: the New Deal is still the gold standard of Democratic legislative accomplishments, what we're offering is better than what the Republicans have, put the two together and voila! Unfortunately, the message fell flat. "A Better Deal" sounds hesitant and timid, and the proposal itself is heavily detailed and more practical than progressive - criticisms which reinforce the stereotype of the Democratic Party as out of touch with the needs of America today.

This week, The Takeaway radio show has been asking various people inside the Democratic Party about what they think its direction should be as part of their series The Road Ahead. I've heard a lot of good ideas, and at their core is the belief in democracy: that government should be of the people, by the people, and for the people. From Keith Ellison to Howard Dean, the people interviewed all said that the future of the party is coming from the grassroots up, not the top down. Like any good manager, the job of the people in charge is to facilitate the best ideas, remove roadblocks, and make it easier for everyone to get involved.

So, while the people who are good at meeting and facilitating and administrating are doing their jobs (God bless them! It ain't easy.), I'd like to submit my ideas for consideration. This is my take on a succinct statement of beliefs for the Democratic Party.  Here's a PDF you can download, too.

Please note this is not (yet) officially endorsed by the Democratic Party

I used the language that Democrats I know have already been using this year. "Resist" cropped up immediately after Trump's election, and hasn't diminished in the year since. "Reclaim" entered the conversation thanks to Representative Maxine Waters, who refused to allow others to ignore her questions or talk over her. "Rebuild" isn't a meme, it's just a simple statement of the work we have ahead of us to fix what's been broken and neglected.

My goal was to craft a statement of beliefs that can inspire those both within and outside the Party. I wanted something general enough that most of the Party's goals and values would be included, without getting bogged down in details, as we so often do. 

In the spirit of democracy, I would like to hear your feedback on this statement of beliefs. What would you change? What would you add? I'd like to continue the conversation to let America know what the Democratic Party believes, and hopefully inspire a few more people to say, "I want to be a part of that."

September 5, 2017

Their History Matters to Them

Sculpture: "The Last Voyage"

I recently came across an online discussion about whether or not the Israelites were ever really slaves in Egypt. There's a lot of scholarship on this subject, and it's fascinating to read about the archeological evidence (or lack thereof) for the Hebrew Bible. But I find it even more interesting to think about how the history of this small ethnic group is now known the world over.

I don't find it at all surprising that the Egyptians didn't corroborate a lot of the stories from the Hebrew Bible in their own writings. After all, why would they? They were large and powerful monarchies, and with the effort and expense required to actually write things down 4,000 years ago, why would they waste any of that on stories about a fragment of the slave or migrant population? There were thousands of people who migrated through Egypt's kingdoms back then.

The history of the Israelites (or people who eventually became the Israelites) just didn't matter to the Egyptian ruling class. But it mattered to the Israelites. They carefully preserved the stories of their ancestors, passing them down orally and eventually in written form. As a migrant people, history and shared culture was all they had.

Now, one of the great ironies of history, in my mind, is that many people the world over who have no Hebrew ancestry can list the rulers of Israel and recite stories from their histories; while few beyond scholars can name more than a couple of Egyptian pharoahs. In fact, a lot of people only know Egyptian history through the lens of the Hebrew Bible.

Millennia later, the unimportant migrants, the slaves, are known worldwide. Their histories are just as important as those of the great kingdoms where they toiled anonymously. I wonder, who are the Israelites among us now? Which ignored, marginalized people are carefully recording their own stories from their own perspective - stories those in power aren't even aware of.

A thousand years from now, the people in power now might either be forgotten or else known primarily through the stories of the ones they enslaved and mistreated. It's a good reminder not to discount people's points of view just because they aren't the ones in charge.

September 4, 2017

The Definition of "Free"

photo by Amy Claxton

When I first started this blog, I intended it as a place where I could share ideas that I thought were useful but that I didn't really know what to do with. "Free Ideas" meant ideas that I was sharing for free, without cost.

Over the years, however, I've found that while my head is as full of ideas as ever, not all of them are useful. Many of them are simply persistent, connections or stories or images that, once created, seem to want to rattle around in my brain, getting in the way of my thinking about more important stuff.

So I've decided to free these ideas trapped in my head. "Free Ideas" now means a place to set free all the thoughts clogging my mind, a place to purge my brain. For anyone reading this blog, you likely won't notice much difference except that the frequency of posting should increase.

For me, I hope that this change in focus will help me get better at turning invisible ideas into visible creations. I tend to be satisfied with the creation of a story or a song or anything else simply in my own head, and don't need (or even want, most of the time) the validation that comes with sharing it with a wider audience. However, as I get older, I've realized that I don't want everything I've created to die with me, so I need to get it out of my head somehow.

Hopefully, posting here will be a start.

May 24, 2017

Poem: I Was a Teenage Moth

Me on the last day of 8th grade

I covered myself with plastic chains,
Rocks and beads, embroidery thread,
Glitter paint, and soda can tabs.
I wrapped my body in ripped jeans
And t-shirts stamped
With symbols of my tribe.
So cocooned, I pupated,
Relying on my outer shell
To tell the world
Exactly who I was,
Who I wanted to be.
Inside, I gradually developed
A heart, a spine, a prefrontal cortex:
Each new organ dearly bought
And painfully grown.
At last, I realized I had emerged
The day I found
Pieces of my cocoon
Neatly boxed up and put away
As mementos from a time
When I wore my inner self
On the outside.

May 13, 2017

Poem: Sine Wave

illustration by S. King

Life happens on a sine wave.
Troughs and peaks, crests and valleys
Are part of every day,
Every week,
every year.
I can't determine
The period of this waveform
From my mortal perspective
On my little life raft
Riding each wave as it comes.
All I know is
The motion is continuous
Through life's ups and downs.
It doesn't matter
Which part of the wave
I'm surfing today -
Rise or fall,
Tomorrow will be different.

April 23, 2017

Poem: Shoot


You were your mother's last effort,
Sustaining life when she faced death.
Your mother was old,
Old and strong and beautiful.
I wish you could have seen her
In her springtime glory
Before that winter day
When ice came raining down.
Her branches bent and broke,
But I think she could have
Remained and recovered
As her sisters did
(Look! You can see them now
Flanking that empty spot.)
If it weren't for the patch
Of bad ground where she stood.
The earth around your mother
Was too weak to hold her up.
Her roots lost their grip, and she fell.
She fell, but did not die, not yet.
When she saw death coming,
Your mother sent up shoots
Sprouting by the dozens.
Most were little things,
Hardly more than weeds.
But you were her best effort.
She reached out and placed you
Distant, far away from
The bad ground that sealed her fate.
She passed on to you
Her strength and tenacity.
I saw her in you from the beginning,
And let you grow where you sprang up,
Wild at first, spindly and untamed.
I hoped you might grow into
My memory of your mother's beauty.
So I trimmed your branches
And shaped you with care.
No longer just a shoot,
You've become a tree,
One which I hope will grow tall
And spread its branches wide
And bloom in springtime to remind me
That even death is not the end.


Postscript

This poem was inspired by a comment my friend Susanna (yes, we have the same name) made. She is a landscape designer and knows more about how to grow and nurture plants than I ever will. I posted a video of my husband cutting down a tree in our yard on Facebook, and she asked why we cut it down, since it made her "sad to see trees go down without good cause."

Her comment made me pause and think about how differently I view trees here in South Carolina than when I lived in California. There, trees are the majestic giants of the landscape. Each tree, whether pine or oak, birch or redwood, has its own space. In California gardens, trees generally don't grow unless you specifically plant them there. When Susanna redesigns someone's garden, she takes existing trees into account and designs around them.

In South Carolina, trees grow like weeds, literally. When I weed a flowerbed, I pull up handfuls of pine and cherry laurel and oak tree sprouts (Oak are the worst! Their roots are so stubborn.). Any empty lot will become a forest if you just leave it alone for a couple of years. When developers build houses around here, they often clear out all the trees on a lot before building. After all, you can easily grow more trees after the house is built. The tree that we cut down in our yard wasn't aesthetically pleasing and had been damaged by an ice storm. I thought of it as sort of a giant weed, to be honest. My friend's comment made me think about the prevailing attitude where I live now, that trees are so common and easy to grow we don't value them much.

There was another tree knocked down by the ice storm, a beautiful flowering pear, the middle one of three that lined our driveway. After the storm, we cut it down to the stump, since stumps are difficult to remove. Remarkably, the stump continued to send out shoots, as if it were desperate to continue its life even though the main body of the tree was gone. Most of those shoots we cut down. But one grew big enough that it would've been too much trouble to remove it. I began to wonder how big it could get, and whether or not it would be able to become a tree in its own right. I liked the idea of the old pear tree leaving behind a "daughter" tree to remember her by.

All these thoughts inspired me to write the poem above. Common or not, each tree is a little miracle of nature, designed to grow and thrive in all sorts of adverse circumstances.

April 14, 2017

Poem: Unimproved Lot


Find beauty in a dead oak tree
Drowning in kudzu.
Find beauty in a lopsided longleaf pine
And the squirrel nest in its broken branches.
Find beauty in dusty red dirt
Scattered with pine cones.
Find beauty in blackbirds' overlapping cries
And cicadas' grinding whirrs.
Find beauty in shimmering, humid heat
On a cloudless summer afternoon.
Find beauty in places called empty,
Abandoned, ignored, unimproved.

February 1, 2017

How to Write a Politically Correct Business Email

Dear Bubba,
I know that I really ought to be raising this issue with Jim Bob. But, as anyone who's met him knows, he's a stupid S.O.B. and lazy to boot, so therefore unlikely to either understand or care about my concerns.


Dang. That's no good.

Dear Bubba,
I know that I really ought to be raising this issue with Jim Bob. But I think that it falls outside his area of expertise. I hope that you will be able to help me take care of this problem, or recommend someone else who can. Please don't bring Jim Bob into this, he's dumb as a slug and mean as a hornet and you'll only make him confused and angry.


Nope. Dang.

Dear Bubba,
I know that I really ought to be raising this issue with Jim Bob. But I think that it falls outside his area of expertise. I hope that you will be able to help me take care of the problem, or recommend someone else who can. I don't think it's a good idea to bother Jim Bob with this right now, as he has other priorities. If we can come up with a reasonable solution quickly, I think we'll be able to implement it before Jim Bob has another one of his temper tantrums and goes whining to the boss like a spoiled five-year-old.


Nope. Can't do it. Try again.

Dear Bubba,
I know that I really ought to be raising this issue with Jim Bob. But I think that it falls outside his area of expertise. I hope that you will be able to help me take care of the problem, or recommend someone else who can. I don't think it's a good idea to bother Jim Bob with this right now, as he has other priorities. If we can come up with a reasonable solution quickly, I think we'll be able to implement it without interference.
Thank you for your time.


November 28, 2016

Poem: Respite

We drink wine and whiskey
While the world falls apart.
Despair is parked outside;
Anger left by the door
Like a wet umbrella.
Here in the Kingdom of Cheddar and Brie
Contentment reigns -
Nine o'clock and all's well.
We tell old stories,
Sing old songs,
Drink old scotch,
And share memories,
And memories of memories.
Tomorrow's news
Will put new wrinkles on my face.
But tonight,
I drive home in silence -
Cheese in my stomach,
Music in my head -
And sleep in quiet peace.