Hat Instead of That

Prompt: Hat Instead of That 02/11/12

Joey received a cowboy hat.
Now, a cowboy hat is the best of hats,
But Peter received a cowboy gun,
Which seemed to be a lot more fun.

Joey said, “I don’t want a cowboy hat.
No, no, I want that; I need that.”
He pointed to the gun in Peter’s hand.
Their uncle nodded and said, “I understand.

“But I got you a hat instead of that,”
He gave Joey’s back a gentle pat.
“No, I want that, and I want it now.”
Joey said with a furrowed brow.

“Fine” said Peter, “take the gun.
A cowboy hat is a lot more fun.”
He took the hat, and spun it round,
rolled it down his leg to the ground,

Caught it with his foot, kicked it into the air,
And flipped it on to his head, without a care.
Joey watched with great surprise:
A wounded look and jealous eyes.

“But, that’s my hat; I want that.”
Peter laughed, and gave it back.

In the Woods - JohnD

Prompt: In the Woods 03/21/09

In the woods of Aberdeen,
Sounds unheard and sights unseen,
I felt the feel of inner peace,
My father with a new life lease.

Not what he said, not what he did,
But I was a man, not a kid.
He had fought and he had won;
The illness somehow was undone.

We walked on, nothing to say,
All things forgiven, all okay.
I loved him and he loved me.
We walked until we reached the sea.

I'd done that trek a hundred times.
But this time it cleansed a thousand crimes,
A thousand trespasses we had made,
A thousand insults we had paid.

Nobody watching would have known
How close he and I had grown
In three hours of a slow walk shared,
What twenty years had never dared.

Black Cast-Iron Wood Stove - JohnD

“Our getaway cabin,” we'd named it so.
As father would drive, mother smiled and eased.
The radio played as healing winds breezed.
But for the stove, mom delighted to go.

She clashed with that black cast-iron wood stove.
It didn't like cooking, so everything burned.
But through the years, it taught and it learned.
Oh, “our getaway cabin” at Meadow Grove.

We got the call on Friday, how mom cried.
We drove out and sure enough everything burned.
But for the stove, all was ash, all was stern.
That day it seemed a part of mom just died.

Yet, the stove looked new with a thick, rich glaze.
Mom bowed before it in honor and praise.


--

Another Woman - Maya

Another woman
would keep her mouth shut,
not spout her fervent beliefs
like a speaker on a soapbox.

Another woman
would have chosen
equity over experience,
settling down, and
just plain settling.

Another woman
would have stayed the course,
refused distraction and
the pangs of the heart
that lead to upheaval.

Another woman
would not vacillate hearing
the voices that preach security and
the voices that harp on ideals.

Another woman
would not succumb to worry,
knowing that it never helps
and only constricts.

Another woman
would revel in her children’s independence
instead of mourning
their day-to-day absence in her life.

Another woman
would live in gratitude every moment
for her sojourn on this gorgeous planet
and not slip into the mundane
routine of forgetting.

But I am not
another woman.
I am this woman,
led by my heart and
pulled by the conflicting voices,
a woman who
worries,
mourns,
forgets.

I am this woman,
this aging, outspoken, heart-stirred,
frightened and sometimes grateful woman,
This woman,
with this particular life
and not
another.



Prompt: Another Woman, 12/27/07

Crimson - Maya

Like rubies. Like garnets. Like blood:
Crimson.
Streaks in the sky at sunset.
Cascades of beads hanging in a doorway.
Similar to magenta and burgundy,
But deeper than the first, brighter than the latter.
A glass of Cabernet on a table at an outdoor cafe in Paris,
backlit, with sunshine streaming through.
One of the colors I would paint my soul, along with purple (both amethyst and lavender), and that particular shade of blue-green deeper than turquoise.
A little dark for paint, though some rooms might be just right
with polished wood and windows looking out over a pine forest.
Perfect for dancing shoes:
Crimson.
Like Dorothy’s ruby slippers,
Paired with a twirling skirt and starlight.
Running in rivulets, fascinating, life leaking out, torn body lying in the street –
Turn-your-head-away crimson.
Or lipstick – yes – that sensual creamy dark color
perfect for full lips just puckering to kiss.
And nail polish, of course, on fingers and toes –
Just before the feet slip into the dancing shoes.
Crimson.
The color for bad women, whorehouses, cartoon villainesses –
The ones who have power and use it for their own gain -
Sleeping Beauty’s stepmother had lips painted crimson.
Good girls wear pink, maybe rose,
But crimson – that’s for women,
Women who know who they are and aren’t afraid
to thrust it into the world.
It’s not subtle,
Crimson is not for the shy, the reticent, the lazy.
It demands attention, loyalty and seriousness.
But it’s not without fun and celebration,
It’s not black, you know.
It’s drama, excitement, life.
Lift your glass –
Praise life –
Praise your life –
Offer a toast to your own soul –
The colors you throw into the world –
The crimson facet of the kaleidoscope.



Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07