Whoopie pies, doughnuts & chocolate chip cookies from Tim....
----------------
I walk into Dena's Bakery in downtown Punta Gorda
hoping they'll have old-fashioned doughnuts.
You know the kind with just a hint of nutmeg, no sugar
coating, a crunchy outside and soft middle. They
are impossible to find down here in Florida. Dena's
is more like a cafe with tables and just a small
assortment of whoopie pies and chocolate chip cookies,
those staples of bakeries all across the United States.
But, no doughnuts. Kelly's Pastry Shop on Main Street
in Berlin had the best ones. Every morning on his way
to his logging job, Gary would stop in for a sweet. If he
was lucky, they'd have macaroons. If not, he'd buy two
plain doughnuts, one for him and one for Annie, our dog
who always went to work with him. She loved them.
One morning, the shop was closed so Gary had to backtrack
to Dunkin' Donuts. He bought the two donuts but when he
tried to give hers to Annie, she turned her head and refused
to even nibble it. Gary ate his, of course, all the while wondering
exactly what he was consuming. Back in Dena's, the kind owner
suggests I check Publix or Winn Dixie but we already have
to no avail. And, so our quest for good doughnuts continues.
I drive by Dunkin' Donuts but don't even bother going in.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Day 15 National Poetry Month 2015
horse, breeze, friend from Dale
-------------
Did You Ever Do Anything Stupid?
The parking meter wiggles
as we feed our coins into its
slit of a mouth so, when we return
to the car after shopping, we,
the six of us friends, having no
idea how the breeze of this idea
entered our heads, pull it out
of the soft ground and slide it into
the back of Donna's station wagon.
We cover it with a blanket to
disguise it as we drive through
town. It looks like a corpse lying
there, still and quiet. We giggle
all the way back to the motel where
we work as chambermaids for the summer.
Of course, we have no idea what
to do with it. We can hear coins
jingling inside but don't know how
to get them out and don't really
want to since we are not thieves.
We hide it in a closet off the kitchen
and there it stays for a month
until it becomes a secret almost
alive. We can hear it breathing in
there, growing. It whinnies like
a horse in its stall waiting to be
fed, waiting to be released, waiting.
Then, on a moonless night we
carry that heavy thing out to the
car and drive to the back of a dark
cemetery where we dump it
and leave it next to someone's
grave. We hold our breath as we
rush out of that scary place, turn
onto the road, crank up the radio,
and sing along in strong, sure voices.
-------------
Did You Ever Do Anything Stupid?
The parking meter wiggles
as we feed our coins into its
slit of a mouth so, when we return
to the car after shopping, we,
the six of us friends, having no
idea how the breeze of this idea
entered our heads, pull it out
of the soft ground and slide it into
the back of Donna's station wagon.
We cover it with a blanket to
disguise it as we drive through
town. It looks like a corpse lying
there, still and quiet. We giggle
all the way back to the motel where
we work as chambermaids for the summer.
Of course, we have no idea what
to do with it. We can hear coins
jingling inside but don't know how
to get them out and don't really
want to since we are not thieves.
We hide it in a closet off the kitchen
and there it stays for a month
until it becomes a secret almost
alive. We can hear it breathing in
there, growing. It whinnies like
a horse in its stall waiting to be
fed, waiting to be released, waiting.
Then, on a moonless night we
carry that heavy thing out to the
car and drive to the back of a dark
cemetery where we dump it
and leave it next to someone's
grave. We hold our breath as we
rush out of that scary place, turn
onto the road, crank up the radio,
and sing along in strong, sure voices.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Day 14 National Poetry Month 2015
snow, puppy, trees from Mary (Gina's friend)
------------
There are pink and gray eels in the sky this morning
as I sit here for the fourteenth morning in a row
looking at three words and waiting for inspiration.
A bird flies by, a silhouette, against the now pale blue.
The baby-girl pink is giving way to brash neon. How quickly
they grow. Every time I look up, there is a change.
Every wispy cloud is smeared with strawberry cream cheese
The boxwood trees point toward the new day, toward
brightness, toward hints of lavender, where we all end up.
But, not yet. The sun hasn't even risen and I'm thinking
about the end. Most of the clouds have faded to snow,
a clean, freshly-fallen snow. Only the area near the sunrise
turns apricot. And, now, there it is pulling itself up. I snap
a picture with my phone then change seats because it's just
too bright on my eyes. This is my Kylie girl so bright in my
heart, it hurts. Her puppyness is almost over. She wants
to become a vet, this critter lover of ours. For years her favorite
was the dung beetle. I remember sitting with her reading
a book about animals. She was maybe two and she knew
them all, what was curious about them, where they lived.
"This one has poison but you don't have to worry because
he lives in Africa" she wisely informed me. Oh, but, Ky, I do
worry about all the poisons you'll encounter out there in the world.
There is nothing I can do about that. Next month when she's
here, we want to visit the seaquarium where Winter and Hope
live, the two dolphins from A Dolphin's Tale 2. We saw
the movie together last summer. How can she already be nine?
Almost double digits. Most of the clouds have dissipated,
the sun has released itself from the trees, the blue path
it follows looks even and clear. Please, please: even and clear.
------------
There are pink and gray eels in the sky this morning
as I sit here for the fourteenth morning in a row
looking at three words and waiting for inspiration.
A bird flies by, a silhouette, against the now pale blue.
The baby-girl pink is giving way to brash neon. How quickly
they grow. Every time I look up, there is a change.
Every wispy cloud is smeared with strawberry cream cheese
The boxwood trees point toward the new day, toward
brightness, toward hints of lavender, where we all end up.
But, not yet. The sun hasn't even risen and I'm thinking
about the end. Most of the clouds have faded to snow,
a clean, freshly-fallen snow. Only the area near the sunrise
turns apricot. And, now, there it is pulling itself up. I snap
a picture with my phone then change seats because it's just
too bright on my eyes. This is my Kylie girl so bright in my
heart, it hurts. Her puppyness is almost over. She wants
to become a vet, this critter lover of ours. For years her favorite
was the dung beetle. I remember sitting with her reading
a book about animals. She was maybe two and she knew
them all, what was curious about them, where they lived.
"This one has poison but you don't have to worry because
he lives in Africa" she wisely informed me. Oh, but, Ky, I do
worry about all the poisons you'll encounter out there in the world.
There is nothing I can do about that. Next month when she's
here, we want to visit the seaquarium where Winter and Hope
live, the two dolphins from A Dolphin's Tale 2. We saw
the movie together last summer. How can she already be nine?
Almost double digits. Most of the clouds have dissipated,
the sun has released itself from the trees, the blue path
it follows looks even and clear. Please, please: even and clear.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Day 13 National Poetry Month 2015
book, candle, sweater from Dar
--------------
How to Write a Book of Poetry
I pull a length of green yarn
out of the skein,
wrap it around the needle
then pull it through
to make a stitch. I'm knitting
a sweater for a 4-H
project that will be judged
at the Lancaster Fair.
I tried being a Girl Scout, well
a Brownie, really,
but it wasn't a good fit for me.
It couldn't hold a candle
to the fun we have in 4-H
where my aunt
and her friend are the leaders
and my cousins
are members, too. There is no
door-to-door selling
in this group. No embarrassing
"No's" from annoyed
customers, just meetings where
we learn to cook
(no-boil chocolate and peanut butter
fudge rolled and sliced.
Yum!), crochet, sew, play games,
laugh, lose, get along,
and, knit like I'm doing, now, in that
past and this present.
My sweater has a cable design
twisting up the middle.
I have to transfer five stitches
to another needle,
continue with the row, then insert
those saved ones
further along to create the braided
design. I hear the others
chatting and chuckling but I concentrate
so I don't make a mistake.
I'd hate to have to unravel my hard work.
The needles click. I weave
one pearl stitch after another,
preparing me for
the poems I'll knit with memories
when I get older.
--------------
How to Write a Book of Poetry
I pull a length of green yarn
out of the skein,
wrap it around the needle
then pull it through
to make a stitch. I'm knitting
a sweater for a 4-H
project that will be judged
at the Lancaster Fair.
I tried being a Girl Scout, well
a Brownie, really,
but it wasn't a good fit for me.
It couldn't hold a candle
to the fun we have in 4-H
where my aunt
and her friend are the leaders
and my cousins
are members, too. There is no
door-to-door selling
in this group. No embarrassing
"No's" from annoyed
customers, just meetings where
we learn to cook
(no-boil chocolate and peanut butter
fudge rolled and sliced.
Yum!), crochet, sew, play games,
laugh, lose, get along,
and, knit like I'm doing, now, in that
past and this present.
My sweater has a cable design
twisting up the middle.
I have to transfer five stitches
to another needle,
continue with the row, then insert
those saved ones
further along to create the braided
design. I hear the others
chatting and chuckling but I concentrate
so I don't make a mistake.
I'd hate to have to unravel my hard work.
The needles click. I weave
one pearl stitch after another,
preparing me for
the poems I'll knit with memories
when I get older.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Day 12 National Poetry Month 2015
Sunshine, trees, beach! 🌞🌳🌊 from Deirdre
------------
Yes, the word beach definitely needs
an exclamation point. I grew up
suffocated in the middle of mountains.
Our house was just one street away
from the elephant body of Mt. Forist.
I could almost reach my hand out
and pat the gray body. It blocked
every single sunset. Some days,
when I'd get home from school, the moon
would already be poking it's nose
over the beast's back and sunshine
was long gone. Even my classroom
faced a mountain. It started six feet
away and sloped up steeply covered
in white birch trees. I won't deny
it was pretty with the sunlight scampering
through the underbrush but how I longed
for a wide open beach with sweet brown
sugar sand seeping through my toes
and waves, endless and new, crashing,
foaming, receding, repeating nearby.
And, then, we retired and moved near
the sea and finally I could breathe. In
the summer you might catch a glimpse
of a curly, white-haired lady on a red bicycle
pedaling toward the end of the land
and you'll smile knowing she's heading home.
------------
Yes, the word beach definitely needs
an exclamation point. I grew up
suffocated in the middle of mountains.
Our house was just one street away
from the elephant body of Mt. Forist.
I could almost reach my hand out
and pat the gray body. It blocked
every single sunset. Some days,
when I'd get home from school, the moon
would already be poking it's nose
over the beast's back and sunshine
was long gone. Even my classroom
faced a mountain. It started six feet
away and sloped up steeply covered
in white birch trees. I won't deny
it was pretty with the sunlight scampering
through the underbrush but how I longed
for a wide open beach with sweet brown
sugar sand seeping through my toes
and waves, endless and new, crashing,
foaming, receding, repeating nearby.
And, then, we retired and moved near
the sea and finally I could breathe. In
the summer you might catch a glimpse
of a curly, white-haired lady on a red bicycle
pedaling toward the end of the land
and you'll smile knowing she's heading home.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Day 11 National Poetry Month 2011
grass, bird, book from Leah
----------
This is my third attempt at a poem
this morning. The first one was just
whining about the fact that my husband
was out here on the porch with me.
I'll spare you that rant. The second
was about the new veggie V8 juices
I've been trying and liking very much.
Now, there's an exciting topic. Are
you asleep yet? So, here I sit
in a flurry of bird songs falling all
around me like snow flakes. Okay,
not really but it sounds good, right?
Sometimes, ideas for poems are
as plentiful as blades of grass in our lawn
and other times, like this lovely
Saturday morning, I can't even find
one. I switch seats hoping a different
perspective will help. I go in to make
coffee. I listen to the fish jumping
in the canal and don't even try to come
up with a metaphor. Now, Gary's back
telling me he's done with his shower
but what he's really saying is Hurry
up and take your shower and get dressed
before Mike gets here. He's an open
book and not a mystery, either. There
I go, again, trying to be poetic. Gary
and Mike are going to a car auction.
I declined. Maybe after they leave, I'll be
able to write. Right now? Shower time!
----------
This is my third attempt at a poem
this morning. The first one was just
whining about the fact that my husband
was out here on the porch with me.
I'll spare you that rant. The second
was about the new veggie V8 juices
I've been trying and liking very much.
Now, there's an exciting topic. Are
you asleep yet? So, here I sit
in a flurry of bird songs falling all
around me like snow flakes. Okay,
not really but it sounds good, right?
Sometimes, ideas for poems are
as plentiful as blades of grass in our lawn
and other times, like this lovely
Saturday morning, I can't even find
one. I switch seats hoping a different
perspective will help. I go in to make
coffee. I listen to the fish jumping
in the canal and don't even try to come
up with a metaphor. Now, Gary's back
telling me he's done with his shower
but what he's really saying is Hurry
up and take your shower and get dressed
before Mike gets here. He's an open
book and not a mystery, either. There
I go, again, trying to be poetic. Gary
and Mike are going to a car auction.
I declined. Maybe after they leave, I'll be
able to write. Right now? Shower time!
Friday, April 10, 2015
Day 10 National Poetry Month 2015
prayer, energy, trust. From Gina
------------
I turn my iPad on and tap the Masters app.
The iconic piano notes of that trademark song
swirl around me and I relax into my recliner
ready to watch threesomes make their way
through Amen Corner. The music is a like a prayer,
soft and easy, just what these guys need to get them
through holes eleven and twelve, the two hardest
on the course. Pars are very acceptable here.
From a distance the colors in the crowd resemble
the azaleas and I can almost forget they're there
with their shouts and cameras and folding chairs.
It's just men, green fairways, and white golf balls.
My mom and dad started playing the game later
in life after raising us kids. I can understand how
they loved the serenity of the course after working
all week. It gave them extra energy to enjoy
getting older and helped them fight the cancer
that inevitably made them stop playing. That
damn cancer. That fucking sand trap no amount
of swinging could get them out of. The announcers
pause and the song that is The Masters swells,
again, and I remember the last time my dad
watched it. It was a couple months before
he died and I was in Florida visiting him. We sat
in the lanai chatting about the game and players,
he tethered to oxygen, me trying to breathe for him.
Afterwards, I went to Publix and bought Maine lobsters
and had them cooked for us. I can still see the melted
butter on my dad's chin and the smile on his face
as he devoured every last morsel of that delicacy.
Back in Georgia the crowd groans as a ball hits
the water, proof that nothing, nothing can be trusted.
------------
I turn my iPad on and tap the Masters app.
The iconic piano notes of that trademark song
swirl around me and I relax into my recliner
ready to watch threesomes make their way
through Amen Corner. The music is a like a prayer,
soft and easy, just what these guys need to get them
through holes eleven and twelve, the two hardest
on the course. Pars are very acceptable here.
From a distance the colors in the crowd resemble
the azaleas and I can almost forget they're there
with their shouts and cameras and folding chairs.
It's just men, green fairways, and white golf balls.
My mom and dad started playing the game later
in life after raising us kids. I can understand how
they loved the serenity of the course after working
all week. It gave them extra energy to enjoy
getting older and helped them fight the cancer
that inevitably made them stop playing. That
damn cancer. That fucking sand trap no amount
of swinging could get them out of. The announcers
pause and the song that is The Masters swells,
again, and I remember the last time my dad
watched it. It was a couple months before
he died and I was in Florida visiting him. We sat
in the lanai chatting about the game and players,
he tethered to oxygen, me trying to breathe for him.
Afterwards, I went to Publix and bought Maine lobsters
and had them cooked for us. I can still see the melted
butter on my dad's chin and the smile on his face
as he devoured every last morsel of that delicacy.
Back in Georgia the crowd groans as a ball hits
the water, proof that nothing, nothing can be trusted.
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