He Was Riding on a Pig

I saw him bouncing up and down
when my eyes focused I could see
he was straddled on a pig

holding on to the reins 

racing past the grand stand 

laughing and squealing with delight. 

The pig was a large white

sow with pink ears,
a pink snout, and a little curly tail.

They hurried up the hill

and down again leaving nothing 

but a blur and air filled

with laughter.

I walked out to him

when the ride was done
he was covered in mud

and flashed a large tooth-grin. 

I asked him what he was doing,

and he shouted, 
“Can’t you see -

I’m riding a pig

and it is lots of fun.”

I woke up, it was only a dream...

what could it possibly mean?

Artist Needs Benefactor

Inspiration can explode on canvas
or paper expressing the inner workings
of a prolific artists but without a benefactor,

someone to finance the genius, many good works
get lost in the artist’s loft, dwelling in obscurity
unless someone comes in to intercede

offering financial support and market venue
for the scribbling on a page or splashes of paint
on a canvas and once the benefactor is secured

and the world becomes familiar with the artist’s work
she will require a muse to keep the juices flowing
fame alone is not sufficient to keep an artist inspired.

“Hey Batta, Batta!”

“Hey batta, batta!”
Taunting chants from the outfield
anything to break concentration
and get the batter to swing at the air.

“Strike three!” The umpire shouts
the crowds break into a loud cheer
the Eagles win the game, 7-3,

time for pizza and root beer

head to the local Lamp Post Pizza Inn.
Several boys in uniform from both teams
learn to play the game for competition
and camaraderie. They learn it is

more important to play the game
rather than win or lose, but somewhere
the message gets lost and winning 

becomes important at all cost.

Margarine or Butter?

His wife wanted butter 

she felt it was more natural than other fats
tastier than lard, and better than margarine.

He, on the other hand, was raised on
the synthetic brand, neatly wrapped
and advertised to be as good as the real thing.

When it came to toast and corn on the cob
he wanted the artificial taste of vegetable oil
that could be stored at room temperature
yet molded and dyed to look like butter.

The battle in the kitchen extended
to the children who sided with the mom
sometimes, then sided with their father.

In their minds both were interchangeable,
because in a taste test they couldn’t 
distinguish margarine from butter. 

So the battle raged on while cookies
disappeared from the cookie jar

and mashed potatoes were made
with whatever was handy.

Now the real question to discuss,
is olive oil better than both of them?

When mother used olive oil to make muffins

the answer quickly followed,  "Yuck!"

Playing Jacks

Ten steel stars and a rubber ball
carried ‘round wherever I went.
When things got dull I pulled out my bag
to play a game of Jacks.
Everyone did it young and old.

My mother was a fantastic player
moved so fast and smooth
went from ones to "tensies”
in no time flat
never missed a bounce.

I was the second best, took me
a couple of tries to get to "sixies”
from fives. A great math game
seeing combinations for ten
then sweeping up the right amount

without touching those left behind.
A simple game for simpler times
had to be nice to find others to play.
The owner of the jacks could set the rules
and then everyone took turns. 

Personalities of Flowers

Sunflowers are artists, loud and bold
making statements for all to see
not a fragile beauty by any means
shouting out, “Look at me!”

Roses are poets
in all their intricacies,
revealing secrets 

with such delicacy.

Irises are the clerics in the field
they like pomp and ceremony 

with colors of a rainbow 

praising god in all his glory.

Pansies are wives
domesticated to grow in flower beds
bringing pleasure and stability to a home

bred from weed to desired garden variety.

Journal

Blank pages waiting for my ink
to record my doings, 
or inscribe my thoughts
draw a picture or two to express my moods;

a mulching ground for later stories
or country western songs,
a breeding place for new ideas
where plans are made but not forgotten.

I leave scraps of poems and perfect phrases
scattered through the pages
filed away to be found years later
at an estate sale,

purchased by a total stranger
who takes my words to heart
and makes a life I couldn’t start

inspired by dreams I didn’t fulfill
because I was too afraid to take the leap
she took flight from my journal.