Opening Day poem for Open Link Monday

My husband suggested recently that I read an article in one of his sports magazines, about one of my favourites on the Toronto Blue Jays, Edwin Encarnación, of whom great things seem to be expected.

The following ditty was written a year or two ago, maybe, perhaps...at least as far as I can remember. It was certainly written long before that magazine article was written. But I've always liked shy, quiet Edwin, and have hoped he would be headed for great things.

I also like the fact that he is from the Dominican Republic, a place we have visited and enjoyed, and where we liked the people very much.

With Major League Baseball's opening day looming, and us with other plans, here's a tip of the cap to our Edwin, which I'm posting for Open Link Monday at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Our Edwin En-car-na-ci-ón

worked hard his home run skills to hone.

Then he tied, number three

in the whole MLB.

Let’s hope he does not break a bone!

Kay L. Davies

Lindy's cousin doesn't like snow

Lindy's cat cousin, Bailey Davies, was very surprised to find his balcony covered in snow earlier this year.
He walked around v-e-r-y carefully until he got used to it.

Lindy doesn't mind the snow at all, and said cats are wusses, whereupon we had a mother-to-dog discussion about all pets being equal, even cats. She doesn't quite understand it, but is still giving it some thought.

Posted for
Pet Pride
with thanks to Lindy's friend Bozo and his family who host it on their Pets Forever blog in Mumbai, India.
Lindy says, in a whisper, "I'm not so sure, Bozo. I still think cats are wusses. You wouldn't be afraid of a little snow, would you?"
"Lindy," said her mom, "aren't you going to thank Bailey for the use of his pictures?"
"Why? He didn't operate the camera. His parents did. Cats are..."
"Lindy! Didn't we just decide all pets are equal, including cats?"
"You said it, I didn't. Now can I have some cucumber? And maybe some green pepper with it? I love vegetables."
Lindy's mom sighed, and said, "Thanks, Clint and Maria, for the photos."

"Play it again" prompt for Real Toads

Margaret, at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, has challenged us with a complicated prompt this weekend.
First, she says we must include the ocean. That's easy. I love the ocean. Then she says we must write a new poem. Okay, I buy that...but, and here's the kicker, the new poem about the ocean must link back to a previous post on Real Toads.
Sigh.
She lost me once we got past the ocean part and the new poem part. How to do both those things and link them up with a previous post?
Aieee.
So I did my best. Remember, old brain cells can't be retrained as easily as new brain cells, doncha know, but I tried. Margaret, this one's for you.
Two of these photos are from a 2012 Toads post by a friend who is both a poet and a photographer, Kenia Cris. The other photo is by my husband, Richard Schear, and it is of the ocean.
a) ocean
b) new poem
c) linking to a previous post
 All present and accounted for. Check, check, and check.

Photo by Richard Schear, 2006

at sunrise

they came out of the sea

up onto the land

and sat on the sand

for a while

this is nice

being here on the land

and out of the sea

yes, so nice to be

dry a while

Kenia Cris, photo

not for long

are we going to be

relaxed on the sand:

there’s work on the land

so don’t smile

see that gate?

you and I don’t yet know

how to get through it

Credit: Johannes Stotter
copyright infringement
not intended

but we must do it

with our hands

goodbye, sand,

it was nice to meet you

but, oh, now I know

that we both must go

through the gate

and our fate

will depend on our hands

to open the latch

and then we must catch

the right breeze

through the trees

and away from the sea

Kenia Cris, photo

goodbye, ocean blue,

so nice to know you

for a while

foolish fool

come away with me now!

and stand yourself up

you mis’rable pup—

get that gate!

I got it!

I opened the gate latch

you saw me do it

now we go through it

then go home

past the pond

the toads happily hopped—

then saw the towers

blooming like flowers

to beam them up through the clouds,

and home to a galaxy far, far away

Kay Davies, March 22, 2014

Reflecting on the hood of a truck

Maria Davies photos

Reflections dwindle as the light gets lower, but are still visible on the hood of my brother's truck during their Western US National Parks trip two years ago. We have a similar holiday planned for later this year, so Clint and Maria's photos are inspirational. Thanks, both of you!

Posted for Weekend Reflections
hosted by James, of Something Sighted. Thanks, James.

Camping with Corey

Our friend Corey, aka Herotomost, at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, has asked us to write about camping, or something scary (the two are synonymous) or something Lewis-and-Clarkian. Then he tells us he makes his Smores while sitting outside a luxury vehicle like this one:

Sigh.
I remember being in a canvas tent with my parents, brother, and sister, five sleeping bags overlapping at awkward angles, topped by a collie named Wag. No fun atallatall, except for the dog.

Photo from
Wikimedia Commons

I ate too many Smores

when I camped

the night before,

and found myself

peeing in a canyon

in the dark,

risking life and limb

to get away from him

who was snoring

in a camper

three doors down.

I nearly almost fell,

like Timmy in a well,

and then...

I swore I’d never

camp this way again.

Kay Davies, March, 2014

Fortunately for me, my husband hates the idea of camping, no matter how luxurious the vehicle, so our next adventure won't be in tents made of reindeer hide and sinew, but instead will be at the Reykjavik Hilton.
Sigh, happily.

An international holiday for Herm

Sketches by Rob Davies circa 1992

No matter where
I find myself,
I stop on August 1
to celebrate
International
Herman Davies Day.


The Herm came to my house on an autumn day in the late 1980s, and the world changed.


People began knocking on my door, all of them asking if Hermie could come out to play with their children, with their puppies, and with their kittens.

Soon he was the talk of the town, then of the province of British Columbia and, within months, of the entire country of Canada. He was the best entertainment people could give their 6-month-old offspring. He would lie on the floor and let babies crawl all over him, pull his black tail, his one black ear, and his white ear with a circle of black below it. He let kittens do the same, even though they had sharp little teeth with which they chewed his ears.

Childless couples found he would wrestle with their puppies and wash their kittens and entertain visiting dignitaries as well. It was his unassuming aplomb with foreign diplomats that gave rise to the international celebration.

For Herman's second birthday, my sister gave him a tiny little white kitten. Hermie was so sweet, generous, and polite, that he always let the kitten eat first. This led to him keeping his boyish figure and to the kitten becoming a large, fat, selfish creature who clawed the ankles off teenage boys when they passed by.

When the late great Herm was twelve years old, he was stricken by an inoperable brain tumor. Despite valiant efforts by his veterinary team, and members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who escorted a sample of his spinal fluid on its way to the lab in a last-ditch attempt to save the heroic cat, he died. Hermie was buried with full honors next to his favorite dog, Niña Davies, aka The Dreaded Ninja Puppy, in a field overlooking one of British Columbia's majestic rivers.

Wherever I am on International Herman Davies Day, I find a river and hire a lone piper to play Scots Wha Hae Wi Wallace Bled (or Bruce's Address to His Troops at Bannockburn) (same song, different title). Crowds gather, many of the people carrying infants, young children, kittens or puppies, so that all may remember the white-with-black wonder who was The Herm.


Posted for Out of Standard at the
Imaginary Garden with Real Toads
in response to the prompt from that ever-imaginative poet Isadora Gruye asking us to write about a holiday of our own devising.

St. Patrick's Day, March 17

Photos: Wikimedia Commons

Ah, and 'tis yerself, then, is it, Mrs. Noonan? And ye bein' ivver so fair i' that fine green dress now, and me be wishin' ye the best o' Irish luck on Saint Paddy's Day, be I not? But where wid Mister Noonan be? Off to t'pub wi' 'is mates now, is he, and lavin' a fine w'man the likes o' ye to yersel'? Aye, might I take yer arm th'n, m'lady fair, an' be escortin' ye to yon pub t'be yersel' ignorin' of 'im, as well?

Posted for this week's

Open Link Monday

at the

Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

Image Description from historic lecture booklet:

"By sitting on a ledge and leaning back till the head is down about a foot and a half below the seat, it is possible to look up and kiss the bottom of that famous stone. It is a feat which challenges the most adventuresome and makes them hesitate as this Irish colleen is doing. Yet the edge of the stone is worn very smooth."

Insomnia, the bane of night's existence

For "Words Count" over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, our mistress of the well-chosen word, Mama Zen, has asked us to write about insomnia. Companion of my nights, murderer of my days, insomnia...

~

I wrote the book

on insomnia,

but I’ve forgotten

where I put it.

pacing the floor,

night after night,

I took insomnia

and dissected it,

examined its every molecule,

every nuance,

every characteristic

so characteristic

of my nights with it.

I became one

with insomnia,

ate it, drank it,

all but slept with it—

that I could not do.

Kay Davies, March, 2014

~

Rewritten to 60 words in keeping with the "Words Count" challenge.

Camera Critters and Pet Pride

Photo by Kay Davies, 2014

Lindy's friend Bozo, whose family hosts Pet Pride from their Pets Forever blog in Mumbai, India, is looking for someone to play ball with him.
Lindy says, "I'll play with you, Bozo. It's rather cold playing by myself here in the snow, so I'll come to your house, okay?"

Posted for Pet Pride
and for Camera Critters, hosted by Misty Dawn
Lindy says, "Maybe I can come to your house, too, Misty, to play with the baby. I love babies and small children. And bigger children. And grownups. And other dogs." Sounds like Lindy loves everyone, and she does (especially her daddy, but she loves her mommy, too).

Birthdays in March: Robert Frost

When Kerry posted Robert Frost as our March birthday poet at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, I thought I'd found a nice easy challenge I could ace, because who of us in North America didn't study one or more of Frost's poems in high school and/or college?
Alas, when I looked up some of his poetry, I happened upon some with which I've been unfamiliar, and with which I'd have preferred to remain unfamiliar, depressing as they were.
So I thought that left me with The Road Less Travelled, and not much else, until I looked again today and realized how much I like, not the subject matter particularly, but the form of this Frost poem Kerry used as an illustration.
I love the way Frost has somehow made light of a scary proposition, and played with his couplets as well.

Ma told me woman's place is toil

               With pots to boil

And clothes to wash for man and child

She said I'd work until my brain

               Would pray for rain

And then recant, for rain would mean

The crops would grow and in between

               The rows, the weeds

Will fast outgrow our planted seeds

Unless I pull them, on my knees,

And God won't listen to my pleas

               To make them stop

               Before I drop

                             Away.

Kay Davies, March, 2014