The Lunch Box

Cobwebs brushed across my face

As I cracked the cellar door

Hiding somewhere in this place

My childhood past was stored.

There upon a table

Sat a white box brown with rust.

The letters on its label

Spelled my name beneath the dust.

This was the lunch box I loathed,

Ashamed to carry each day.

Its trim of flowers and bows,

Couldn’t hide what it conveyed.

I was a girl of humble means

Whose parents were simple and poor.

School-bought lunch, a luxury,

That I could never afford.

The box now empty, thermos gone

Scenes of my childhood arose

Mother rising before the dawn

To warm my soup on the stove.

I know my parents worked so hard

And gave all they could to me.

This homely box, I can’t discard

Stored deep like the memories.

Valentine’s Day usually brings with it sentiments about love. I decided to share “The Lunch Box” this week because it expresses my feelings about my parents, my past, and how something so ugly and despised, could change into something beautiful. I still have my Junior Miss lunch box from 1960. Of course, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I keep my old lunch box because it reminds me that no matter how ugly I might feel, I am loved by God and beautiful in his sight. By the way, God feels the same about you!

Happy Valentine’s Day! Do you keep any relics from your childhood? Leave a comment.

Finding Refuge

Barren boughs scrape against the cloudy sky.

Lonely limbs ache for summer days gone by.

Little birds peck the frozen field for grains.

Day after day the chilly air remains.

Tiny mice huddle in lifeless leaves below.

Sleeping lilies lay in beds concealed by snow.

Hungry deer strip the brittle bark from trees.

Kindly ants share their tunnels with queen bees.

Home provides a refuge from winter’s icy grip

Gathered ’round the table in sweet companionship.

In my process of evaluating the recent frigid temperatures I can only think of one good thing about winter. I like the feeling of coming in from the cold and warming up with hot tea or cocoa. My husband and I moved our family to Florida in 1989 to escape Ohio winters.

Everyone says a person’s blood thins after they live in Florida for a number of years. For us, fifty degree temperatures are practically unbearable. My northern friends shake their heads and remark, “you don’t remember what cold is.”

Do you like winter? Some people do. Leave a comment and let me know your views on the subject. Maybe you can change my opinion.

A Poem for Non-Runners

I don’t run.

Nowhere to go.

Why should I hurry?

I want to know.

I don’t run.

Don’t want to sweat.

And if it rains,

I might get wet.

I don’t run.

Like many do.

Who says running is good for you?

Tendonitus

Causes pain

Shin splints, muscle pulls, ankle sprains.

I don’t run.

Since I’ve heard

Scientists say we should conserve.

Yes, my body,

Like a car

Loses its value when driven far.

Last summer Herb and I visited Pike’s Peak. Our guide took this photo of us pretending to run from Big Foot. I doubt if I could outrun Big Foot because I don’t run.

On the other hand, Herb is a runner. He’s competed in four marathons and done well for his age. He finished his last marathon at 65, and trains regularly.

I used to feel guilty about not running.

Dirty Harry said, “a man’s got to know his limitations.”

I’ve accepted mine. Running is not my thing. There’s joy in accepting yourself for who you are. I like my age. As a senior citizen, I think I’ve earned the right to say no to anything I don’t want to do.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe in staying active, choosing instead to walk or bike. We all know exercise is important, and I’m glad for alternatives. In the meantime, I ‘ll keep looking over my shoulder to see if Big Foot is closing in on me.

Thanks for reading my blog. If you like poetry, check out some of my more serious poems by clicking on the menu bar and selecting my poetry page. More poems and the stories behind them can be found under Categories in the sidebar. Remember, to like, follow, and share!

Along the Cady Way Trail

Pushing on the pedals

Riding down the road

Wheels are spinning faster

Cares are letting go

I shiver in the shadows

Under live oak trees

Pendulums of Spanish moss

Swaying in the breeze

Riding through a clearing

Bright sun warms my face

Days are getting shorter

Time is hard to place

Autumn is a toddler

Playing guessing games

Silent when a stranger

Wants to know his name

Haven for the snowbirds

Flocking to the scene

Nature hums an endless song

In the key of green.

The Spark

A tiny spark ignites

the forest floor ablaze.

Red-hot flames surge high

Starlight eclipsed by haze.

Fire consumes the thicket

exposing blackened earth

A perfect bed prepared

expecting the new birth.

 

Old sequoia smolders

Its pulse begins to pound.

Dozens of roasted cones

Shed their seeds to the ground.

Nurtured by rain and sun

Unseen by human eyes,

Pushing up from the ashes

Tender seedlings rise.

 

 

 

Souvenir Picture

The click of seatbelts

secured our bodies for transport.

As the Malibu’s engine accelerated…

we stared at the road ahead.

Not talking.

Not ready to accept

the expiration date stamped on our vacation package.

Both of us knew that Grand Junction

marked the intersection

of Adventure Avenue and Mundane Road.

In the rear view mirror,

the snow-capped San Juan Mountains

taunted us all the way to Montrose.

A vast panorama,

impossible to box up,

mail home,

or stuff in a suitcase,

jumped into ur Chevy

and hitched a ride.

 

 

My poem, Souvenir Picture, first appeared in Time of Singing, A Journal of Christian Poetry, Vol. 43, 2016

 

 

The Dream

You and I

step into the boat.

It teeters

until we find our center.

Within the crystal current

minnows dart below.

Emerald leaves of aspen trees

wave a warm hello.

Soon canyon walls close in

narrowing the flow,

we have no oars, the rapids roar

nowhere else to go.

Yet, laughter bubbles from within

as the wet jets play.

The current carries the two of us

in our little boat…

forever.