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Category Archives: Children

PoPo Teaches Grandpa A Lesson [rev2]

How stupid am I?

Well it starts out like this—

My Grandson, leaving a summer math class
carrying a piece of folded paper

—Followed by his gracious and grinning teacher

I asked, “What is that?”

Pointing to his hand holding the paper,

Hoping it wasn’t a note from the “warden”

Being shot by one of his righteous and never wrong Heroes.

He handed it to me—
It was a bunch of math problems
He needed to solve before tomorrow’s class.

Looking at it with a quick glance,

Spotting the first problem to be solved—

I asked, “What’s 9 times 3?”
Looking at the sky,

As we were going towards the car
Quietly said, “27”

Hmmmm!

Then he turned towards me and asked,
“What’s 9 times 0?”
I said “9”! Quite proudly—

 Both he and his teacher burst out laughing
As she patted my grandson

On the back, saying, “see you tomorrow.”

Opening our car doors, he said,
“Grandpa, you know what ever number times zero
Will always be zero.”

 Driving off

I looked in the rear view mirror
And saw him wearing my baseball cap
Usually left in the back—

He was wearing it backwards
And giving me this shit eatin’ grin.

It was a long ride back

Thinking how smart I really am.

 

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Breakfast Before Their School‘s Mid-Terms

          In the foothills of New Hampshire, on the threshold of the White Mountains, the sun began to warm the valley. The warm spring morning sprayed glistening frost into fog. Another growing up season had passed. The children were getting dressed with some apprehension.

            I looked out the kitchen window and I could smell, feel spring, and see it lightly, loftily, taking its place. The morning greeted me with multiple shadows getting more confident and larger behind cereal bowls and warm buttered coffee cake.

Budding on branches

Spring’s new born generation

Peaks beyond shadow

dVerse~ Haibun Monday: The Shadow Knows 4/3/2017

 
 

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The Tale of Angelica’s Bull Fight

“Within its small circle one finds life, death, ambition, despair, success, failure, faith, desperation, valor, cowardliness, generosity, and meanness—all condensed into the actions of a single afternoon or even a single moment.”   Conchita Cintrón, (matadora)

She climbed out of bed, shook her head, and stood steady.

Twisting her torso, tipping on her tippy toes,

Selecting her most colorful clothes,

She smiled at the sunlight through wide-open windows.

    Yesterday in school, never expecting her path to be blocked  by a very, very, large un-reeling bull, snorting words in puffs of curses and personal innuendos; of her color, her religion, her weight, her choice of clothes, her friends, and the painful statements of her heritage, mother, father, stepfather, stepbrother, uncles, and aunts.

    The bull pushed her mentally and physically with such ignorance and arrogance of stampeding shame, Angelica relinquished.

Feeling demeaned, gouged, her heart bleeding and sore

By the misunderstanding,

The miss-handling of life that allowed itself to snort,

To spit, to bare its teeth, and then, become completely,

Unbelievably cruel with pain.

    Rushing home, closing the door to her room, her head buried in a tear-dampened pillow, no longer able to cry, she fell asleep. On a small table by her bed, laid a dry red carnation taken down from above her headboard’s framed poster of “Conchita”

In her dreams, sitting in a wicker chair

Between the bed and her clothes, left on the floor,

Appeared Conchita “matadora.” Visibly aching, poked by a mean bull

They called “Chiclanero.”

    From situations to experiences, from the offensive to the pervasive, to mistakes made and recapturing sensibility, their stories and Conchita’s occasional swishing animations of a flowing red muleta, filled the room in the spirit of lifting anger and disappointment in gestures without conciliation, with the tip of her fingers, closing the door, revealing her struggling life, as a perfect Matadora. No, as a perfect matador.

Softly ending into dawn.

Their conversation subsided

In a night filled with excitement and adventure.

Conchita, whispered why they met

And what to forget, in a kiss good-bye;

Saying “what makes bleeding stop is within the strength of gentleness, perseverance and dignity, in one stroke of a kind, brave, and… in an unimaginable act”.

 

[A Historical Note About Conchita Cintrón:

     She intended the final corrida of the 1949 season, in Jaén, Spain, to be the last of her career. She appeared in the ring together with the matadors Manolo Vázquez and Antonio Ordóñez. After performing on horseback with the bull, Cintrón rode to the box of the presidente and asked for permission to dismount for the kill. Permission was denied. This was her signal to leave the arena, and leave the killing of the bull to the novillero assigned to her for that task. Instead, she dismounted, grabbed his sword and muleta, caped the bull and prepared it for the kill. She actually went in for the kill and then dramatically let the sword drop to the sand. The bull charged. Cintrón stepped from his path and simulated the kill by touching his shoulders with her fingers as he rushed by. Pandemonium erupted in the stands and the audience threw hats and red carnations at her feet. ]

 

 

Angelica climbed out of bed, shook her head, and stood steady

Twisting her torso, tipped on her tippy toes,

And smiled at the bright sunlight through wide-open windows.

 She stepped out of her room in her most colorful clothes;

(Dressed with the sword of precision “La Diosa de Oro” left behind.

Rushing to school, that morning, she knew

Her famous day had just begun.

[Rev 14]

 

 
10 Comments

Posted by on February 19, 2017 in bullying, Children, ignorance, New light/New life, Prose Poetry

 

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Grow Over The Wall

      It has always been hard for me to describe the birth and the growth of three sons. They,  became so entwined in my birth, that all I could do was to enjoy their wrapping around me; until we let each other go, with love unharmed.

Child like seedling small

Born in the soil of mother

Grow over the wall.

 
14 Comments

Posted by on January 9, 2017 in Children, Haibun Poetry, Pine Cone Diaries, Zen

 

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Papa’s First Dance

It was never hard to find the lines

To greet you or your brothers. And, put them into a melody

For a song that sings in harmony

With love— for you.

Yes, you all have grown, still magically dancing,

Sliding off the top of my shoes—

Kissing my cheek without having to explain

Oops!

 

papas-first-dance

 
14 Comments

Posted by on January 7, 2017 in Children, Existential, Father, Getting Old, Love, Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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A poem For My Grandson PoPo

Small Spider in my car catches me unaware,

tickling on my chin.

How did he get in?

So sweet, so cute, what should I do with him?

I’ll stick my head out the car window— at 50 miles per hour

That should be the last of him.

Shoot! There goes my hat.

But not, apparently, still hanging on,

Is my new best friend.

 
19 Comments

Posted by on July 24, 2016 in Children, Love, Pine Cone Diaries, Silly stuff

 

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Brass, Brazen Maple Leaf

    Brass, brazen maple leaf, embossed with a very serious face. Buds around you change in every season; green in spring, leaf in summer, then celebrate their passing in bright reds, yellow, and orange. Crackling under my feet, whispering to me; seasons pass and I am looking forward to wintry solitude.

     You, my friend, stand against my fence. Never blowing away. Brass and brazen, always in the same place.

Maple Leag

     A gift from a flea market, many years ago. A gift from my children, placing our imagination, with their love, in an honored presentation, on Father’s Day; of my favorite leaf, one from a maple tree, brass, brazen as could be; never blowing away, always in the same place, as their love continues for me.

Splintered kindling wood

Moss growing moist on north side

Summer serves them well

Written In Center Sandwich NH at Kathleen’s place.

 

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