It makes the world go 'round

 Shel Silverstein's "Hug O' War."

Two-year-old Ivan and I were motoring our way through a morning of errands when we passed two men in their 20s, loping along with rounded shoulder and skinny leg.

"I wuv those guys," Ivan said.

I glanced back at the men who were now glancing back at us.

"You love them?"

"Yeah."

I shrugged.

They laughed.

And everyone had a better day because of it.

 

I've been listening this tribute to Shel Silverstein for two weeks, straight. Here's where you can preview the entire album. And while we're singing on the subject, why not learn about the mathematics of poetry, enjoy Seattle poet John Olson's love of lines, or pick up some tips from budding author Caroline Starr Rose on telling a story in free verse.

Homage to Sendak and an ushering in of the flu

Illustration from "Alligators All Around" by Maurice Sendak, whose book "Chicken Soup with Rice: A book of months" inspired me despite my sinus headache.

In October,
I've been host
to coughs,
fevers and
a runny nose.
Soup's cured all
but the nasal drip, post.
Sneezing once.
Hacking twice.
Cold season sure ain't nice.

Spring feverish

The desert is blooming: Huffaker Hills Trail.

Billy Collins is a favorite poet of mine. Indeed, he's a popular poet with many: His readings regularly sell out and he reportedly received a six-figure advance when he switched publishers. The two-term U.S. poet laureate's work is praised for being approachable, witty, quirky, tender and profound, the very same things that critics argue make his poems pedestrian.

But I'm not here to discuss the faults and merits of Collins, but to share one of his poems that seems to be written for weeks like this one, which is just half over and already has been packed with painting, scrubbing, raking and planting.

"Advice to writers"
by Billy Collins

Even if it keeps you up all night,
wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.

Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.

The more you clean, the more brilliant
your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take
to the open fields to scour the undersides
of rocks or swab in the dark forest
upper branches, nests full of eggs.

When you find your way back home
and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink,
you will behold in the light of dawn
the immaculate altar of your desk,
a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.

From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift
a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet,
and cover pages with tiny sentences
like long rows of devoted ants
that followed you in from the woods.

Unprepared

Margaret Hamilton as The Wicked Witch of the West
in the 1939 "The Wizard of Oz."

Witch hats
we have, but no
pirate patch, knightly sword,
pumpkins to carve. Where's Mummy gone?
Shopping.


A wickedly quick recipe.

Witch Hats
Feeds: A classroom

Fudge striped shortbread cookies, like these.
Kisses
Frosting

Unwrap a Hershey's Kiss. Squeeze a blob of frosting on cookie. Press the Kiss into the frosting.



Happy Halloween!

Farewell summer

"A leaf's view" courtesy of Creativity+ Timothy K Hamilton.

Watching
yellow leaves fall
in a late summer wind,
my small son looked at the trees and
yelled no.

For more poetry, go to Sunday Scribblings. I particularly enjoyed Quin Browne at a gasping little voice, Dee Martin at Thoughts Have Wings, and the concise piece published at GlowbyWords.

The walrus and the carpenter

One young oyster ...

"The time has come," the husband said,
"To talk of many things
Of water-guns and woolen socks
And other summer flings,
And whether we shall all survive
My mother visiting.

"But wait a bit," the woman cried,
"Before we have our chat
For I'm out of breath from cleaning
And haven't even sat.
"No hurry," said the husband.
She thanked him much for that.

"Bottles of wine," the husband said,
"Is what she'll chiefly need.
Nesquik and Lays potato chips
Are very good indeed.
Be prepared, my darling dear,
For she's coming in great speed."

"Two weeks!" the woman cried,
Turning a little blue,
"We'll be so busy thinking
Of things for her to do."
"It may rain," the husband said.
"Look at those storm clouds brew."

"It was kind of you to come!
Your stay will be anything but dull,
For we've soccer, skating, swimming
And, of course, shopping at the mall."
The mother-in-law took a drag on her smoke
And said, "I'm ready for it all."

Four young children hurried up
Eager for their treat.
Their hair was brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat.
The mother-in-law reached into her bag
And pulled out Twinkies to eat.

Roller rinks, soccer games,
Shopping 'til they dropped.
Mining tour, squirt-gun fights,
Then up again they'd pop.
And every day the sun would hide,
And never the rain did stop.

"It seems a shame," the mother-in-law said.
"But it's time to say goodbye."
So she stuffed her suitcase, kissed the children,
And dabbed at her streaming eyes,
Then spent the next 14 hours
Sleeping in the sky.

"Oh, darling," said the husband,
"We've had a pleasant run.
My mother's heading home again."
But answer came there none.
And this was scarcely odd because
All were exhausted from the fun.

Mending the nets

Winslow Homer, 1882. The National Gallery of Art exhibition.

When life's
a little frayed,
I knit it together.
Tangled thoughts slip and click into
purls.

A final burst of joy

For more joyful images, click here.

In the strawberry patch I pose
freshly painted raspberry toes.

Fulfilling a pledge to take a Joy+Ride this month.

Memorial memories

Raindrops
pepper playa,
turn hardpan into clay.
Puddles stick to the bottom of
my shoes.



The land sailing adventure also included "A birthday lesson," "First s'more" and "Finally, the wind blew." Want even more pictures? Click here.

Mama's mix

Editor's note: The Slow-Cooked Sentence is devoting itself to song this week as part of its Joy+Ride, a month-long quest that involves planting, polishing and singing.

"Casi05" courtesy of INDEED.

Thirty songs plus half
a day all for me equals
sweet, sweet sanity.

The time's been spent, but I can still share my songs. My favorite is "Half Acre," I can listen to The Kinks all day long, and you've got to check out the lyrics to "A Chat With Your Mother."

• I'll Fly Away, Alison Krauss & Gillian Welch
• Julia, The Beatles
• Mother Nature's Son, The Beatles
• Half Acre, Hem
• Your Mother Should Know, The Beatles
• Ghost Town/Poem For Eva, Bill Frisell
• God Bless The Child, Billie Holiday
• Sunspots, Bob Mould
• I'll Come Running, Brian Eno
• All Mama's Children, Carl Perkins
• What A Wonderful World, With L Dan Zanes & Friends
• Leave It Like It Is, David Wilcox
• Do You Realize??, Flaming Lips
• White Winter Hymnal, Fleet Foxes
• After Midnight, J.J. Cale
• Crazy Mama, J.J. Cale
• Boom Boom, John Lee Hooker
• Hot Potatoes, The Kinks
• Have A Cuppa Tea, The Kinks
• Bonjour, Bonjour, L'Autobus A Vapeur
• Our House, Madness
• You Are My Sunshine, Norman Blake
• That Was Your Mother, Paul Simon
• Mother and Child Reunion, Paul Simon
• A Chat with Your Mother, Sally Rogers & Howie Bursen
• Inní mér syngur vitleysingur, Sigur Ros
• I Wish, Stevie Wonder
• Isn't She Lovely, Stevie Wonder
• What Child Is This, Vince Guaraldi
• I Took My Mom To the Prom, The Ziggens

Homage

"And dirt was cleanly ..."

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious praisebe
poet and maytag

when ivan discovers

that hose + dirt
= mud

it's spring
and the world is puddle-wonderful

when maxandsam come running
from soccer field smelling of lawn and little-
boy stink

it's spring and
the iceCream truck
whistles far and wee.

and chajaandcoins go
scrambling for chocotacos
that dribble and glop

it's spring and
mothersclimbMountains
of laun
dry
and sigh at what they see

it's spring and the iceCream truck
whistles
far
and
wee

Of mom and minions

One day in photos and rhyme.

Sunscreen slapped, hats attached.
Shovel dirt? We we're willin' to try.
But with wagon tires flat,
there the mountain sat.
And so best laid plans go awry.

What did we do,
me and my crew?
Why, we slurped time away
with technicolor soda-y,
Knowing the tire would be fixed soon.

Chivalry

"Through a world turned upside down" courtesy of sandcastlematt.

I know of a modern-day knight
who every day gets up and fights
exhaust-spewing dragons,
of mincemeat they'd make him,
were it not for his quick steed, the bike.

My husband's round-trip commute: 9.5 miles.

The time it took him to rescue me when I locked myself and the baby and a cart-full of groceries out of the minivan: 15 minutes.

Level of his annoyance on a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being extremely irritated: 2

His favorite piece of gear: Dinotte road light 200L-AA-S and battery charger.

The price: $160

My favorite piece: The balaclava.

The price: $15


Photo courtesy of Libby.

Why we won't buy a second car: For God, king and country, of course.

The explorer

Sam!

I like to wander
around my brain and find things,
he said, sleepily.

A short catalog of things he was searching for at bedtime:

• Do you believe in magic?
• How do birds fly with such tiny bones?
• Do trees have brains?

An inventory of his pockets:

1. Small spiral notebook.
2. Stub of a pencil, sharp.
3. Padlock.
4. Lego pieces.
5. Various rocks containing tiny crystals.

What he's reading:

• The fantasy series "The Secrets of Droon" by Tony Abbott.
• "The Knight's Castle" by Edward Eager.
• The graphic novel "Benjamin Franklin, An American Genius" by Kay Melchisedech Olson.

Poetry and pineapples

As Barack Obama sat down to the traditional Inaugural Luncheon, I arranged rings of pineapple in caramelized brown sugar and wrote a limerick to our new leader. I hope you do something to make this day special.

On this wintr'y day I bake
a sweet inaugural cake,
to celebrate a new prez,
a black man, no lez!
Of hist'ry, I happ'ly partake.

Here is the recipe from "Chez Panisse Fruit," with my modifications: Melt 4 tablespoons butter with 3/4 cup brown sugar in a cast-iron skillet. When the mixture starts to caramelize, turning a darker shade of brown, remove from heat and let cool. Arrange slices of pineapple rings evenly in the bottom of the pan and place a maraschino cherry in the center of each ring. Set aside.

Preheat the oven to 350-degrees.

To make the cake batter, sift 1 1/2 cups flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1/4 teaspoon salt in a bowl. In a large mixing bowl, cream 1/4 pound (1 stick) butter and 1 cup white sugar until pale and fluffy. Mix in 1 teaspoon vanilla. Add 2 egg yolks, one at a time. Gradually add the dry ingredients and 1/2 cup whole milk in stages.

In another large bowl, whisk together the egg whites and 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar. Beat until the whites form firm peaks. Fold the whites into the batter in two batches. Pour the batter over the topping in the skillet and bake until the top is slightly brown and the cake pulls away, about 50 to 60 minutes. Let the cake cool for 15 minutes. Run a knife around the edge of the pan and invert the cake onto a serving plate. Serve with lightly sweetened whipped cream.

Plants and politics

Poster by Scott Hansen, a participant in the Artists for Obama series.

There was a time not too long ago when my life was lived in stop motion, seasons slowly slipping away as I sat on the couch and breastfed my twin sons. From my living room window I witnessed my neighbor's yard burst in bloom, daises and tickseed unfurling petal by petal. Months later I was still on the couch nursing and watching as flowers faded and trees dropped their curled, yellow leaves into the cool grass.

On those days that nursing sessions melted into hours, and I feared my brain was being sucked out through my breasts because I couldn't remember what day it was, my neighbor's Thursday habit saved me. She'd emerge from her cottage to care for her yard, and when I saw her I'd breathe, remembering the week was almost over and soon my husband would be home to help. Then I'd settle back down into the couch, nurse some more, and sing my daughter the nursery rhyme "Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary," because by then I'd learned it was also my neighbor's name.

When my babies began to toddle, I pulled myself out of the permanent dimple I'd made in the couch and went outside to dig in my own garden. With one baby on my back, the other fenced in the grass, and my 3-year-old daughter equipped with her own small shovel, I moved rosebushes and toppled fences, wreaking havoc in the yard and sowing sanity in my mind. The crash and splinter of rotten wood, the ripping of root from its earth made me smile, and I'd wave at Mary from across the street and ask her opinion on where to plant my catmint and whether grapes would fare as well in my yard as they did hers. Life was no longer tick ... tick ... ticking in slow animation. I could leave the house with three small children and not panic, as long as I confined my errands to stores with shopping carts (to contain the kids) or to garden shops (where they could run freely without attracting attention or disapproval).

Today there's no time to sit on the couch and watch Mary's yard grow, although it's still as quaint as the nursery rhyme's. No, it's not her marigolds that catch my eye now, but her political signs. Her irritation with the Bush administration has grown to weed-choking proportions she told me the other day after I put a Barack Obama sign in my yard. So I penned this one for her because we share a love of plants and politics:

Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

How do the Democrats grow?

With precinct swell and cash in the till

And Obama signs all in a row.

Ode to my healthy baby

Replica of late Meiji Era Japanese postcard
courtesy of ambientfusion.

It was three weeks of hell,
but his bottom's finally well.
Tests done.
Positives? None!*
The cause is a mystery still.

(Although, he is allergic to eggs and nuts.)

Fashion, part one

The upscale mall in town, The Summit, sponsored a camp for girls, ages 6 to 16, this summer. The whole concept -- a day-camp destination for children interested in shopping, accessorizing, make-up, decorating and entertaining -- has been sitting like a tiny pebble in my Birkenstocks since I first spotted the advertisement. I finally figured out how to write about it:

The mall's calling all girls to camp
to teach them to twitter and vamp.
Gloss lips.
Swish hips.
Individuality replaced with a stamp.

***

A summer camp of fashion and glitter.
Send my daughter? Naw, I'd rather hit 'er.
The hairs on my head
stand up in dread,
as feminism goes to the shitter.

Feel free to add your own limerick!

In response to my sister's question

Photo courtesy of moominsean

There once was a woman from the city
Whose dreams of the desert made 'er giddy
Her spouse wouldn't lie
"Dear, sand's in your eye."
So she settled back down and wrote a ditty.

***

Still unclear on Why I Was Wrong About Silver City, check out Maakies comic on Home Improvement Hooch. It's good!

Silver City

Historical picture of the Nevada mining town, sometime after its decline in 1869.
photo courtesy Nevada Historical Society

Her silver tarnished,
this old mistress of the mines
is bedecked in junk.

***

Silver City is a decrepit mining town, pocked with holes, studded with splintered shacks and adorned with rusted cars, glittering in the late afternoon sun. It's a ghost town that's been revived, so why think about living there today?

Because its tiny population -- a smidgen of the 1,200 living there in its heyday -- knows one another. They're raising their children together, which is why kids were camping in the park on a weeknight, and the city's summer program is providing lessons to a teen garage band.

Because it's hills are shades of coffee, its air is perfumed with sweet, pungent sagebrush, and the night sky sparkles with stars. Living there is a conscious choice to be grounded in location, tied to the land, to know a place.

This is what my parents gave me when we moved to Silver Springs in 1980. I wish I could give it to my children.