Checklist:Save the Daisies

Checklist

1st cup of coffee.  Done

Save the daisies: done thanks to God's gift of rain.  The drought and excessive heat have compromised my garden and after 40 days of 100 plus weather in full sun, my garden is a scab.  Water has been restricted so I have been watering only to save the trees, shrubs, perennials, the grass and the house.  I have been most worried about the daisies as I planted them in remembrance of two people I loved.  My nephew Justin and my father-in-law JW.  They are more than 5 years old and each spring their footprint grows.  I am hoping they survive long enough to complete their cycle of dormancy to return next spring.  The rain today a gift.

Posted recent publication credits on the side bar.  Done.

2nd cup of Coffee.  Done.

Ordered book of good poetry. Done.  Sarah J. Sloats. Excuse me while I wring this long swim out of my hair. 

3rd cup of coffee. Done.

Stood outside in  my t-shirt and underwear: Felt rain.  Done.

4th cup of coffee.  Done.

Teaching a fish not to swim

I have been writing, not much, a bit, here and there, in the quiet minutes, more like doodles in the margins of my daily life. I sent a friend a poem recently, and she said to me "And I thought you weren't going to do that anymore" and I wrote back "Well ya, it's like teaching a fish not to swim." This weekend I am going to update my sidebar links for published poems, I don't think it's been updated in over a year. I am going to dust off 8-10 poems to revise and I just might write a poem.

Color my World: Brown

We are setting new records here in Texas soon we will beat a record. We will be the summer with the most consecutive days of 100+ weather. Today is day 40, the record 42. At this point I want to go for the Gold, want to bust the 31 year record. According to the weather man, we are likely going to end up close to 50 consecutive days. Below a morning freewrite.  Perhaps later to be a poem.  We shall see.

Freewrite 08/10/11

We are all crazy here. We like the earth beneath are cracking,  forming surface crevices that reveal  things, things best left buried. Most of us could ignite with a mere spark, a piece of flint on stone, or the directionally ray of a magnifying glass. We are fried. We are toast. We look for fall with the eternal hope of spring. The natives know. The truth is: there will be no fall, no gradually paling into brown, no turning of the seasons, no settling into colder days. We will be thrust from summers blaze into the stark days of winter. No quarter given, no allowances for any species. Simply hell: then the shock of cold. a numbing acceptance of brown.