Tag Archives: whimsy

Tribute to the Sisterhood

I’m not a poet. I can’t rhyme worth a damn, nor can I stick to a meter. Disclaimers aside, I wrote this in the months following Britta’s departure from Alaska this summer and share it here for your amusement. Britta, perhaps you’d like to add some stanzas?

Tribute to the Sisterhood

We are the eaters of bread-butts, we are the soakers of beans.
We are canners and honey mead-makers, we add salt to our slow-boiling dreams.

We scoff at purveyors of bullshit, we are the rollers of eyes.
We skip when no-one is looking, we trip when we look at the skies.

We pause to identify flowers, we stoop to poke at the scat.
We piss off the sides of tall mountains, we shat at the glacial errat.

We are the laughers at mishaps, we have time for very few rants.
We are the clumsy beer-sloppers, we tear holes in the knees of our pants.

We are the front-row foot-stompers, we dance when the beat stirs our feet.
We are the wanton hip-shakers, without music we aren’t complete.

We wear earrings in the backcountry, we stand tall in high heels or big boots.
We have lived in all kinds of countries, we give credence to all of our roots.

We are the sketchers and schemers, we sit idle for hours at a time.
We sip on bourbon Jim Beamers, we pour glass after glass of red wine.

We thrive on wide-open vistas, we wilt when we feel we are trapped.
Our powers are strong and emerging; our lives have yet to be mapped.

Sisters 10

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A Date with Myself

Today I went on a date with myself.

This meant I chose shoes to please only myself, and so ended up tromping down the river trail in hiking boots – practical, warm, sturdy. I noticed things for my own delight: the quick flit of a small dark bird across the path. The delicate tracery of frost on twigs and needles. The icy hurry of the river. I told myself several witty stories, just to impress, and did not try to think up clever things to say in return. I just listened, my attention completely focused on me.

At the bakery, I generously bought myself a cup of tea, and insisted on paying. “No, no, it’s on me,” I said to myself. I sat by myself at a table, chose the spot in the sun and basked, sipping my mint tea slowly and languorously. I used adverbs wantonly, experimentally, whimsically. I looked across the table at myself and imagined a future, searched for connections and similarities between me and myself. I kept an open mind, tried to overlook the awkward silences. I tried to forget what I knew about myself, and instead focused on how I made myself feel.

I in turn try to make myself feel comfortable. I slip in a few perceptive compliments, and instead of brushing them aside and not believing them, I respond with a simple “Thanks,” and glow a little.

Image

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