Two Days and Two Poems

41°f/5°C, partly cloudy but warming to 61°f.

A crazy couple of days. We continued work on the back room, finishing the cleanup yesterday before a trip to town for animal feed and dinner out with family. It seems like this has been a week of run, run, run, but it's been fun and we have managed to get some things done. 

Today I focused on housecleaning, sweeping, mopping, and putting away clutter. Then I moved on to making chicken noodle soup and a fruit salad since Derek and his soon-to-be step-granddaughter were here to help Sarah with some things in her cabin. They moved my old 1950 Tappan Deluxe range up to her cabin at last-- it has been sitting in my kitchen for almost 2 years, ever since I bought a "new" stove, a 1951 Tappan Deluxe. The extra stove wasn't really in the way; my kitchen is huge and there was a spot we could store the stove.

Next I put together a dozen grab bags and some mystery discount cards for the open house at one of our locations this weekend.  I had just finished when the gravel we have been waiting for arrived. Of course it did, just as I was about to leave. And of course the truck got stuck in the muddy place where Sarah's gas line and a new culvert were put in last week. After some finagling the driver managed to get the truck moved and the gravel got spread. Whew.

I left right after that drama, taking Derek's step-granddaughter with me. I guess she'll be my step-great-granddaughter, hadn't thought of that! She is a sweet 8 year old with beautiful red hair, and was a joy to be with. She helped me get the grab bags set up in the booth,  then had a good browse through the mall. Of course, Granny bought her the t-shirt she loved!

Then home to pack ebay and finally sit down and take a break. Which I am doing right now as I write this. I never even got finished one cup of coffee all day, but it's too late for caffeine now.

I mentioned that I read a couple poems at the open mic the other night, and I thought I'd share them here. This first was written about 10 years ago and it's one of my favorites. I have never submitted it anywhere for publication, but maybe someday I will.

Old Dogs

Old dogs don’t mind sleeping on the floor,

but they prefer the couch.

They like heat; scorched fur

means they’re warm and by the stove.

 

Old dogs like candy, even chocolate

and don’t care if it is bad for them.

It might even be fatal, but old dogs

will take the chance because they know

they only have a few years left anyway.

 

Old dogs know how to get scratched

in places they can’t reach themselves

since their legs don’t bend like they used to.

They wriggle under an idle hand,

and wait patiently because

a scratch is a scratch wherever it lands.

 

Old dogs snore and fart and pretend

they can’t hear when someone tells them

to get away from the table and don’t beg.

They beg. They’re not proud.

Table scraps are tasty and worth the risk

of being put outside.

 

Old dogs know about the important things in life:

warmth, comfort, food, a good scratch.

What else is there,

for an old dog?

This second one was written around 2018, I think, and is in the chapbook Porch Poems my three friends and I published a couple years ago. The book is available from me, or from Sheila-Na-Gig Publishing.  The poem is based on an actual experience of meeting this intriguing man at his yard sale way up a holler. I will never forget him.

The Rusty Spoon

“Why do you keep it,” she asked, “like it’s something special, 

an ornament or a treasure? It’s just a rusty spoon.”

She didn’t know his eyes, glimmering blue,

sharp as ice needles. She didn’t see his skin,

 worn and beat, craggy with years and hard use,

or hear his voice, smoke-darkened, prison rough.

She didn’t smell the sharp acid of oak or his sweat

from splitting a mountain of winter warmth.

She didn’t feel the tough skin of his hands, split,

callused, nails bitten to the quick. She didn’t know

the story, how he found the spoon,

two feet down in  red clay, digging a grave

in a churchyard with markers so old

the names were worn away.

She didn’t see his cabin,

 tucked under the edge of a laurel thicket

beside a dark stream, hidden from curious view.

She didn’t hear the wonder in his voice,

see the mystery in his eyes

as he handed the spoon to me.

 

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.