Pleading for Air

I started this poem a couple weeks ago but forgot about it until this morning. It's in reference to our amazingly brutal ice storm of a few weeks back.

I know everybody has the tendency to burn brush when they have to get rid of it. After all--it's free and you don't have to haul it.  The trouble is, when 1 out of 3 households are doing it at the same time, that's a lot of burning, a lot of smoke, and a lot of stink.  When the weather prevents it from dissipating, it's even worse.

This poem is for the pyromaniac lawn & garden fanatics out there.

Pleading for Air 

The freezing rain that fell that night
broke trees and branches with its might. 

Then people piled and burned the stuff
that fell when trees had had enough. 

The pungent, bluish smokey haze
goes not, but rather, here it stays. 

Instead of hauling it away
they opted to burn fires all day. 

Sure, nature's way of pruning a tree
isn't everyone's cup of tea, 

but I wish that folks would think of those
that have bad lungs or sensitive nose. 

Our eyes burn hot when we're outside
in neighborhoods where we reside. 

Come on people, stop burning crap
that's still full green and filled with sap. 

Rick Williams

A Different Path

Here's a little thing I wrote at work yesterday.  I was sitting there and had a fleeting thought wash over me.  Every now and then I notice with peculiar intensity all the things I'm surrounded by.  The noise, the grit, the smells, the air quality, the temperature--you name it.  I wonder to myself:

"Where would I be right now if I would have went to college?"

A Different Path

Apathetic
here I sit.
I can't quite shake the feeling;

Wondering long,
"Where'd I go wrong?"
and staring at the ceiling.

Much more I'd earn
if I had learned
way more while back in school;

I'd likely be
well off and free
had I never played the fool.

The money goes
to all of those
that prove that they were scholars;

If high school's tops
and the learning stops
we'll never see big dollars.

I can't go back
to change my track
and right my stupid wrongs;

Instead I sit
and reflect a bit
writing melancholy songs.

Rick Williams

Maybe I'm just a tortured artist in my own right and I need my substandard surroundings to really shine. Maybe if I was a successful white collar worker I'd be even more dissatisfied than I am now.

Yeah, just go with the flow I guess...

Bruce is Retiring!

One of my coworkers, Bruce Lansciardi, is at work for his final day today.  He has been with the company for 15 years.

When I first hired in I was almost immediately working with him, albeit somewhat indirectly.  He was managing the high-speed stamping press products that I was counting, packaging, and delivering every day.  A few years later I was promoted to actually running the press full-time, and then worked directly with him.  You couldn't ask for a better guy to be teamed with.  Knowledgeable in seemingly endless areas, he was also funny and easy to get along with.  He taught me a lot about that press and the associated tooling we had to dissect and repair almost daily.

He has been involved with what seems like every facet of the shop in one way or another.  Upgrades?  Sure, he ran electrical cables, ducting, wiring, carpentry, plumbing, lighting--you name it.  He wasn't afraid or intimidated by voltage either--he was into everything from 440-volt AC on down to batteries.  He installed new equipment of every kind as well.  Repairs?  Very few things were out of his league.  Vehicles, giant presses--it didn't matter.  I have seen him working with everything from huge to tiny.  If he could open it up he'd figure out how to fix it.  He might be up on a ladder cutting tree limbs one day and running ethernet cable the next.  He has had tools and toolboxes scattered all over the shop.  I believe he really doesn't know all of the tools he owns that might still be around the company here or there.

It's really going to be strange around there without him.  We will undoubtedly falter occasionally and wish he was still there to prop us up.

In honor of Bruce's retirement, I thought I'd throw a few rhymes up on the wall:

A Tribute to Bruce

A lot of things have been repaired:
Machinery, pipes, and wiring,
but after years of working hard
Lansciardi is retiring.

He has been our "go-to" guy
when things at work would die.
It seemed he could fix anything.
If not, he still would try.

It didn't matter if he was clean
he'd jump right into messes.
He'd clear a plugged-up toilet
or work on oily presses.

Installations and upgrades
were also things he'd do.
No matter how complex they'd seem
He could see them through.

He taught a lot of people things
that they had never known.
He was a patient teacher too,
and taught without a groan.

We always knew when he was near--
his whistle could be heard.
That's how he announced himself
without a single word.

Many times he worked so hard
and he was stretched so thin
he needed clones to help him finish
so his next job could begin.

I'm sure that there are things at work
he'd just as soon forget,
but he'll miss things too--I'm sure of that
but won't too soon I'll bet.

There is one thing that might be good
about Bruce leaving us,
and that's the blame game we can pull
whenever we get cussed.

I can hear it now--just wait:
"Who didn't get this done?"
We'll be able to point a finger
"It was Bruce--Yep, he's the one."

It's time that he slowed down a bit
and treasured things in life;
He'll get to count his blessings
and spend time with his wife.

It will be weird after he leaves
on that you can rely,
but he has worked his years;
it's time to say goodbye.

Rick Williams

At least the internet provides us all ways to stay in touch with someone when they retire.  It doesn't matter how far they go--they're just a few clicks away.

Good luck, Bruce.  May your future be filled with nothing but the good things you've worked your whole life to achieve!

Cranial Cobwebs

I get frustrated at my lack of mental prowess sometimes, and so does Suzie.  That prompted me to think about it (which is kind of an oxymoron), and when I thought about it a poem started taking shape.

After the headache went away I was left with this residue:

Cranial Cobwebs

The cobwebs in my aging brain
are continually conspiring
to make it such a monumental strain
to dredge thoughts I'm requiring.

Maybe it's the years of use
that have taken a heavy toll,
or maybe I've run out of space
in my cranial dust bowl?

At one time it was easy to see
the corners of my mental room
but now it's dark and dimly lit
and filled with hazy gloom.

Although my head seems packed
with murkiness and sludge
it still seems plenty able
to dish out opinions or to judge.

I have to focus hard on things
to do them well enough,
but that's another problem
because focusing is tough.

I can remember things like
who sang what and when,
the characters of movies
and other roles they're in.

I remember all the trivial stuff;
it easily comes to me,
but ask what I must do today
and blank I'll likely be.

There is short term memory
and long term so they say, but
I really wish that I could recall
the stuff I need today.

Sue gets frustrated at my lack
of remembering certain tasks.
Like what to do or what to buy
the first time that she asks.

I feel so badly when I fail--
it's not for lack of trying,
and when I say I don't recall
it's not that I am lying.

If I could really concentrate
I'd probably be okay
but that ability, like I said,
was lost along the way.

Perhaps I burnt too many cells
with fun like drugs and booze,
but what if I stayed pure and good
and still had missing screws?

Rick Williams

Captive in our Morning Capsules

As a little bit of a primer for those of you that aren't really familiar with limericks, it's all in the syllables.  There's a certain flow that needs to really take place for them to sound right, and it helps to exaggerate the pause at the end of the first and second lines.  Try doing them out loud... It really helps.  Like many things I do, I tend to bastardize them a little to suit my needs, but that's just my individuality shining through.

The Commute

Each weekday I commute in my car,
and luckily I don't drive too far.
To help pass the time
I'll make up a rhyme
While I'm captive like bugs in a jar.

Most of the year there's no light,
so I drive under cover of night.
There's not much to see
during the morning Grand Prix,
but the endless red brake lights in sight.

It's funny the things you DO see;
One guy surprised even me.
He ate cereal from a bowl
while continuing to roll
at full speed--as he steered with his knee!

I sometimes see makeup-type stuff
being applied when it's daylight enough.
They drive while they paste
all that stuff on their face
and their hair they will comb, brush, and fluff.

And then there's the lane-changing bunch...
Into the tiniest gap they will scrunch.
They don't gain much ground
and you'd think they'd have found
that they're flirting with causing a crunch.

At full speed on the freeway one day
multitasking in the midst of the fray,
I saw a guy with a book
and he occasionally would look
through the windshield and again look away.

I see tailgating constantly too.
Some are close as a mere yard or two.
No matter the speed
they just feel the need
to not ever lose their place in the queue.

Some folks ride along and will use
their commute as a chance for a snooze.
When they arrive at their place
of employment they face
the sequel of the "waking up blues".

I've heard of some people doing more
while battling the commuting war.
They learn something new
like a language or two.
It's useful time they can't seem to ignore.

I suppose that there are those that will look
for any possible excuse in the book
to leave their home life,
bitchy husband or wife
for a quiet, peaceful drive off the hook.

So in the morning go and stumble outside,
and climb sleepily into your ride.
Don't forget to show up
with your large coffee cup
Lest you arrive at your work looking fried.

Rick Williams

Rural Summer

Not long ago Suzie and I spent some time driving around the southeast corner of our state.  The fields that stretched onward over the rolling countryside inspired me.  Maybe that's not quite right--It's more like it awakened a memory or something in me.  Somewhere, some time in my past, I had the pleasure of enjoying some sort of similar, expansive terrain during hot, summer months.  Maybe it was my time in Oklahoma.

Anyway, here's what I came up with:

Driving barefoot, hardly dressed,
the heated air feels good.
Open windows, blowing hair;
living summer like we should.

Dusty ribbons of empty roads
cut pathways through the land.
The air that blows throughout the car
though hot, still keeps us fanned.

Unconcerned with blowing hair
and squinting into the sun,
we're singing with the radio
to add to the driving fun.

Every time we crest a rise
we ease up on the gas,
but the lonely road goes onward
through the fields of dirt and grass.

In places where the asphalt ends
and the road turns into gravel,
a rooster tail of dust blows high
and follows as we travel.

The rising plume that follows us
shows others when we're near,
and also lets any others know
if their traffic "coast is clear".

There's also reason to drive fast:
To stay ahead of dust.
Keeping it outside the car
when driving is a must.

The scents that waft from sun-baked fields
like hay and fresh-turned earth
are the country smells of summer,
and we've cherished them since birth.

After driving on these dusty roads
we're gritty, dry, and hot,
so we head down to the clear, cool river--
it's our favorite summer spot.

Out there off the beaten path
away from prying eyes,
skinny-dipping the day away
under clear blue skies.

Rural life in summertime
is simple and carefree,
but we don't want the world to know
or crowded we will be.

Rick Williams

I Saw a Man

I saw a man who was painfully thin
his clothes were dirty rags;
he was standing in a garbage bin
digging through the bags.

Briefly then, his gaze met mine;
his red-rimmed eyes were pained.
If they ever held a shine
no trace of it remained.


I saw a man with mismatched shoes;
his dirty ankles bare.
He clutched his paper bag of booze
and peered through stringy hair.

He stared down at the littered ground
as if it wasn't there;
oblivious of things around,
lost in his despair.


I saw a man upon the ground
in dirty blankets rolled;
he slept and as he did he frowned
outdoors in bitter cold.

He has no place to call his own
and has to search for food.
He spends his empty days alone
no friends he can include.


I saw a man that spends his nights
inside a cardboard box.
Enduring insects and their bites
he has no doors or locks.

Sometimes when he'd go and roam
to find something to eat
he'd go back to his makeshift home
and find but empty street.


I saw a man in an alleyway
huddled near a warm air vent;
at his side a small dog lay
sharing space on the cement.

Whenever there was food to eat
he fed his puppy first.
Although they lived out on the streets
alone it would be worse.


I saw a man that wandered nights;
he found it best to stay
away from all the noise and lights
and sleep during the day.

He rested in the doorways, dark
and hid from public eye;
he'd sometimes sleep in city parks
under the open sky.


I saw a man hunched in the rain;
he once had pride and wealth.
From drug use he could not refrain
and it cost his job and health.

His energy, once strong, was spent;
he had nothing to give.
Begging handouts he stood, bent;
doing what he could to live.


The stories of these fallen men
are varied, yet the same.
They know they can't go back again
their pasts can they reclaim.

The human need to cling to life
is all that drives them now.
Their days are filled with pain and strife
but they survive, no matter how.

Rick Williams

It's Friday!

I feel it's time
to make a rhyme;
I think it's overdue.

I feel the need,
and I must heed;
so here's from me to you.


Friday's here!
A day for beer
that's not my daily kind.

A treat for me;
I like to see
what new taste I can find.


We both employ
our hot tub's joy
almost every night.

But Friday's best
to soak the stress;
No bedtime is in sight.


We can stay in our beds,
leave the dreams in our heads,
and sleep just as long as we choose.

No alarm clock to ring
to our sleep we can cling
or get up with our coffee and news.


Yes, the Friday "feel"
has great appeal;
It's the end of our week-long woes.

A time to drink
but not to think
of where the weekend goes.

Rick Williams

Snow Day Poem

This one came to me while I was at work yesterday.  Sort of trickled into my brain little by little as the day wore on.

Snow Day

Alas, I have to rise and face
the weather even though
my common sense tells me not,
so off to work I go.

Over snow covered streets I drive my car
when winter rears its head.
Why can't I stay all snug and warm
tucked safely into bed?

Of course, I'd rather be a kid
and go sledding down the hills,
but the boss comes first and after all--
The income pays the bills.

A white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel
when traffic lights go stale;
I never know when or if they'll turn
or if my stop will fail.

Hopefully when I make it home
to spend evening by the fire,
I'll arrive with all my parts intact
for the relaxation I require.

Rick Williams

Short But Sweet

I was feeling kind of melancholy at work the other day and this short poem sort of formulated itself as the morning wore on:

My throat is sore
and across the floor
a chilly breeze does blow.
My feet are cold;
I feel so old
when temperatures dip low.

The shining sun
is all but done--
it shines to be polite.
Not much appeal
or warmth to feel;
It's rays are naught but light.

The woodstove's heat
is hard to beat;
It's a winter friend to me.
Add homemade stew
to warm me through,
and comfortable I'll be.

Although these things
cut winter's sting
the summer is still the best.
The skimpy clothes;
the suntanned toes;
Ahh... Comfortably undressed.

Rick Williams

Stars

The cold, white stars that dot the night
are plenty bright to see,
but not quite bright enough to light
a pathway, road, or tree.

The moon that shares the sky with them
takes care of the lighting chores.
It lights up all the countryside;
the oceans and their shores.

Such little light the pinpoint stars
send forth to greet our eyes.
Alone they're nothing but bright dots
but together light the skies.

Since the beginning of the written word
mankind has always gazed
toward the heavens, full of wonder
we've stood, transfixed; amazed.

We gave the patterns of them names
and navigation grew.
We learned to use the nighttime sky
to see our journeys through.

I've been in places that were high
and very dark at night
where I could see so many stars;
even galaxies shone bright.

The planets, stars, and Milky Way
seemed close enough to touch.
The lack of light from all around
did emphasize so much.

It makes me seem like such a speck
so meaningless and small;
to gaze at dark infinity
and comprehend it all.

Rick Williams

Dreams, Goals and Heroes

Evaporated are the dreams
I may have had when young.
No fame or fortune did I reach;
no stars were I among.

When I was just a toddler
my world was family.
Nothing mattered but the things
that were in front of me.

Of course I had no dreams or goals
nor knew what such things meant.
My world was very, very small,
and I was quite content.

My parents were my heroes first;
they clothed and cared for me.
They kept me fed and safe from harm;
No better could they be.

Like any boy of age
I idolized my dad,
so he was probably the first
real hero that I had.

He was a mechanic then
but to my bright, young eyes
he was the greatest one of all--
So talented and wise.

Like most young boys I watched TV
and loved the heroes there.
When Superman was on I'd sit
and glassy-eyed would stare.

The Lone Ranger was another
of my heroes of those years.
I loved those men that wore those masks
that hid them from their fears.

I think my hero worship
during teens was put away.
Hormonal issues took the lead
of thoughts I had each day.

In my twenties I would sometimes sit
and at myself be pissed.
I'd reflect on time I wasted--
Opportunities I missed.

If only I had studied hard
and set some goals instead.
I'd probably be much better off--
Financially ahead.

When I finally settled down
and married with a home,
I seldom pondered things I missed
or where I yearned to roam.

But then I found myself again
with heroes on the mind,
but this time it was more along
the philanthropic kind.

I love the feel of giving
and wish there was no end
to the needy people I could help
or how much I could spend.

Occasionally I still have thoughts
of how cool that it would be
to be so good at something
that the world would worship me.

Looking back at all I've done
and dreams that I have had
notable accomplishments are few
except that I'm a dad.

Rick Williams

Rhyme Time, Baby!

What is it that makes me like

to tell a tale this way--

To format it in rhyming lines

when I have words to say?

It's a style of story-telling

that's hard, without a doubt.

To make the flow and syllables

sound right when sounded out.

I guess I like the challenge;

to see if I can tell

an interesting story

that's fun to say as well.

Sometimes when I start them

they don't go anywhere.

No matter how or what I try

I sit and blankly stare.

After trying many things

that never quite work out,

I use the mental garbage can

then try another route.

Sometimes even I'm surprised

when words seem to cascade.

Instead of simply killing time

a masterpiece is made.

I've dabbled with many varieties

of poetry and verse.

Some were mediocre tries,

and some were even worse.

The difficulty of a poem

can vary with its style,

but struggle followed by success

can make it all worthwhile.

They come in many flavors

these poems that I build--

Some are very hard to rhyme--

Some leave me unfulfilled.

But limericks are my favorites;

they're whimsical and fun!

Although they're harder to complete

they please me when they're done.

If you've tried a poem yourself

but failed each time you tried,

try yet again--Don't quit just yet;

Success will bring you pride!

This one took me weeks to make

but now that it is done;

Who knows--I may just clear my head

and start another one.

The Blue Collar World

I sometimes feel a little bit like the walls are closing in while I'm at work.  Those of my readers that also work there probably know what I'm talking about.  Actually, it probably doesn't much matter where you work--You're bound to have the same "what the hell am I doing here" thoughts from time to time.

I was reflecting recently about what kind of things I've witnessed during the 8 years I've worked there, and it's been an interesting sort of circus of sorts.  Probably pretty much the way things are in the manufacturing world.  After all, we are the people that opted out of getting that engineering degree.  Some probably didn't even make it through high school...

Business as Usual

Devoid of brain activity
the misfits come apply.
Unencumbered by intelligence
and barely getting by.

Workers that can't find a job
are welcome at LaCroix.
Brain-dead doesn't matter;
the dregs they will employ.

Some employees change themselves
after working there.
They may be male when they come in
but leave a little queer.

A new-hire's basic skills
can vary quite a lot;
They may look like they're intelligent
but they're really devoid of thought.

Some may even look deranged
but still be good at work.
They may show up unshaven
but at least their brains aren't murk.

Occasionally they turn out to be
alcoholic bums instead.
If they do show up on time
their fumes would wake the dead.

Most workers badly need their checks
they're always almost broke;
But yet they always buy their lunch
and never fail to smoke.

Many of them seem to miss
a day of work per week,
and yet they are the ones
whose finances are most bleak.

Some of us have stayed so long
our rut is way too deep
we've passed the point that we can leave--
The sides of the rut too steep.

There are often times we want
to find a different place;
a different work environment
or just a change of pace.

Even though I've been there a while,
I sometimes have a fright:
What if I find in the morning
that my job vanished overnight?

Two brothers own the company
and both are fairly old;
Their heirs don't seem to want the throne
But I'm sure they'll want the gold.

What if one or both expire?
They are getting up in years.
Will the company survive
or be the end of our careers?

I hate the thought of being forced
to join the job search fray;
To give up all I've earned and done
to job hunt every day.

A Limerick For Mark!

Sue's brother Mark and his family are moving up this way soon from Utah.  Mark is a guy that appreciates garage-type things, and is a lover of classic bicycles and Volkswagens.  It became apparent recently that he was putting some of his prized goods up for sale before the move.  I don't know the details, but I felt that it was something not to be taken lightly.

That put my mind into rhyming gear, and I chose one of my favorite rhyming mediums:  The Limerick.  While it's not a long one, the thought is there.

This is for you Mark!

Mark is a Volkswagen man
who is moving his entire clan.
When he took stock of his stuff
he found it was tough
to fit all of his goods in a van.


For an easier move he could tell
that his "baby" he needed to sell
the ragtop, his treasure
and that gave him no pleasure
but for his family he'd bid it farewell.


Selling a guy's project car
can leave an emotional scar,
and it is even more so
when you know there is no
other like it either here or afar.


The accumulation of car stuff takes time
and costs many a nickel and dime,
so to let any go
is most surely a blow
to a fellow that loves grease and grime.


Moving can be quite a chore
whether local or to faraway shore.
Because we accrue
there is so much to do
when we pack boxes ready to store.


Just remember in the midst of it all,
when everything you do seems to stall:
You can always just ask
if you need help with a task
Be it email or a telephone call.

Rhyming Blogs... Or Is It Blogging Rhymes?

Rachyl was over the other night and made a comment to Sue, wondering why she hadn't blogged.
"I don't have anything to write about." Sue explained.
"Well Rick does." Rachyl countered, "How come you don't?"

Well, blogging ain't easy for us all the time you know... In fact, sometimes it's downright hard.  I was somehow driven to put it all in rhyme this time:

Just because we both have blogs
you can't always expect
the words to drip and flow with ease
or witty thoughts connect.

Sometimes when we try to post
we notice and we see
that everything that dribbles out
Is boring as can be.

It would be nice if every post
had some wit and fun
but sometimes only bland exists
when our "exciting" day is done.

All we can do is sigh and think
of something good to write
something that will bring a smile
or otherwise delight.

There are times when we sit down
to write our greatest tale
we knew we had it all worked out
but the words just seemed to fail.

The things that happen in our lives
to us may be big news
but when another reads our stuff
could be boring to peruse.

Some blog posts are diaries
or "What I did today:"
and others are fond memories
of things that slipped away.

Some posts are a chronicle
of an occurrence or event
we hope to get it written down
before our minds have went.

Some posts are quite negative
and more of a soapbox rant
when something gets under your skin
that you try to forget, but can't.

Some of my favorite posts have been
the ones like this that rhyme.
I think that they're more special
perhaps a tad sublime.

Apparently these poems I do
are, by readers, not preferred;
For comments from my readers
are hardly ever heard.

Perhaps that it's instead the case
that folks don't want to see
an attempt to be creative
or any such debris.

Maybe dirt is what they want
like magazines we read.
Who did what, to who, and how
is what the readers need.

I hope I pointed all of you
to what our blogs entail
pleasing everyone is hard
and we sometimes fail.

Angry Colors?

Chromatic Discontentment
by Rick Williams

The colors of the rainbow
one day stood in the sky.
They formed a circle as they stood,
and words began to fly.

The color Blue was first to speak,
and looking left and right,
said, "I'm the prettiest color here--
at least within my sight."

Purple scoffed and said, "No way.
I'm much less plain than Blue.
I am mixed of you and Red
So I'm prettier than either of you."

Red flushed her cheeks in anger.
"Are you saying that your hue
is better than my crimson tone
because you're mixed with Blue?"

She said, "If I could leave this line
I don't know where I'd go,
but it would be near someone else.
That, for sure, I know."

"I'm pretty and important."
Orange was heard to say.
"A fruit was even named for me
That helps people start their day."

Yellow piped up in a squeaky voice,
"I am so cheery and bright!
My color makes mustard and lemons
and flowers like daffodils look right!"

Then Green, in a sultry voice, chimed in.
"I'm am the color of life," she said,
"The world of plants is my claim to fame
so I'm most definitely ahead."

They all began to argue
and grumbling ensued
each claiming only they
were perfectly hued.

Then, above, a pleasant voice was heard,
and a light began to shine.
She said, "What is all this bickering
and why do you all whine?"

"To argue of your beauty
like each of you were best--
Don't you see how much
that each of you is blessed?"

"I haven't the color of any of you
for White is the absence of all;
still, I am happy staying just as I am,
seeing smiles when my snow starts to fall."

"Each of you is special
and you're all in great demand.
Without your different hues and shades
This world would be so bland."

The colors were all silent
then a rain began to fall,
and the circle opened to create
the most beautiful rainbow of all.

Fingernail Moon

I'm going to try a minor little change in layout here and see how it works.  Since my very first blog post several years ago, I've always included a graphic at the top, and it's always been at the left.  Trouble is, sometimes that sort of layout gets in the way of poems and skews their look, requiring me to put an opening blurb (yes, like this one) to space the starting point of my verse far enough down to look right.  I'm going to try putting them at the upper right for a change and see how that goes.  Pretty bold of me, no?

I was inspired on the way to work yesterday morning after scraping the frost off my windshield in the cold, blue light of the moon.

Fingernail Moon
Rick Williams

A crescent moon shone down upon
the frosty countryside.
It bathed the fields in ghostly white,
throwing shadows far and wide.

The air was still; no breezes blew;
There was no trace of sound.
The only noises that were heard:
My footsteps on the ground.

A fine, light frost on everything
was bathed in a bluish glow.
The lunar light lit everything
and sparkled like new snow.

Somewhere out there creatures lived
but nothing moved or stirred.
The cold night sky held naught but moon;
no insect, bat, or bird.

It looked like a torn off fingernail
but its brightness would belie
the fact that it was not complete
and but a sliver in the sky.

Morning Coffee and Rhymes

You know I like to do them occasionally.  I sometimes feel inspired to write a poem instantly, and others it sits and festers inside me for a while before it finally bursts forth in some sort of theme that satisfies me.

This one combines my photography hobby and a little poetry.  It has been kicking around in my pointy, little head (Suzie's words) for quite a while.  I've tried various times and never got it to flow.

I'm finally finished:

The Mind's Eye

To shoot a perfect sunrise
I have to be in place
before the rays of morning
touch my lens and face.

Shooting people on the street
is challenging to do.
Things like love or loneliness
are moods that we pursue.

I try to see things commonplace
with my mind's creative eye,
to see ordinary things differently;
be they rocks, or trees, or sky.

I try to always be aware
of signals that are sent.
I try to re-interpret them;
to visually reinvent.

Camera settings can be wrong
like focus, speed, and light,
but other things like framing
can be easily half the fight.

A person may have all the gear
and knowledge may possess,
but just because they have the goods
there's no guaranteed success.

To get just one good shot may take
a hundred, two, or more.
The one that's worlds above the rest;
that people all adore.

Although photography is very old
techniques remain the same.
The equipment may be more complex,
but it just gives us more to blame.

I'm sure that I'll keep shooting
even though I'm barely "fair"
because it's fun and gets me out
and gives me things to share.

Rick Williams

Post-Christmas Post

This was a weird Christmas--No doubt about it, but I'm basing that purely on past experiences. I have only experienced Christmas with a few families in my life. What made this one weird was that I left my home to celebrate my Christmas at other locations.

This year was a first at my parents' house because they hosted their festivities on the eve instead of the morning. That apparently worked out well with everyone scheduling-wise, because it was a full turnout. Even boyfriends of the younger ladies were present. It was a good event. I had a good time, and it appeared that everyone else did too. My youngest sister, Denise, brought some Jello Shots along which were a hit with a couple of us. As I unwrapped the gifts from my mom and dad, I was thinking I had escaped yet again with something I could use (i.e. edible) when I was shot down with my final gift. A Sears Craftsman gimmick gift. I have voiced my frustrations about this over and over and I'm sure anyone reading this is tired of it too. I thought I got through to them last year when I received no tools of any kind, but it's back as it was before. I don't want any tools. If I need a tool of any kind, I already own it. If not, I buy it when I need it. Oh well. Now I'm stuck with some sort of laser-measuring gadget. I can't possibly tell my folks I don't want it--My dad will have a meltdown.

The coolest present that came home from me from that event was a custom-painted mailbox from my brother-in-law, Gary. He's a custom painter of many things: Dragsters, hydroplanes, motorcycles, etc, and he does a beautiful job on mailboxes. He has made a couple for family members in the past. This one was a late wedding gift for me and Suzie. I wasted no time installing it. Now we have the fastest mailbox on the street! You can click the pic below for a bigger view of it, but the picture doesn't do it much justice. You can't really see all the blue, green, and purple shading as well in the picture. The lettering was all done by hand too.


Christmas morning found me down at the ex's house at 9 or 10 o'clock, celebrating Sarah's Christmas. Suz and I bought her a fisheye lens for her camera, along with a couple of photography books. She totally loves that lens and was having a great time with it right away! (Side note: Suzie and I loved it too--After playing with hers for a few days before wrapping it, it was determined that we needed one for ourselves too! It should be here today we hope.) Sarah gave me a couple of her original artworks which is very cool.

Sue didn't fare too well during the week of Christmas. She was frustrated over my lack of attendance mostly, because it was a week I was working overtime, and was also stopping on the way home to shop here and there after finishing work. Add to that the fact that I left to celebrate Christmas at my parents house on Christmas eve, then left again Christmas morning to go to celebrate with Sarah. I can understand her frustration at not being a part of any of this, but we both knew going into our marriage that we would have a split household at Christmas--We just didn't know how it would affect each other. Some choices we make are easy and some are a pain, but they are choices that are made for a reason.

I did a little limerick about the Christmas blues. I posted it on my Facebook page yesterday, but I don't think I'll do that any more. I get the impression that nobody on there wants to ever post anything other than smartass remarks and stuff. I guess I was fishing for someone to comment. Maybe I wanted as much to see who as I did what, but I was surprised when I got not one comment. I'll close this post with a re-post of that limerick (I'm not fishing this time--Only sharing):

The Shopper's Lament

This holiday time of the year
when, of malls we try hard to stay clear.
The shoppers; all hurrying
like mice; chased and scurrying,
and the parking lots: Places to fear.

We shoppers hardly ever think twice
when it comes to the item or price
because it's the norm
we don't dare reform,
and the stores do their best to entice.

For our loved ones we set out to buy,
but no matter how hard that we try;
we can never resist
when the prices insist,
and we buy for ourselves with a sigh.

Our money is already tight
partly due to less day and more night.
Our heaters all run
because of no sun,
and our power bills tend to cause fright.

In these times when so many need work
and behind them their creditors lurk
they just can't NOT buy
for their gal or their guy.
It's like a duty they can't seem to shirk.

Now the hubbub has finally died down
and Christmas has finally left town.
Our houses are all messed,
and we really need rest,
but we work, or in debt we will drown.

Rick Williams