clasping our hands
behind our backs
observing our constructions
from last week
I'm so immature
I still get a thrill
typing the AT in my email address
drawing the treble clef
curling an ampersand
circling the covered wagons
cooking chicken chili in the crockpot of letter sounds and fonts
uncapping the colored markers to write on the white board
composition is improv, says the ballet student
in art composition is the play
the dance with the elements I did not tell the kids
Sometimes you slide your whole collection of shapes off the paper and begin to create again.
Self-publishing has a
lack of constructive criticism.
There are crocodiles in the moat.
from the care center
Maybe Dad was always a crabapple cluster bomb
I thought he was the master of self-control
critical he was of couse
but combustible not
throwing his shaver across the room
I just bought him the darn shaver last November
The cradle will rock
Considering various theories
tonight about just when
Dad got so angry.
I blame it on Dubya.
Dad his old self would approve
himself down the hall
in his wheelchair to shake a skinny
blue finger at the nurse and yell,
"You're a damn liar!"
The supper trays weren't there yet.
He used to save that up to scream at Bush on tv
"You lied! They died!"
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder