Daily Dose Of Nature

Mists of Indecision

Immersed in mists of indecision,
riddled, stifled by inhibitions,
sprawled out on the sofa inert,
I ignore rude comments that hurt.

Exhaustion seeps deep into my bones,
no responses come except for moans,
drowning in torrents of pelting words,
cruel, cutting, I wish I’d never heard.

Attacking cannot force me to change,
seeing options in a wide range,
hundreds, thousands, dancing in my head,
they’re weights on my chest like heavy lead.

Indecision is my curse in life,
which constantly aggravates my wife,
I want to decide but cannot,
perhaps there’s a choice I haven’t sought.

Like A Moth

I have no glorious tale to share,
nor can I brag about friends who care;
success remains out of reach for me,
yet my life is great because I’m free.

Friends drain energy with their demands,
social obligations are commands;
be jovial, witty and sincere,
it’s necessary to please your peer.

Struggling to obtain lifetime goals,
is akin to walking on hot coals;
stay focused, driven, competitive,
sleeping requires a sedative.

Destiny is woven in my cloth,
ordinary and brown like a moth;
but fluttering randomly each day,
free to relish joys along the way.

Take Time To Notice

Wisteria

Her car offered solace from the graveyard,
leaving her beloved there was so hard;
she was overtaken by hysteria
when her eyes focused on the wisteria.

Clusters of purple flowers on the vine
had a calming effect greater than wine;
tears ceased to flow and shaking subsided,
she took wobbly steps towards the curbside.

At the grave she sobbed her final good-byes,
bombarded with thoughts of why did he die?
Time was eternal in her world of grief,
thirty years of marriage was way too brief.

Suddenly she was in the flower store,
insisting on purchasing even more;
wisteria’s scent lingered on her jacket,
there was no need for pills in her packet.

Woody vines now cling to her weathered fence,
displaying flowers in clusters so dense;
aromas offering serenity,
a tranquil fragrance for eternity.

Every week she cuts flowers from the vine,
and takes them to his grave under the pine;
she promises him no more hysteria,
as long as they both share the wisteria.

Kitty's Song

The knee replacement was painful,
I gave up feeling resentful,
until Kitty plopped in my lap,
snuggled closely to take a nap.

Kitty came because I was hurt,
love in her eyes when I was curt,
amazingly my feelings changed,
somehow my life was rearranged.

Extraordinary results occur,
cuddling a kitten that purrs,
wrinkles and frowns evaporate,
great love chases away all hate.

Burdens of life have disappeared,
an obstructed road has been cleared,
softly stroking her snow white fur,
I will always be there for her.

Together we take the first step,
very aware of renewed pep,
illness won’t keep me down for long,
while listening to kitty’s song.

Nature's Beauty Surrounds Us

Free To Be Me

I am forever free to be me,
whatever in the world that might be,
standing proud and tall like an oak tree,
pointed eagerly skywards to see.

Imposing limits can’t pin me down,
I can act as silly as a clown,
roaring laughter rubs away deep frowns,
while doing cartwheels around the town.

Free to be me – music to my ears,
I dance through my days not knowing fear,
I wonder why others fret so much,
immensely worried, troubled and such.

Are they blind? It’s great to be unique!
Differences are not to be critiqued!
Dance to your own drum and joy will soar,
start anew - shred the old coat you wore.

Dream State

Lying on a fluffy cloud
in a field of wild flowers;
butterflies floating so proud,
gliding to golden towers.

Unknown colors dance to time
while muses create sweet sounds;
poets cite verses in rhyme,
and a famous sculptor pounds.

I cuddle in the softness
without a care in the world;
treasuring the peacefulness,
catching candies that are hurled.

The beauty of the moment
tantalizes the senses;
exceeding known enjoyment,
leaping the highest fences.

Candle of Life

Flame flickering, wax melting,
lights dancing while rains pelting,
gazing intently, listening,
noting raindrops glistening.

The burning candle is life,
pelting rain brings gloom and strife;
now attitude plays its part,
choosing life as sweet or tart.

The flame of life’s candle burns,
limited time for its turn;
the candle is half its size,
suddenly life is a prize.

Each moment is a treasure,
priceless, cannot be measured,
the flame still glimmers, there’s time,
reach for sweet oranges, not limes.

Making A Difference

Published in The Tripoli Post in the July 2002 issue

My first step on Libyan soil was on June 11, 1990 which was a holiday. An immigration officer teasingly commented to my husband, "What are you doing bringing an American in when we are celebrating the date of the expulsion of the American military". The timing of my arrival on this particular holiday had been kept a secret from me, which was probably wise because I would never have boarded the plane from Frankfurt to Tripoli if I had known. I would have been terrified. Later my husband mentioned that people had advised him to reschedule our flight so that we could arrive on a different date, but he refused to listen to them. He knew in his heart that his American wife would be welcome in his country even on such a significant date.

I was filled with fear and dread as we approached my husband's villa. His house was one of those that had been bombed by the Americans in 1986, and I was going to meet my husband's family for the first time in this place. Would meeting an American trigger emotions about the bombing? And, I certainly wasn't looking forward to being known as "the American" in this neighborhood where families had lost loved ones due to "miscalculations" that hit erroneous targets.

So, what kind of start was this to life in a new country? My husband assured me that I could disclose my nationality. He was confident that there would be no problems. But, hesitations consumed me and consideration was given to alternate possibilities like Irish or Canadian.

Anyway why did shopkeepers have to always inquire, "Where are you from?" Trusting my husband implicitly, I softly whispered "America". I braced myself for the negative reaction which never came. On the contrary, the shopkeeper had a welcoming smile. "America? Good…" he managed to utter in his broken English. A sense of relief spread over me, and I returned his smile and left. By the way, when you can't speak a language, a smile goes a long way.

Once in the car, the generosity and kindness of the shopkeeper was discovered. He had slipped a chocolate bar inside my bag of purchased food items. My fear of divulging my nationality evaporated as shopkeeper after shopkeeper exhibited the same behavior.

As I settled into my new life, I began to wonder why I, an American, was living here. Yes, the simple and obvious reason was because my husband was Libyan. But, I pondered a deeper understanding which initially left me with no other answers. Three years passed before a purpose was stumbled upon. It took some time to gather up the courage to share my thoughts with my husband due to the realization that what I had to relate could sound incredibly absurd. But, the belief was so deep inside me and it guided me to make the announcement that the reason why I was in Libya was to help improve relations between Libya and America. To my utter astonishment, my husband concurred. He felt I could and should play a role. There's satisfaction in finally ascertaining your purpose after soul-searching for years. But, my satisfaction was short-lived as my mind tackled the next mammoth question, "What am I suppose to do?"

Relations between Libya and America were severed. U.S. and U.N sanctions were in place. Surely, a U.S. citizen married to a Libyan could not single handedly make a difference. After all I wasn't a diplomat nor did I hold a key position of any kind. All I possessed was my opinion that I was supposed to do something.

Direct communication with the American public was crucial. But, how? Basically there were two ways and both seemed unattainable. Once choice would be to release a movie on a love-related theme between an American and a Libyan. The other would be to publish an article in a renowned, national magazine.

For years all the American newspaper and magazine articles about Libya had been negative, supporting the belief that Libya was a terrorist state. Now, based on my experiences living and interacting with Libyans, I wanted a positive article published depicting good aspects of the people and the country. Impossible? Most probably, yes. But, my slim chance at succeeding did not deter me.

Through my family connections in The States, it was possible to introduce my dream to a journalist. Actually, I was forthright and said, "Mike, grant me a miracle. Publish an article about Libya that does not address politics and its negative implications." "You've got it" was the immediate response.

Then we searched for topics. Mike pointed out that sports continued to be a popular pastime for most Americans, and we agreed to explore this idea. He would contact the media in America, and my husband and I would pursue it in Libya. To my dismay, there was absolutely no interest in either country and the idea was set aside.

Two years later the idea was revived when U.N. sanctions were suspended. There seemed to be a new hope and an upbeat atmosphere. Would Mike be available to travel to Libya to write a story on sports? To my delight he was extremely interested and he discussed the details with the editors at Sports Illustrated. The editors immediately seized the chance to have the story. I followed these developments elatedly but shook my head in amazement. Timing is everything. Two years prior, these same editors had refused to consider publishing a story about sports in Libya.

With the knowledge that this sports magazine was read by seven plus million Americans and the editors were wiling to send a journalist accompanied by photographers to Libya to write a story about sports, my husband approached the subject with the Chairman of the Olympic Committee, Engineer Muhammad Mu'ammar Al-Gadhafi.

The suggestion was well-received and he was instrumental in extending an official invitation.

The journalist and his team arrived in Tripoli in July, 1999. Under the guidance of Engineer Muhammad Mu'ammar Al-Gadhafi, sports interviews were conducted and hundreds of photographs were shot.

Full cooperation was extended to these guests of the media, and Engineer Muhammad Mu'ammar Al-Gadhafi bestowed a very special honor on the journalist when he personally welcomed him to Libya and consented to an interview. This was also a monumental day for me because I, too, had the honor of meeting Engineer Muhammad Mu'ammar Al-Gadhafi.

In September 1999 Sports Illustrated published a ten page article about sports in Libya against all odds.

Before the editors could release the article for publication, they had to address two serious concerns. They acknowledged that the author had written a fair article based on the interviews. But, what would be the consequences of being the first magazine to print and distribute a fair article about Libya? It was a fact that media exposure had been political in nature and negative for a decade or two.

The editors pointed out their concern for the safety of the journalist as there could be threats from special interest groups. A second worry was related to their revenues. Would their major advertising companies fail to support this issue?

Numerous meetings were held and the editors had to think long and hard about whether they could incur such risks. Despite these reservations, the article was given the green light and was sent to print.

The feedback from the American readers who sent letters to the editors clearly expressed their viewpoint that the story was presented in a balanced way. The Americans felt that Engineer Muhammad Mu'ammar Al-Gadhafi had conveyed a positive message in a friendly, likeable way. Ultimately, the Americans were touched by this young, Libyan gentleman.

The Engineer Muhammad Mu'ammar Al-Gadhafi had made a favorable impression on the American public. The Sports Illustrated editors' worries did not materialize and my dream had become a reality. The "impossible" had been achieved! Now my conviction that I had a job to do in bridging the gap between the two countries was even stronger. An article had touched the lives of American readers.

Would it be possible to touch the lives of Libyan readers through an article? I decided to try and submitted Home Away From Home to the Tripoli Post. It was in the November 2000 issue.

The fact that an article written by an American had been published in a Libyan newspaper was encouraging. Thus, I forwarded a second article to the newspaper, The Story Behind the Sports Illustrated Visit to Ghadames which was in the January 2001 issue of The Tripoli Post. My campaign to make a difference had successfully touched the lives of American and Libyan readers.

I again found myself yearning for my next project that I could attempt on my own. That's when I learned that a Libyan American Friendship Association (LAFA) had been formed. It shared the same objectives that I had identified, that is, seeking ways to reach the American people to start the process of bridging the gap between the Americans and Libyans. What a tremendous discovery this was for me. There were others partaking in my ideology.

Through the Libyan American Friendship Association, Libyans reached out to Americans residing in Tripoli following the September 11th tragedies in The States to offer their sympathy and support. American ladies could not place flowers at the American embassy, as was being done in other countries, because there was no embassy.

Realizing that the American ladies needed to express their grief, the General Secretary of the Libyan American Friendship Association stepped forward and offered to have a Show of Sympathy for the victims.

He noted that the Libyans were also shocked and saddened by what had occurred, and he wanted to assist the Americans in any possible way. Within days after the tragic events in The States, there was a service where Libyans and Americans gathered together to express their sorrow and to pray for the victims.

Currently through LAFA many plans are being formulated, such as an American cultural week in Libya. The General Secretary is seeking ideas: cultural exchange programs, seminars and lectures, sports events and media coverage to be organized in both Libya and America. The General Secretary, supported by the LAFA members, is firmly committed to developing and sponsoring these types of programs.

Proudly I can report that I am now a Member of the Board of LAFA, and that I am no longer alone in my endeavors. I have found friends in LAFA and believe that together we will make a difference because Libyans and Americans are putting their heads and their hearts together in a sincere attempt to reestablish good-will and friendships.

As The Leader of the Revolution Mu'ammar Al-Qadhafi has so aptly expressed in the Green Book, "Lasting relationships are between people not governments".

Betrayal

A black cloud covers me,
through tears I cannot see,
pain beyond description,
leading to restriction.

Once a friend, now a foe,
is the cause of my woe,
betraying our secrets,
showing his lack of grit.

Eyes that once shone are dead,
I can’t get out of bed,
my sorrow is so great,
yet I still cannot hate.

I laugh, and then I cry,
always wondering why.
Why did he betray me?
Why can’t I let it be?

My heart screams out in pain,
I am no longer sane.
I fight the urge to call
remembering his gall.

A soft moment changes,
one small feeling ranges
from a hill to mountains,
then tears flow like fountains.

It takes me many weeks,
to forget and not seek,
a flame that is not there,
we’re no longer a pair.

Baffled

Your mother might die,
and you can not fly
in time to see her?
I am baffled, sir.

Family must be first;
she is at her worst.
What, you cannot come?
Your feelings are numb.

So proud of her son,
the man who won’t run,
to her side in need,
all because of greed.

Work consumes your all,
one day you will fall,
heads will look away,
“Greedy man” they’ll say.

He deserves to lose,
time to pay his dues.
He chose work, not mom,
condemned, beat the drum.

Answers

Lighthearted:

I’m not Mr. Perfect but damn near close,
you can ask me anything coz I nose.
When I call “Help!” why do people not hear?
That’s very simple - coz they live in fear.

I’m not Mr. Perfect but damn near close,
you can ask me anything coz I nose.
How can a mother despise her daughter?
Because this is what the daughter taught her.

I’m not Mr. Perfect but damn near close,
you can ask me anything coz I nose.
Well, we can go on and on I suppose,
but what is the point because now you nose.

I’m not Mr. Perfect but damn near close,
you can ask me anything coz I nose.
You nose that I nose almost everything,
answers to all inquiries I can bring.

Home Away From Home

Published in The Tripoli Post

Mabel loved Tripoli extravagantly. She exulted in its oriental enchantment, in the Roman arches and ruins, the Moslem funerals and weddings, the mosques and minarets, the caravans, the desert wilderness, the scorching heat of the sun, the limped purity of the days, the black star-shining nights that made it different from her home in Massachusetts.

At the end of her stay, she wrote of Tripoli: It did remain quiescent in the sense of world progress but its charm was never to be resisted. It was a city of enchantment, white dreams of paradise.

An American, Agnes Newton Keith, documented Mabel's description of Tripoli, the capitol of Libya, in her book entitled The Children of Allah. This book, written following Agnes's nine-year stay in Libya from 1955 to 1964, describes her experience and the feelings of Mabel, another American woman who had stayed in the country.

According to Agnes, "Mabel came to Libya with her astronomer husband to study the total eclipse of the sun in 1900 and again in 1905. Their telescopes were set up on the British Consulate's roof terrace in the medina inside the city walls. This building, constructed in 1744, still exists today."

Like Mabel, Agnes loved Tripoli too. The following extract from the book reflects this feeling. "Tell me Mabel", said Agnes, "did you, as I will soon, look back with deepest love to the spicy shores of Tripoli?"

And when it was time for Agnes to leave Libya, she wrote: It is a magnificent North African day…The time is here when Harry and I must shake off the desert sands of Libya, abandon its seductive sea, its singing desert winds, its lucid sky, its blazing sun, its beauty, elegance, and its enigmatic, contradictory, prodigal, pious people whom I love."

Mabel…Agnes…I am walking in your footsteps now. Do I see what you saw? Do I hear what you heard? Do I feel what you felt? Do I love what you loved?

Like both of you, I am also an American living in Libya where the life and the culture are hardly known by the outside world. Nothing has changed and everything has changed. The desert wind still swirls the sand, thus the sand shifts and moves like the constant movement of the sea. The desert has its own allurement and beauty different from the sea but as captivating.

Libya offers the beauty of the desert and the sea. The best beaches in the world are here, a secret that only a few of us know. Tranquil water reflects a rainbow of bluish colors ranging from deep blue to turquoise to green lapping waves.

So, as both of you once experienced, I can still see the desert sands dancing. I can still dive into the cool refreshing sea, and I can still enjoy long walks along the beach where the Mediterranean sun provides a beautiful, bronze tan quickly and effortlessly.

Sunrises and sunsets splash rays of orange colors. Such moments are Mother Nature's artistic gift to us. Even the most famous painters cannot capture the full essence of these moments because the color continually changes from one spectacular scene to the next as the sun rises or sets.

The days continue to be lavished with blue skies and plentiful sunshine, although we have rain during the winter months. The rain is always welcome since Libya remains primarily a desert climate. The winter rains bring spring flowers with fields covered with bright yellow blooms.

There is a quiet peacefulness in the early mornings as the song of birds can be heard and the nights are enchanting with the sky full of bright stars.

Like Mabel and Agnes, I love what I have seen in this country. But, I am also experiencing some things that they did not. That is because I went one step further than the two of them. I married a Libyan man and lived with a Libyan family.

There were difficulties in the beginning of having to adjust to a different place and culture. There were times when I threw up my hands in exasperation, ready to pack my bags and return to America, but I found myself unpacking my bags again. Why? I had been captivated by the city. A city enriched in historical sites and ruins. A city where shopping was like a treasure hunt. A city where the most difficult things were easy and the easiest things were difficult. I had discovered that my initial boredom had been replaced by a longing for a little solitude because there were too many social activities to attend that were coupled with the demands of my work.

But mostly, the people had captivated me. The Libyan people continued to be kind, gentle and friendly. They were genuinely happy to meet me, an American, just as Mabel and Agnes had described years before. I found the Libyan people to be proud people who welcomed foreigners with open hearts and arms but simultaneously kept them at a distance. I laughed with them and I cried with them. I celebrated happy occasions like weddings and newborn babies and grieved with them at funerals. I understood them completely and I didn't understand them at all at times.

Because I was captivated by the charm of the people and the city, Libya became my home away from home.

My Soul Soars

My soul soars when I’m at the beach,
I feel that I can stretch and reach,
the secrets buried in the clouds,
unraveling them makes me proud.

I can perch on peaks of rainbows,
absorbing colors till I glow,
then jubilantly slide towards Earth,
landing in the sea, filled with mirth.

I can paint the sky rosy hues,
then change it to red-orange on cue,
varying the strokes of the paint brush,
the skyline’s masterpiece is lush.

I can float in the air with gulls,
while sea wind's gentle motion lulls,
then swoop and dive to catch a fish,
which brings luck and grants every wish.

My soul soars when I’m at the beach,
shouting my deepest wish to teach,
that daily treasures surround you,
open your heart to nature’s view.

Fling

Tingling in the aftermath of your kiss,
clinging to every memory in bliss,
I float through the day as if in a dream,
my flushed face radiates a rosy gleam.

My colleagues are whispering and smiling,
expecting to hear about my new fling,
always before we shared our encounters,
describing details like story tellers.

I'm avoiding their inquisitive looks,
pretending to be engrossed in a book,
I prefer to keep my thoughts to myself,
so I slip quietly behind a shelf.

Your features are imprinted in my mind,
I'm recognizing that I'm in a bind,
strongly I feel that it is not a fling,
my nerve endings tell me it’s the real thing.

Twenty Minutes of Fame

Published in The Tripoli Club Gazette

Some people believe that everyone will have 20 minutes of fame in their lifetime. Was this lady's appearance on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno her 20 minutes of fame?

She delightfully told this story and the audience loved her.

"Well, I was in the bathroom getting ready for bed when I dropped my dentures in the toilet. Of course, I reached in to get them, but my hand got stuck. I twisted and pulled but it was stuck.

After 30 minutes I telephoned my friend. It's a good thing that I had my cellular phone with me! I asked my friend to please come over and help me because my hand was stuck in the toilet!

My friend came and he tugged and tugged, but he couldn't get my hand out.

Finally, my friend decided to call 911. The fire department's rescue team rushed over and succeeded in freeing my hand!"

Wintry Days

It's a wintry, gray, cloudy day

so under the cover I lay,

curling up in a ball in bed

warmth spreading from my toes to head.

Relaxed and comfortable,

my smile is noticeable;

while I sip on hot chocolate,

my face like a lantern is lit.

Munching on warm, buttery popcorn,

I pick up a book, cover is worn,

I reach for chips, and crackers with cheese,

put up the "Do Not Disturb" sign please.

My favorite days are rainy,

and wintry months promise many.

The People Collector

Published in The Tripoli Club Gazette

"Do you have a collection?" It's a typical question and "collectors" come to life. Their cheeks have a soft flush and their eyes glow as they begin their in depth revelation of their interest – be it a stamp collection or a rock collection or a coin collection. I listen politely, but I cannot share their enthusiasm for "things". Later I chide myself for being different and shrug my shoulders with a quick excuse that not everyone collects things. "Do you have a collection?" he repeated. I sighed and hurriedly exited the shop as I caught a fleeting view of the salesman's baffled expression. Then I absentmindedly headed towards The Village.

A restless urge would always drive me to The Village, a trendy location in the inner city, which caters to the bored but wealthy population. The bold, contemporary architecture would invite me to enter and explore the unique and novel boutiques which offered clothes, jewelry and art at fantastically escalated prices.

After browsing and glimpsing into the world of the rich, the enticing aromas of various spices would draw me to an exclusive and quaint French restaurant with a limited number of customers to allow time for full enjoyment. Two to three hours easily vanished and I marveled as to how I could have possibly consumed such a quantity. The service was superb, the atmosphere was warm and cozy, and the food could only be matched in paradise.

A quick glance at my watch ended my floating bliss and reminded me of my appointment – my appointment with Fluffy. I smiled. What kind of a name was Fluffy? But it suited her.

A strong, sweet fragrance enveloped me as I was guided to my chair. Seconds later my seat whirled around as Fluffy arrived with her scissors in hand. She always wore brightly colored contemporary attire, but it was her hair that had earned her the nickname, Fluffy. Her naturally curly auburn hair was the envy of most women. It was a rare color and impossible to obtain through dyes. You could dye your hair red but not her color of auburn. Her hair fluffed gently around a heart shaped face like a frame. She possessed a truly unique beauty and she could perform magic with those scissors. I always felt like a million bucks when I left the beauty salon.

My next appointment was not quite as pleasant, but it had become necessary since the day of torrential rains when a truck mowed me down on the freeway. I have had aches and pains in places where I never knew I could have aches and pains. The old bones rattle and creak and need a jump-start. It was time for the jump-start.

Tornado bustled into the room. Her energy, vitality and gusto for life had labeled her. She never tired and when she entered the room, I could swear that a gust of wind had just slapped me in the face. Her questions were thrown at me at such a velocity that it was impossible to utter one word.

Tornado was renowned for her replies to a very ordinary question of "How are you?" "Great and getting greater, wonderful and getting more wonderful, or I only know high and higher." With a chiropractor like this I had no choice but to recover and quickly. "Electrical massage, electrical stimulation and exercise." (Yea, plug it in and jump-start the old engine," crossed my mind when she finished ordering my chiropractic treatment.) "Three times a week for four weeks. Now let me see you smile". Personally, I have never known anyone who smiles with excruciating back pain! Tornado departed the room and a whooshing sound accompanied her.

Regular visits to my massage therapist follow my chiropractic treatment. As anticipated, I entered the room to find Tranquility in her favorite yoga pose looking like a flamingo perched on one leg with the other extended out behind her and both arms positioned for balance. Several minutes elapsed before her eyes focused on me and a slow, graceful movement would land the extended leg on the floor. Without changing moods, she would quietly guide me to the table.

An aurora of peacefulness surrounded Tranquility. I gazed at her serene face half hidden by her silken blonde hair as she bent forward to light the scented candles and then turn on the soft music. In a calm controlled manner she would begin the massage, and I could feel her inner strength and warmth flow from her fingertips.

I glided to my last appointment of the day cloaked in a mellow feeling. As usual, Mr. Tinker greeted me with a chuckle in his voice, a wide grin and a twinkle in his eyes. "What outrageous character have you dreamed up for me to design this time?" Mr. Tinker inquired. "I don't dream them up. They are real people," I quipped.

The gleam in his eyes brightened. "Each time you say you are not a collector. Hmmm…" he paused for emphasis, "how many dolls have I designed for you? Fluffy, Tornado, Tranquility, Tolerance, Curiosity, Impatience…"

"That's right, Mr. Tinker, "but they are all replicas of real people. I don't collect things."
"Who is the next lucky person to have a doll designed after him?" Mr. Tinker searched for my reaction as he enjoyed his work as a custom doll designer.  "You," I responded in a cajoling tone, "and your name will be Replica."

Merriment danced in Mr. Tinker's eyes as he extended an elaborately wrapped package over the counter. "For you," he could scarcely conceal his amusement, "Open it." My mouth gaped open as I stared at a miniature doll…of me! Dramatically he announced, "Your name is – People Collector."

Fragrance

Hear the whispering of the wind,
as it travels around the bend,
carrying millions of scents.

It is a cocktail effect hence,
creating a sweet fragrance,
Nature's Secret gift.

A Modern Inconvenience

Published in The Tripoli Club Gazette

How many times have I performed acrobatic maneuvers in a rushed attempt to answer a ringing telephone? How many times have I raced to the landline phone even though it was at an extremely inconvenient moment? Is the telephone a modern inconvenience?

One wintry day when a penetrating wind had chilled me to the bone, I longed for the warmth of a steaming hot bath. Finally my wish was about to be fulfilled as I settled into a lavender-scented bubble bath and the chill that had annoyed me all day was being gently replaced by a tingling warmth. I closed my eyes and reveled in my relaxed state. I felt light and floating as I slipped further into a blissful, meditative state.

Suddenly my ears perked up and I was immediately alert. The phone was ringing and like a conditioned response I leaped from the tub, grabbed the doorknob for balance and then snatched the towel as I darted to respond to the signal.
"Can I call you back", I politely but quickly inquired.

Sauntering back to the tub, I gazed at the trail of water puddles. The abhorrent cold once again assaulted my awareness as I stepped into the tub and immersed myself into the now tepid water. The relaxed state that I had reveled in moments before could not be recaptured, so I sullenly washed and concluded my longed for bath. I consoled myself with the thought that the movie I had been looking forward to watching would be starting momentarily.

I was happily cuddled up on the sofa, wrapped in my favorite afghan, sitting on the edge of my seat as another surprise twist occurred. I wasn't certain who the murderer was yet, but I was highly suspicious of the "friend". But, what was his motive? I sipped my hot apple cider as I mulled over motives.

I heard the phone but decided to ignore it. I was too engrossed in the made-for-TV-movie. But, the ringing was interrupting my concentration so I reached for the receiver, "Hi, Mom".
I attempted to follow the next turn of events and listen to my Mom. "You seem distant tonight. Perhaps you're not feeling well." I scrambled to end the conversation with a promise to take two aspirin and to call her back in the morning.

I focused intently a second time on the movie, but soon discovered to my dismay that an important clue had escaped me. I could no longer solve the murder mystery and my previous contentment eluded me. Feeling somewhat disgruntled, I decided to retire early. I harshly pushed the stop button on the CD player in the middle of the words "sleep like a log". "I haven't slept like a log for ages", I grumbled. "I deserve to sleep well tonight since both my bath and my movie were interrupted by that modern life curse!"

Exhaustion overwhelmed me as I snuggled under the heat of the electric blanket. My tiredness dissolved into a tranquil, floating sensation which enveloped me, and I welcomed this reprieve from my daily worries and woes. I drifted into a deep, restful slumber laced with dreams.

My eyes opened wide. All my dreams dissipated. I recognized the everyday tone of that contraption…that cursed contraption. "I forgot to unplug it", I groaned. A quick glance at the illuminative alarm clock revealed the early morning hour. I pounced out of bed, stumbled over the rug, and stubbed my toe. My toe was throbbing so I limped to the living room, groped for the light switch, and grabbed the receiver. I heard a "click".

Disappointment and anger welled up simultaneously. I hobbled back to bed and I squeezed my eyes shut demanding that my respite return. But I couldn't cease worrying about a call at 2:30 a.m. I tossed and turned. Obviously, it had to be a gloom and doom call. My thoughts swiftly shifted from all the potential dreaded news to my throbbing toe. 2:43 a.m........2:57 a.m…….3:08 a.m……. At 3:54 I forced myself to get up to take an aspirin.

When the shrilling, obnoxious sound of the alarm rudely penetrated my unconsciousness, I hurled the cursed device through the doorway. I was completely awakened when I first heard a crashing noise succeeded by a shattering one. I rolled out of bed to "check out" the disturbance. I shrieked as I scratched my foot on a sharp piece from my alarm clock. "Bad luck always comes in threes", I managed to assure myself as I recited a well-known superstition. "That modern convenience – the telephone – has been a modern inconvenience three times."

Able

Never say impossible,
believe that you are able;
build castles in the sky,
with a twinkle in your eye.

Believe that you are the best,
and put it to the test;
developing your talent,
to its maximum extent.

For you will soar so high,
Above the stars you will fly;
living life to the fullest,
each day being the brightest.

Your life will be fulfilled,
when you climb mountains not hills;
when you become all you can,
and you can tell every man:

I know that I am able!

Grandmother

This poem is dedicated to my friend
on the edge:

I gazed at my daughter in amazement,
holding her newborn daughter in her arms;
cuddling her while providing nourishment,
instinctively protecting her from harm.

I gazed at my daughter smiling brightly,
motherhood certainly agreed with her;
lips brushed her little one’s cheek so slightly,
the contented sound was like a cat’s purr.

The beauty of the moment was captured,
imprinted in my heart forevermore;
I never knew I could feel such rapture,
joyous feelings penetrated my core.

Watching my granddaughter sleeping soundly,
I softly placed a kiss on her forehead;
while covering her I whispered fondly,
I love you then I tucked her in her bed.

Practical Artist

Exuberance abounds from her radiant face,
as she dances and bounces around the work place.
Snip, snip harmonizes with exultant laughter,
the scissors click in time; she never once falters.

A practical artist sprinkling her magic,
whisking away all sadness and blues so tragic.
Converting an everyday gal into a queen,
Instilling confidence, she’s ready to be seen.

She sends her masterpieces out into the world,
hair is her canvas - short or long, thick, thin or curled.
She’s a practical artist painting hair with care,
encouraging new styles, convincing all to dare.

Africa

Happy 4th of July to all my American friends!

My favorite colors are red, white and blue,
while I am in Africa standing true,
to my country which is dearest to my heart,
even though I must be apart.

Life has so many twists and turns,
and through every experience I must learn,
that the roads are sometimes bumpy,
and rough roads surely leave me grumpy.

Africa, I mumble, why did you call me?
I am from the country of the free.
I love my country, my family, my home;
I don’t want to live abroad and feel alone.

We need you here rumbles the reply,
as I continue to formulate the whys;
stand tall, my dear American, so all
can meet and see and call you their friend.

Defeating Doldrums

My room is adorned with daffodils;
they are better than modern pills.
Their cheerfulness snuffs away the blues,
curing all ailments including flu.

Upbeat music brushes aside gloom,
as popular songs float through the room.
Tapping my foot I begin to dance;
down in the dumps never has a chance.

Smiling faces beam from silver frames;
the warm feeling bursts into a flame.
Boredom goes up in a puff of smoke,
remembering their laughter to jokes.

The familiar ringing of the phone;
tells loneliness it will not condone,
its infliction of pain to my heart,
and tells me that we will never part.

Golden Years

I laugh at my golden years,
struggling to get in gear,
losing all races with snails,
breathless and looking so pale.

Worst than slowing down so much,
is the final knock out punch.
Ronald Reagan here I come,
forgetting and feeling dumb.

What has happened to my mind?
Losing it is so unkind.
Remember what? I forgot.
Another flash makes me hot.

Golden years is such a joke,
seems it’s a humorous poke,
at old folks reaching life’s peak,
laughing as brittle bones creak.

Bird of Paradise

You are a fine bird, caws the crow,
from you brightly colored plumes grow.
I am but a simple back bird,
fancy caws I have never heard.

Let’s fly together this great day;
I have something I’d like to say.
We are relatives, do you know?
What do you mean that it is not so?

I watched you fly away from me,
perched on a branch in agony.
You were adorned, and I was plain;
you missed your chance to gain.

How can you throw away friendships?
I treasure my relationships.
One day your colored plumes will dull,
when plain, you will have time to mull.

Then you will see, we’re related,
unfortunately, belated.
Alone you will be on your perch,
staring at our flock on the birch.

Always in my Heart

You are always in my heart,
even though we are apart;
removed, but not forgotten,
sweet thoughts magnified by ten.

Distance does not dim my mind,
visions are easy to find,
of special times joining us,
laughing and making a fuss.

Somehow our two hearts are linked,
fur lined with the finest mink;
you’re with me from sun’s first light,
until my eyes close at night.

Shadows dance across your face,
in photos on the bookcase;
I hear you whisper to me,
as the wind blows through the tree.

You are always in my heart,
far lands can’t keep us apart;
in my dreams and in my soul,
singing your name as bells toll.