From a “Queenagers” Persepective
Now that I’ve reached the Age of Consent no one asks my permission anymore.
Actually, it’s freeing. I am a person. Not a female, nor a male. Just me. I don’t need the approval or consent of anyone. Except my kids. And they are mostly too busy or too far away to keep track.
My life is probably boring from the perspective of younger minds and bodies. Ever since the medical professionals installed stents into my 80 plus – year-old heart, I’ve obsessed about two things: fewer sugar products (which I enjoy) and more green vegtables (which I dislike)
I’ve decided to incorporate some rules into my breakfast and luncheon regime. Combine veggies with crispy bacon for breakfast. Almost any greenery tastes better with bacon. Soup with large particles of green stuff in it qualifies for lunch.
And as for supper, gonna take my chances on that. You never know when someone’s gonna invite you to an irresitibly delicious dinner.
MY ANGIOGRAM ADVENTURE
Sounds like a message that once came by wire,
Delivered by someone In formal attire.
Important wording about something dire,
From the Prime Minister or perhaps even higher?
Maybe it was from the Queen,
Commemorating me for being….
But a hospital gown was my realization,
With doctors and nurses in fraternization.
Cardiac Arrest might mean operation,
They’re eying me up in stern contemplation.
There’s a Cardiac Unit Investigation
Into spurious activities at this station.
I was then shuffled into a cavernous room,
No windows at all in that darkened tomb.
There were various people with masks, I assumed,
To hide their identity, from me I presumed.
With me on a high bed a group of them joined,
To hook me to wires with a camera in groin.
The xray machine checked the route it was going,
To my beating heart, its journey was showing.
A voice whispered softly into my ear,
“You have two blockages,” was what I did hear,
“We’re putting in stents cause we greatly fear,
Your premature death in less than a year.”
Thank you Vancouver General Hospital!
A Poem a Day Project
“It’s taken me years to begin searching, to realise that the days are not linear, that time does not simply move forward but spirals closer and closer to a shifting center…” (From “Do Not Say We Have Nothing” by Madeleine Thier”)
Why does time so quickly pass
When old we are, no longer young?
When books we’ve read
And songs we’ve sung
Are now forgot and tales we’ve spun
Do not slip easily off the tongue?
Our youth’s long past and middle-age
Is where our children’s lives have steered
And even grandkid’s birthdates veered
Past the triple-decade years.
Our great-grandkids up on the wall
Their baby pictures still pristine
A few already in their teens
Are graduating soon it seems.
The Chinese compare the passage of time to a funnel?
So that is why
My time has sped,
Since hair turned grey upon my head
My years have reached the funnel’s depth
Where fewer rings of time are left
And those I’ll gratefully accept.
A Poem a Day Project
learning your Windows 7 Laptop
which had morphed into a Windows 10,
thereby developing new
that act agressively
against anything Google,
has been tamed;
calmed to the point
where I can get online
without the knashing of teeth
and pulling of hair….(mine)
A Poem a Day Project
I wanted to watch The Debate
But found myself rather late
I missed all the frowns
And nasty put-downs
From leaders who were so irate
On this beautiful day I went on my way
Up Highway twenty-seven,
The Nechako Valley was soon behind me,
Ahead, was what some might call “Heaven.”
It’s not just the town, there’s communities ’round
The Fort, as it’s known to be,
Where the traders of yore met the Carriers before
It became the H.B. Company.
Stuart Lake is a jewel amidst hectares of fuel
For the sawmills to spew out lumber
There’s wilderness here and there’s atmosphere
That rumbles out loud like the thunder.
When the wind blows off-shore and you hear a slight roar
You think that must be Russ Baker
He’s flying his plane in rough weather again
And has not, as yet, met his maker.
Sometimes there’s a song, you don’t hear it for long
From French speaking men called Metis
They paddled canoes and portaged them too
For the traders who came from the East
The folks who live down in the twin parts of town
Are as friendly as they can be
And the Historical Park is a state of the art
Depiction of northern history
A Poem a Day Project (worst one so far)
“I’ve got gas,” said Winnie The Pooh.
The worst kind of gas,
I don’t know what to do
It’s not the kind of gas
You would put in your car.
You wouldn’t get far
It’s not gasoline
It’s not acetylen.”
“There’s all kinds of gas,” said Piglet
How about methane?
Is that what you mean?
Did you eat some beans?”
“No,” said Pooh,
“I don’t know what to do.
It might be natural gas
That’s causing me to crash
Or perhaps it’s tear gas
That got in my eye.
And made me want to cry.”
“Oh,” said Piglet.
“What you need to do
It will brighten up your day
And perhaps tomorrow too
Is to tell a funny story
In your most peculiar way
And that’s what Pooh did
He told himself a story
A story that was funny
And then he ate some honey
And he began to laugh
“I’ve got gas,” said Winnie the Pooh
The best kind of gas
Not butane, propane
“It’s laughing gas.”