Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Sunday, January 17, 2016

Recalling The Best Thing Done with Lemons



The memory of the best lemon meringue pie I ever ate

Still makes me smile.

Still gets me goofy with a sugar high.

Still makes me feel weak at the knees.

A sigh of deliciousness.

That slice of the best lemon meringue pie is very long-time gone.

Back in 1984.

In a red building in a small shopping center in the middle of cowboy country.

On The Big Island of Hawaii.

A sigh of deliciousness.


Friday, July 10, 2015

First Time Hawa'ii

My Alphabe Thursday theme—Places I've Been

I visited Hawaii for the first time in Fall 1984. A girlfriend and I had plans to backpack the trail in Kauai, but she dropped out a few weeks before our departure. My vacation days were already set, so, I took the plunge and went to Hawaii by myself.

The moment I stepped off the plane in Honolulu, I felt like I'd come home. The warm breeze, swaying palms, the sultry air, the local people. They all spoke to my being. Unlike the Philippines that I'd visited 10 years earlier. Unlike Hollister where I was born and raised. Unlike San Francisco where I was then living.


The first time I drove into a sugar cane field, I wondered if the Daddy may have worked there long ago. The Daddy lived in Hawaii from his early 20s to his early 40s. I asked him once, "Where did you live?" "All over," he said. "Maui. Hilo. Kauai. Oahu. All over." He signed a three-year contract to work in the Hawaiian sugarcane fields. Go there, make money, go home to the Philippines rich. Ha! That's a story for another time.


Molokai
Molokai is the smallest of the major Hawaiian islands. Back then, it didn't have too many big-time resorts which was why I wanted to go there. I figured it would be the most rustic, laid back, and close to how it looked when the Daddy lived in Hawaii. I stayed for three nights at an inn that turned once-upon-a-time plantation workers' huts into hotel rooms.


On the east side of Molokai is the Halawa Valley where I'd heard you could hike in a mile or so and swim under waterfalls. Being alone, and hearing the Mama's "Beware, Be careful" voice in my head, I was hesitant about going there. But, swimming under waterfalls? When would I have that chance again? I drove to the east end. I saw no signs as to where to go. (Remember this is in the 1980s. It's most likely different now.) I started walking towards what looked like a path between some trees.

An elderly woman appeared from seemingly no where. We greeted each other and talked for a bit. She told me how to get to the falls. "You'll be okay," she said.  I walked onward. Not too many steps away, I turned to look at her, but she was no longer there.  I thought of her as Pele, the goddess of the volcanoes, who dropped by to assure me I was fine.

The Big Island
Seven days on The Big Island of Hawaii allowed me the luxury to explore the Hawai'i Volcanoes National Park and venture about the whole island. It rained a lot during my stay. I didn't mind it at all.


What do I remember: Seeing newly formed swirls of lava and lush vegetation growing in age old rich volcanic soil. . . eating the tastiest slice of lemon meringue pie in the middle of Hawaii's cowboy country. . . meeting a woman park ranger who started her career in her 40s. . .standing at the southern point of the United States. . .reading graffiti made with old lava rocks along the Kona coast. . .driving up and down the Chain of Craters Road. . .being scared of a big storm warning. . .smelling the scent of the ginger, pikake, and other flowers. . .liking the scenery. . .loving how the warm ocean air felt upon my skin. . .feeling the sacredness of the island.

Instead of a camera, I carried a notebook. I wrote and wrote. I wrote poems back then, which I'm sharing for the first time. The photos are ones that I took on subsequent visits with first the Late First Husband and, later, the Husband.


I'm glad my first venture to Hawaii was by myself. I needed it.


Alphabe Thursday is hosted by sweet Mrs. Jenny Matlock. To read what other bloggers have written about the letter H, please click here.


Tuesday, April 15, 2014

How's the Mama?


The Mama, as some of you dear readers know, is in her nineties. The tiny, fragile, slow-stepping Mama is doing well, thank you very much for asking. She's as fit and magnificent as the flowers and vegetables that she grows. The only medication she takes is for her thyroid. I can only hope that I haven't screwed up the genes she gave me too awful much.

This morning, I found a poem that I wrote about the Mama two years ago when she was rushed to the hospital. The Mama is amazing.


The Sleeping Mama
Slipped into her ER room.
She was fast asleep,
Hooked up to the IV, heart monitor, and oxygen.

In one moment,
she could not move
no matter how hard she tried.
And, she tried, and kept trying, to stand up.

"Walking pneumonia," the doctor said.
"Dehydration."

What did she say? 
"This is going to cost me a lot."
© 2014 Su-sieee! Mac


I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge this month. To check out other participants, click here. See you tomorrow.  

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Paying No Mind to Conventions


This is dedicated to the Husband's and my friends—the Young Old Fogeys.
We Do It!
We're too old to do this.
We're too old to do that.
We're too old so some think.
But, we do it.

I'm not a young man.
I'm not a young miss.
Ah. But, we have much bliss
For we do it.

We hike up the hills.
We zip through the trees.
We pedal against the breeze.
We like to do it.

We're too old to do this.
We're too old to do that.
We're too old so some think.
Ha! We do it.
© Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.


Sunday, May 29, 2011

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Autumn Self-Portrait


I like Autumn. 

I seem to wake up in the fall. 

Maybe it's because I'm a fall Autumn baby. 

Yes, that sounds good.

This week, I'm participating in Outdoor Wednesday, hosted by A Southern Daydreamer. See what other bloggers have been doing outside by clicking here.

P.S. I'm also linking up with Follow Friday 40 and Over, hosted by Never Growing Old. Come check out other blogs with me by clicking here.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Click.

Closing the door is sometimes needed
to hear quiet for a bit. . .
to get things done. . .
to move on. . . .
Such relief.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

C'mon, Rebecca!

The little old lady walked slowly, slowly, painstakingly slowly across the street.

The grandpa waited impatiently for her to cross completely pass his car.

"C'mon on, Rebecca," he muttered from behind the wheel.

"Do you know her, Grandpa?" asked his young, earnest grandson.

"No."

"How do you know that's her name?"

"They're all Rebecca," the grandpa said. "All little old ladies."

C'mon, Rebecca.

The earnest young grandson was the husband. He told me this story (of course not exactly in those words) after our first time sitting together in a car waiting for a little old lady to slowly, slowly, painstakingly slowly do something. I say "something" because I don't remember what it was, though most likely the little old lady was in her car, and we were waiting for her to turn left or right, drive across the intersection, or edge into a parking spot.

C'mon, Rebecca.

We have maintained the husband's Grandpa Warren's tradition of muttering at little old ladies, as we respectfully wait for them to do their slow pace. C'mon Rebecca. A few years ago, the husband and I were balancing on our bicycles, waiting for a Rebecca to do her thing. It inspired us to write this poem.
C'mon, Rebecca
by Arrmac and Su-sieee! Mac

Toot-toot, lady!
Toot-toot, lady!
Why you moving so slow?
C'mon, Rebecca.
C'mon, Rebecca.
I've got places to go!

Toot-toot, lady!
Toot-toot, lady!
You can't see over your wheel.
C'mon, Rebecca.
C'mon, Rebecca.
Too short to drive, for real!

Toot-toot, lady!
Toot-toot, lady!
You don't even see me here.
C'mon, Rebecca.
C'mon, Rebecca.
You drive like you're drinking beer!

C'mon...Rebecca!

** C'mon Rebecca © 2007 Dick and Susie McDavid.
All rights reserved. Really? You want to use our poem?
Then, drop me an e-mail.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

1, 2, 3 Senryu

Senryu, what? 

It's a type of Japanese poem that is similar in format as the haiku.

Haiku, huh?

Okay, this is not English class, but I know you wish to be enlightened. If not, you will, by golly. Or, you can simply scroll down to the poems.  My education of all things haiku came last night when I finally wrote the last line to my haiku-in-progress. I felt that it wasn't really a haiku. So, off to Google my questioning mind and tippity-tap fingers went.

In short, the haiku and senryu are three-line poems composed of 17 syllables. The pattern is five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five in the third. Haiku poems are about nature; no mention of human foibles allowed. Senryu poems  are about  human nature; no reference to the natural world at all.

Now, you know. It didn't hurt, did it?

Here's a true haiku by Basho Matsuo, who is said to be the first great haiku poet. He lived during the 17th century.
An old silent pond...
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.

Want more Basho? Click over to this page at PoemHunter.com.

Now, here are some stabs at senryu by me.
1  
Pluck gray hairs from chin
More from upper lip. Still more. 
Post menopausal.
2 
My mind says I am
young, much younger than I look.
My body says old!

3 
Blogathon is done.
Why still the daily posting?
Must I have reason.

Monday, May 31, 2010

Poems for Memorial Day

Today is Memorial Day.

Here, then, I share with you two poems from the public domain.  Be forewarned: The poems are graphic. They are ugly. They are painful. As they should be. These poems give us a glimpse into the world of  men and women who live and risk dying in war, any war, so that corporations, businesses, churches, and other institutions may continue.

I am not advocating for or against war by presenting these two poems. I'll tell you this though: I would love the ideal conditions that beauty contestants want, "World peace."

This first poem was written by Alan Seeger, an American poet who joined the French Foreign Legion in 1914 so he could fight in the war against the Central Powers. He was killed in action in France two years later.
Rendezvous
by Alan Seeger
I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air -
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath -
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

This second poem is by Thomas Hardy, the novelist who wrote Far from a Maddening Crowd.  This poem about war was published in 1902.
The Man He Killed 
by Thomas Hardy
            "Had he and I but met
            By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
            Right many a nipperkin!

            "But ranged as infantry,
            And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
            And killed him in his place.

            "I shot him dead because —
            Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
            That's clear enough; although

            "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
            Off-hand like — just as I —
Was out of work — had sold his traps —
            No other reason why.

            "Yes; quaint and curious war is!
            You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
            Or help to half-a-crown."

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Haiku, One Day Later

Yesterday was designated Haiku Day for the Wordcount Blogathon. I missed it. Well, I could've posted my haiku, but then I'd have to think up something for today.  Drum roll please. . . . I give you the haiku that visited my mind.
The Lawrence Welk Show

Tenor Feeney sang.
Daddy listened and then said
"He earned his two bits."
I have a feeling my haiku is really not one. Oh, well. That's all that's in the old noggin for now.