Kitchen Floor Musings

I plan to lament, to pity-party, to languish-unapologetic-like, the daylong, in regret and angst.

When dawn of some new era calls, I’ll hear it’s hearken, I’ll know it’s finally time I arise from the rain and fog.

‘Til that day, you’re cursed, Mountain, you’re soul-sold, Hollow, you’re a kind woman’s Relic and Shame.

Old Joke, New Twist

…as the story goes, a Poet, a Lawyer and a Self-proclaimed Indian Chief saunter onto a playground. 

The Poet drawls, “The truth of childrens’ hearts, the taste of Earth, the magical dance of the stars above.  And how all-in is the blood that courses through the veins –This is Love.”

“Your earnestness convinces me.” responds the Lawyer, plopping down onto a swing.  “But still sir, you’ll need to prove it up.” she says unapologetically. 

“How boring!” the Indian Chief interrupts -as Indian Chiefs often do. “This is a playground.”  “Besides,” he nods knowingly to the Poet, “I dig dirt! Plus, when I stayed up past bedtime last night, I watched the stars and fireflies fight!”

“And,” the Indian Chief continued, eyeing up the Lawyer, “Each time I live life hard enough to fall and bleed, you rush right to my side.”  “There’s the proof you need, Mama.” he whispers to her. 

Digging in his heels and pulling an Eagle’s feather from his pocket, the Indian Chief teases, then runs. “Tag!  You’re both it….”