Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents #5

Good Advice on the Road to Life

doris 5

#5

Once upon an early time, too far back to matter,

Doris Gladiola was taught by a great tatter.

This tatter was her great aunt or cousin twice removed.

Mayhap she wasn’t even kin, but tatting skill she proved

 

showing thousands of lace cloths one after the other

and telling younger Doris that the same skills had her mother.

Now, Doris Gladiola did love her mother dear

but intricate tatting skills were not hers, she did fear.

 

Her mother had such small hands; her eyesight never dimmed.

And Doris G’s apparent skills left fingernails dirt-rimmed.

She’d rather be out wandering, looking for wildflowers,

finding weeds and tallest vines and colors in the bowers.

 

The tatter/great-aunt/cousin, with also tiny hands,

tactfully told Mother Doris never would command

the necessary tatting skills – better let her stroll,

gather all her flowers, sitting still would take its toll.

 

Gratefully, this one time, her family abided

with the clear-eyed wise advice helpfully confided.

Lucky Doris Gladiola roamed the countryside

and then in her younger days developed awesome pride

 

in naming all the flowers, all the grasses, all the trees.

Ev’ry single lively one had color, if you please.

So, now in her aging years, Doris has perfected

artful outdoor colored life, cheerfully-elected.

 

Say whatever you may want – Doris bends the rules.

She lives exactly her own life, thinks she’s super-cool.

As long as she remembers this, her happiness gets fatter,

even if her fate is not nature-loving tatter.

Advertisements
Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents #4

Good Advice on the Road to Life

doris 3

#4

Not so very long ago, in an uncertain time

Doris Gladiola could not quite ring her chime.

She had to be so, so polite, watch everything she did.

But really what that meant to her was that she always hid

 

the real true thoughts that came to mind whenever did she wonder

about her own reaction to the world and all its blunder.

Brave Doris Gladiola decided she might try

to just speak out her own thoughts, to risk that evil eye

 

of people sitting close to her who might overhear

her reactions, spoken thoughts, ideas on things to cheer.

Would they tell her to keep quiet? Would they feel disgrace?

Maybe they would disinvite her presence from their space.

 

She promised to herself to say rightly what she thought

not paying any mind to the answers her words brought.

As she struggled to keep calm and then to find her voice,

Doris could not see a single reason to rejoice.

 

Speak she did and then some more ‘til she was out of breath.

So she paused and felt a quiet that scared her to death.

She started saying sorry for all the things she said.

She longed for her vapors, she should put herself to bed.

 

Then Doris Gladiola realized something odd.

The only answer people gave was to agree and nod.

Perhaps they really did approve, perhaps they were asleep.

But it made her grateful she’d had promises to keep.

 

She’d think her thoughts, and then say just what was on her mind,

hoping her companions would do the same in kind.

If she ever spoke offense, a favor she would plead

of turning down their hearing aids when ere they disagreed.

 

Now all around the table, good conversation flows.

Hands go up and down from ear to ear and no one knows

which companion spoke up with the most offensive word

because between the up and down, it was never heard.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents ~ #3

Good Advice on the Road to Life

trail

#3

 

Not so very long ago, it seems like yesterday,

good Doris Gladiola had feelings of dismay.

With thighs too big, hips so wide, she’d not go out and play.

She’d sprouted out too early; her shape had come to stay.

 

Jiggling and jaggling were not admired traits.

It seemed young teenaged boys esteemed narrow figures, straight.

Young Doris Gladiola would often wonder how

she could trim her figure, which grew more than she’d allow.

 

Doris tried to change herself. She tried to change her ways.

And worrying what others thought put her in daze.

Certainly, she had to find a place she could fit-in

Doris took that literal, deciding to get thin

 

But a thing or two has changed that old idea of late.

She’s survived four decades, maybe more but less than eight.

Doris, bit by bit, crumb by crumb, butter tab by tad,

 started eating more of many things that made her glad.

 

For Doris Gladiola, life contained some changes

gaining back some of her curves, she had rearranges

of the very way she walked, and of the way she laughed

she was quite delighted to learn some friends thought her daft

 

Life may change gradually, or sometimes all at once,

 but Doris had grown tired of squandering her months.

Maybe time had changed her mind, or just eating butter,

or maybe something else let her heart go a’flutter.

 

Wise Doris Gladiola now does perceive a trail

of traffic down the hallway as she retrieves her mail.

Ben from condo right next door’s been struggling along,

hanging from his walker as he watches her move on.

 

Ben’s a charmer, full of humor: everyone’s delight.

It is to her advantage to keep him well in sight.

It may seem quite outrageous to younger people, still

walking down this hallway does give Doris such a thrill.

 

To Doris Gladiola a great idea did dawn:

If she walks a slower pace then he’ll watch on and on.

Sway and stop, pause, sway and stop, she stays ahead of him.

Lucky Ben now takes his time admiring brim to brim.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents ~ #2

Doris’ Good Advice Poems

dorispath2

 

Not so very long ago and well into her prime

Gray Doris Gladiola changed color time to time.

Red, black, blonde, and even brown she changed from color true,

revitalizing hair ‘til she did not know her hue.

 

Cut it short, let it grow, give oiled fabulations.

Go to blonde and back again, rules and regulations.

With age-wise customizings neighbors clearly noted

her thought-out righteous actions, for youthfully she doted.

 

Not ever satisfied, forever color fiddl’in

‘til sprouted gray formed a line right there down the middl’in.

Hiding ev’ry bit of gray had been her obsession

‘til one day in a mirror she saw her own impression.

 

Shining, sparkling, silvering the middle split did glow,

‘cause Doris Gladiola had let it over-grow.

She chose then and there to stop all her colored tresses

let the gray out all the way; shine without dye messes.

 

Cut hair short, grow it long, it simply doesn’t matter.

Radiantly, happily, listen to their chatter.

Decades in, decades out, she’d gone along with style;

pleasure now abounds for her in unadorning guile.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents: #1

Good Advice on the Road to Life

dorispath

#1

Not so very long ago, a crumbled piece of toast

was after-meal reminder she’d eaten more than most.

The other girls had pushed away, leaving a full plate;

not Doris Gladiola ‘cause, gleefully, she ate

 

fullsome man-sized platefuls of hearty hot roast chicken

dipped in a sauce or two, ‘til she was finger lickin’.

With great gusto she would add biscuits, honey butter,

sweet corn and all the rest, ‘til she could barely utter

 

grateful thanks to all the cooks for everything she ate:

sautéed mushrooms, berry pie, wheat toast– it sealed her fate.

Avocado dip with chips, and then avo-mashin’

drew attention to herself in mind-numbing fashion.

 

Her family and her friends had stopped encouragement

when, at nearly teen-aged years the girl seemed quite hell-bent

to eat her way through ever-y recipe-type book,

relishing the tastes of all the items one could cook.

 

After hours, days and years of leaving not a crumb

she could not find a dinner seat to contain her bum.

Belly stout and arms so short, she just no more could reach

mealtime items placed on table, every and each.

 

Sitting there, she seemed to wear her own plump seat cushion

so began a diet kept until she was pushin’

more than forty, more than fifty, many more years old –

she’d not desired to recall when her food turned cold.

 

No lasagna, buttered beans, nor rich, warm sourdough,

nothing then upon her plate seemed worth the bother, though,

it seemed giving up excess was something she could boast

showing her good character: she gave-up more than most.

 

Living long without the taste of the food she wanted

failed to make her forget: in dreams, good tastes she flaunted.

Living long without the flavors that the best food brought

recalled to mind old mealtimes she could forget-me-not.

 

How long can we humanely keep things we want at bay?

For Doris Gladiola, mind you, these tastes did stay.

Decades passed, aromas last, and she answered the call –

warm delightful dreamy dishes, condiments and all.

 

But Doris Gladiola had learned a thing or ten.

She just placed upon her plate a smaller portion, then

watched with care as extra fun filled out her thin parched form.

She lost the many wrinkles that had become her norm.

 

Neighbors saw how she had grown so wondrously sublime,

luminescent evidence of healthier mealtime.

Bits of bite-sized fun-filled fatness made her feel at ease.

With glowing skin and eyes, she asks: ‘pass the butter, please.’

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents ~ First of all…

Doris’ Poems ~

Good advice on the road to life

doris  

 

First of all…

 

Not so very long ago, before she reached her prime,

our Doris Gladiola decided on a crime.

She’d always grow up carefully; purpose was her friend.

She’d decide on ev’ry move, a calculated end.

 

Her life would flow from a plan; she’d name the final step.

Never would a faulty u-turn keep her from her prep.

But life itself forced a turn with some odd decisions;

and her careful planned-out days held some imprecisions.

 

Sage Doris Gladiola had learned of something new:

Didn’t seem to matter that she’d planned things through-and-through.

Patience, resolve, take a breath, then live more day-to-day.

Life’s bigger crime is trying too hard to plot your way.

 

It may be best to simply brew one sweet cup of tea,

with honey, mint, chai, Earl Grey, let your tastes agree.

Then sit back, enjoy the ride as life reveals itself.

Hang up those plans you have made upon the highest shelf.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Violet’s Untraditional Medicinals #1

Lovely, not deadly

11:23 pm – Ben

Late at night, pen in hand

looking for words that land

onto my notebook out by my deck chair.

Better get to them before the damp air.

 

Written down secretly

for only me to see.

But fog and night air could be intruding

blurring my research, secrets including.

 

Porch so dark, stars alight.

Notebook is not in sight.

Where did I leave it and where could it be?

So full of scandal, though factually.

 

Slurp then slap, slurp then slap.

Noises from next door trap

all my attention, wake up my alert.

What could be out here but stars, moon and dirt?

 

Violet Marguerite

80-ish, most discrete.

Why is she out here? And why the strange sound?

All peaceful herbalists should be sleep-bound.

 

Slurp then slap, slurp then slap.

I step close, see burlap

sack like the foggiest cover of night

nearly hides notebook from touch, smell and sight.

 

Fence is short, moon so high,

the corner of my eye

alights on meek Violet Marguerite

perched right next to the agave, complete

 

with gloved hands, stands so still.

Why’s she out in this chill?

Did she see my journal or look inside?

Have I now fictioned my last homicide?

 

Crimes written on each page

proving life is a stage.

I‘ve written it all down, all true but cursed,

never intending for anything worse

 

than someday great-great-niece

finds dusty notebook piece,

reading old stories of hideous graft,

lecherous lessons from long in this past.

 

But right now, notebook lays

under burlappy haze,

anxiously awaiting my saving twist

from innocent hands of an herbalist.