MISTRESS MOUSE AND THE NEW HEARING AIDE

 

 

MISTRESS MOUSE GETS A HEARING AIDE

 

All the little mouse children kept squeaking and squalling,

Yet Mistress Mouse could hear no squables.

All the sticks and stones kept falling and malling,

Yet Mistress Mouse only saw baubles.

 

All new kernels and grains kept falling out and rolling off,

Yet Mistress Mouse could hear no mishaps to feedings.

All the clumps kept falling from tunnel’s old trough,

Yet Mistress Mouse could hear no squishing impedings.

 

Oh, such sadness, such badness, such impending last days,

Yet Mistress Mouse could hear no warnings or scuttlings.

Oh, such a dear little family running for help in the maize,

Yet Mistress Mouse could hear no bumpings or dottlings.

 

Mistress Mouse, out by the pondside, never knew of this demise,

Never knew of the caving and the smashing of her little prides,

Mistress Mouse, out by the pondside, still wearing her hat of sighs,

Pulled down over ears to shut out sad hearts that was bride’s.

 

Mistress Mouse still pulled flaps over ears against groaning sorrows

Long since fallen from mind to heart to soul in between seasons

Mistress Mouse so long wore long flaps she never borrows

Any tones from her home in the nowness of her reasons.

 

Mistress Mouse at last turned from mirroring pondside.

Mistress Mouse at last saw tumbled downs and broken babies.

Mistress Mouse at last ran and reached and bumped head  hearthside.

Mistress Mouse at last lost earflaps and heard not welcome maybes.

 

Mistress Mouse now sits at night under the limb of the whipporwill,

Cupping her ears with all paws to double the telling to borrow.

Mistress Mouse now rolls in night blooms under the nightingale,

Stretching her ears to hear not yesteryear but hopes of tomorrow.

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EIGHTH WEEK MONDAY: 1000 WORDS TO TOUCH

Today, I decided to indulge in my very favorite type of writing: “letters”/comments/replies to so many of you in this  writers’ community of bloggers!  I really must start keeping track of all my comment word-lengths, if for no other reason than just to buff my nails and brag to myself while soaking in a well-earned (according to Yours Truly) bubble bath.  However, I did save a FEW words for this little lines:

 

THE CHURCH LADY AND THE FAMOUS FUDGE

MOVED IN NEXT DOOR TO A HENHOUSE

MADE OF GINGERBREAD WITHOUT DRIPS

AND PLANTED A HOBBYLOBBY BLOOMING PINK

BESIDE THE FRONTWALK TO THE FIVE-AND-DIME

JUST AROUND THE CORNER FROM THE PERFECT PIE

AT THE BAKE SALE HELD ON THE MAYOR’S LAWN

OUTLINED IN PINK PINAFORES AND RED SUSPENDERS

JUST BEFORE FINDING A PARKING TICKET ON

LOWLY WORMS CAR STICKING OUT IN THE HOMECOMING

BACK DOWN THE STREET TO WHERE NO MAN’S LAND

JOINS THE DARK LAGOON SUBSIDING UNDER

THE GREAT WHITE WAY.

 

See you tomorrow with an essay with a tail!(per Kana’s Notebook)

THIRD WEEK FRIDAY: SLEEPING ELDER

Imagine my sense of affirmation when I opened just-received November issue of THE SUN to the interview by John Malkin with Michael Meade.  Michael Meade strongly urges us to become True Elders as we grow older.  He states, “Becoming an elder involves lifelong awakening to and reflection upon the story embedded in one’s soul.”  Such an encouraging statement for this white-haired senior celebrating perceived self-developments in the wisdom set of skills as I have become pretty much an official “senior citizen”.  White Hair Walking, indeed.

One more quote from Meade:  “When older people become elders, they act not out of fear but out of wisdom and understanding…If there were to be a genuine revolution in this culture–which claims to be free but increasingly lacks freedom–it’s more like to come from older folks who give up the fears associated with aging and dying and become elders instead.”  This soon after stating to Malkin that “many traditional cultures believe that the true elders stay young at heart because they remain close to the dreams they had when they were young.”  Yesterday, I ruminated in my post about the steps over the decades required to resolve the inborn physical weakness that had prevented me in early years from following through on the beginnings of so many inspiring moments of beauty and joy and what a difference I am privileged to experience these days in the dept to which I can “follow through”.  Now I am observing that not only was that inborn physical weakness handled in a victorious manner but early poorly focused enthusiasms have been redeemed–indeed, are BEING redeemed–by my own metamorphosis into some sort of “elder”.

So I view today the memory of my eight-year-old self’s 30 seconds of morning joy as simply being a temporarily “sleeping” tiger in my creative tank–thank you very much!  And after having worked most of the night helping others, being very sleepy with my top-of-the-morning “nature” immersions, I was wise enough to give room for the emerging poem:

Slaggy walking around in a light frost

On leaves of fallen tree grace

Leads to stumbling affections

In a world newly minted in heart……

(Getting physically sleepy again keying in this post, but mentally much re-charged with a calmer, wiser assurance of both continuing this poem internally as a matter of lifeforce and as published work.)

Oh, I am experiencing great joy and less-than-minus amounts of angst as I look forward to “demonstrat(ing) the courage to live closer to the ideal of freedom” as I grow chronologically older, yet ever younger at heart.

You see, it is my own freedom to be at peace within myself as well as freedom to live at peace with others in such a way as to promote their own inner peace.  Sweet dreams, all your other “elders”.  Do not fear to allow your fears to “sleep” so that you may awaken to courage.

An African proverb advises, “When death finds you, may it find you ALIVE.”  This means living the life that your own soul wants to live.  That eight-year-old girl greeting the Mississippi farm morning lives on under this white hair–and she walks on “up the mountain”.