Ouch!
The sky is blue, intersection of horizon
with ocean where the white sand beach
ends seems close
I remove my sandals
while still treading the grassy walk
and my bare sole tramps down on one
the nemeses of southern lawns,
a sticker weed.
Ouch!
“Frescolatta,” my Nonna would have said,
to chide me lovingly for removing my
foot protection too early,
stepping ahead unthinking, not watching.
I reach down and carefully
pluck the little guilty little fellow
to preserve him in my journal
as a reminder of Nonna’s voice,
a reminder that even on a beach walk,
careful stepping is best.
Gallivanting—Grandma’s Word
In a photo of me at age four,
I’m decked out in silk
“Chinese” lounging pjs
Scowling, arms crossed.
Behind me is a partially eaten
ship-shaped cake. My
scowl reveals I’ve just been
told I cannot “go gallivanting”
with grandma on her cruise
“Around the world,”
the Mediterranean to be exact.
She and I often went on jaunts’
jiggling in streetcar seats
to shop or lunch downtown.
We travelled together to
And neighbourhoods far from mine.
Hadn’t we gone to New York
together with her ladies club
where she bought me the PJs?
I loved to sleep at her house, so
why couldn’t I go with her to
sleep on a ship, see the Pyramids,
toss a coin and dip my toes
in the Trevi fountain?
My staying behind seemed unfair.
Years later, I chose my schools
for programs allowing me on study abroad
scholarships making the most
of my family’s meagre finances.
I shared Africa and Europe
by letter with Grandma
who by then could no longer travel.
Recently, my daughter and I
rode camels at the pyramids
and I joined the picture proof
our ride to the photo of her on
my camel’s elder relative.
“You have the travel bug,”
people often say to me,
but I decline to speak of my love
of travel in terms of insects.
I reply, I enjoy “ gallivanting.”
Why not, it’s in my genes.
Duet
As I tip tapped on my computer,
a tip tap on the window
called me to turn around.
A grey bird, soft,
downy feathers
crested head of a jay
long tailfeathers showing blue
mimicked my endeavours
with her own tip tap
as she tried to extract whatever
bit of edible was stuck
in the siding by my upstairs
office window ledge.
As I’d sensed her, so she
sensed me, heard me say,
“Hello, pretty bird, welcome!
Shy, she flitted off
before I could properly
introduce myself.
Tomorrow I’ll put some
birdseed on the ledge
to see if she returns
to play tip tap tip tap
our joint percussion melody.
Spotting an Owl in Daytime
Perched in the midst of snow-covered
fir branches, peering out onto the road
this cream-colored owl, spotted brown
feathers puffed, plumped for warmth,
peered down upon the busy road
as a monarch watching his subjects
file along in steel, rubber wheeled carriages.
tolling by at fifty miles per hour.
I wondered what the owl observed.
Then he blinked.
My eyes locked on to him
as I saw his great
eyes move, his wings shift
forward as if he were blessing me
or perhaps readying to fly.
I decided on blessing--
After all, how
often in a city setting
is one able to
commune with an owl,
especially in daytime.
Note: I looked up the owl when I got home and indeed there are some species who live or pass through this area who are diurnal (daytime) hunters.
Author, Story Performer
“Encouraging words through Pen and Performance”
https://mainstreetragbookstore.com/product/feathers-on-stone-joan-leotta/
Joan Leotta's craft is a necessary element in every display of the magic of words.
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