FRN (Faithful Reader from the North) loves me. Well, yes, mostly because she is my sister, but probably some of it has to do with the fact that -- because of this blog -- she can laugh at my life and not just her own. I keep her in stitches, whether I mean to or not.
I jumped in the other day on one of her FB conversations, and found out, to my surprise, that she does not love Star Wars. I love it, so since she loves me, shouldn't she love Star Wars? That reasoning would have flown way back when she was 5, but now, it just doesn't. My favorite character from Star Wars? Yoda, of course. He has always been my favorite Star Wars character. Part of it is how cute he is, and part of it is his voice. I love that voice, and how he speaks. Love it I do.
In any case, since that conversation, I have found Yoda everywhere, even when I am not looking. One of the oddest places was at the library. Not odd, if you are in the Star Wars section of the library. I was not. But right there in front of me in the kids section was a book entitled, The Strange Case of Origami Yoda, by Tom Angleberger. It looked interesting, to say the least, so I brought it home. I haven't yet read it, nor have the kids. We'll keep you posted.
Thinking of Yoda brought to mind an old poem I once wrote. Yoda was not the main character in my poem, but he did show up late in the game. So, this one is for you, FRN! (And perhaps, Yoda.)
***
Untitled
Gray stone
cold, lonely, covered with green moss --
shag carpeting from the Troy home --
velvety, as is the hair that hangs down my sister's back.
Warm and comforting against my cheek;
scent familiar, cool
like the lilacs behind Meadowbrook.
That red school
with the huge sand box.
It lived next to the supermarket that sold bad pork chops,
and across from the veterinarian.
The same one that killed Holly,
the neighborhood Superdog,
torn from our midst that September day.
Hoping against hope I went to school,
tears flowing fast,
pools burning on the edge --
Mercurochrome on an open wound --
lashes stuck together; Mom says its not pinkeye.
Knowing, felling, seeing,
the pain evidenced in Holly's eyes.
Eyes that haunt, taunt,
flash brighyly in the night,
illuminating the room, filling it with rays.
The light bothers my friend;
he tries to close the shades,
block the light from hitting his eyes.
A mask will help, says I.
Westley wore one, why you not?
And Yoda crawls back,
under the moss, the stone,
curls tightly his toes, and sleeps.
It will be another 10,000 years
'til we see that Rip Van Winkle.
I jumped in the other day on one of her FB conversations, and found out, to my surprise, that she does not love Star Wars. I love it, so since she loves me, shouldn't she love Star Wars? That reasoning would have flown way back when she was 5, but now, it just doesn't. My favorite character from Star Wars? Yoda, of course. He has always been my favorite Star Wars character. Part of it is how cute he is, and part of it is his voice. I love that voice, and how he speaks. Love it I do.
In any case, since that conversation, I have found Yoda everywhere, even when I am not looking. One of the oddest places was at the library. Not odd, if you are in the Star Wars section of the library. I was not. But right there in front of me in the kids section was a book entitled, The Strange Case of Origami Yoda, by Tom Angleberger. It looked interesting, to say the least, so I brought it home. I haven't yet read it, nor have the kids. We'll keep you posted.
Thinking of Yoda brought to mind an old poem I once wrote. Yoda was not the main character in my poem, but he did show up late in the game. So, this one is for you, FRN! (And perhaps, Yoda.)
***
Untitled
Gray stone
cold, lonely, covered with green moss --
shag carpeting from the Troy home --
velvety, as is the hair that hangs down my sister's back.
Warm and comforting against my cheek;
scent familiar, cool
like the lilacs behind Meadowbrook.
That red school
with the huge sand box.
It lived next to the supermarket that sold bad pork chops,
and across from the veterinarian.
The same one that killed Holly,
the neighborhood Superdog,
torn from our midst that September day.
Hoping against hope I went to school,
tears flowing fast,
pools burning on the edge --
Mercurochrome on an open wound --
lashes stuck together; Mom says its not pinkeye.
Knowing, felling, seeing,
the pain evidenced in Holly's eyes.
Eyes that haunt, taunt,
flash brighyly in the night,
illuminating the room, filling it with rays.
The light bothers my friend;
he tries to close the shades,
block the light from hitting his eyes.
A mask will help, says I.
Westley wore one, why you not?
And Yoda crawls back,
under the moss, the stone,
curls tightly his toes, and sleeps.
It will be another 10,000 years
'til we see that Rip Van Winkle.
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