Susan's Duck

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Little Ben

What is that in my own private pool?

The intruder is certainly cool.

If I had just one wish

it would be a goldfish—

or a waterproof, crib-wrecking tool.

Old Oil Painting

Lynne and I had a yard sale at her house last Saturday and she had two paintings hanging on the garage wall. I did them for her around forty years ago. Several people offered to buy this one. Is this a hoot or what?

Remembering

My late mom found adventure in everything new

and was seldom without some fresh challenge or two.

A strange recipe thrilled her; she dared to branch out.

Fancy knitting? Her fingers soon knew all about

how to craft a crib blanket or make a fine sweater,

yet she paused at her desk to write someone a letter.

Or she’d hop in my plane to go fish in the sea,

then return to bake biscuits to have with our tea.

When her cupboards looked dingy or just a bit old

she grabbed paint and a brush to turn boring to bold.

When she took a balloon ride one bright sunny day

I distinctly remember what she had to say:

“It was certainly different to float up and go,

but to tell you the truth, that darned thing was too slow.”

Hungry Baby

I'm still scrawny, with over-sized feet
and my house is not easy to heat,
but besides all this cold
my main message is bold:
would you please give me something to eat?

My main throne room has one nasty quirk:

it oft stubbornly stops with a jerk.

But I have it outwitted

(think eyebrows firmly knitted);

my old-fashioned one loves dirty work.