Preserve a moment of joy

Late this morning, as my husband was carrying groceries into the house, I was distracted by a robin in our front yard. The little ruby breasted fowl was walking, more like hopping along the sidewalk. I love to watch animals playing or just going about their business unafraid because they don’t know I’m there.

The unique behavior of the robin was that he was exactly following the edge of the sidewalk. He never stepped off on the grass even when he changed direction turning onto the walk toward the house from the one that passes by the house. I was enchanted by the way he would stop every few hops. I could see he was holding something in his beak. But, I couldn’t tell if it was a little bit of worm or possibly a beetle.

I eventually gave up the entertainment and helped my husband put groceries away and fix lunch. But, the joy of the moment wasn’t lost because I told the story to my husband as we put things away. He said, “hmmm”, in that way that lets me know he thought it was nice, but he was busy. Now, I’m sharing the experience with you so I can preserve a moment of joy.

Glenda K. Fralin

Update

My dear friends.

I have been away once again. I'm still working on my stories and poems. I've mostly been revising a book length story. I haven't set aside a regular schedule for coming to my blog to keep in touch with you. I need to do that. In the mean time, I will leave you with a brief overview of the book I'm writing.

What is currently called The Search follows a young woman through midlife. She has a lot of adventures and unfortunate sorrows along the way. She is a young anthropologist who lost her husband, an archaeologist, as they searched for an important piece of the puzzle of Christ's journey into Egypt with Mary and Joseph. She is severely injured and returns home to recover. She faces other triumphs and trials and a possible new love. Then a new mystery presents itself and she must return to Egypt.

There will be a Part 2 or possibly Book 2 to this story. We shall see and I'll leave you with that.

Spaming

Dear Friends,
As per the comment below, I believe I have removed the comments that didn't look to have anything to do with the post. I thank you for your faithfulness and patience. I praise God for all who come to my blog to read and I still love the comments.

I think the major problem with this was my own lack of dilligence. Some people found a place to have conversations and then others found they could insert their own little mini commercial. LOL It happens.

God bless you all, and I hope those who did spam my site also read a bit. If I deleted your comment in error, please let me know.

Glenda

It seems my blog is being spammed. Anonymous can be anybody, and more than one. I hope you will bear with me as I go through these multiple comments (I love comments) that have nothing whatsoever to so with my work here. It's a lot of clutter and so I'm affraid that I will need to change my comments requirements until I find a better way to keep this from happening. I'm sure that it is something I need to change in my set up.

Thank you for your patience.

The Bunch of Pals who Conspired

August twenty-first
nineteen and seventy-six
I married the man
I’d met in May, set up
on a blind date
by friends who later said
they knew.

My best friend asked
by week two
if he had proposed.
I laughed at her.
The conspiracy had begun
before we were introduced.

We spoke little
the first three dates.
He was terribly shy
and I
thought he was angry.
He kept saying no
till he did get angry.


He was angry that I asked
not at anything about me
or that I’d done. I cried
and his sister-in-law
yelled at him.
I was embarrassed.

We spent a lot of time
with our group, our gang,
that bunch of buddies.
One couple fought loudly.
My guy asked later
that we not fight
like that if we married.

I teased him
and asked what
he meant by if.
But the air was full
of a serious note.
He came back the next
week wanting a date
for the wedding.

He’d told his mother.
I was shocked. But,
in a short month
love had bloomed.
Love real, if not explosive.
Love of the soul and heart.

Now we will celebrate
our thirty third year.
Smiling, we know it has been
a life well played.
A short interval
became a lifetime
of satisfaction.

Joe, my love, my mate.

Sandpaper Kisses

I have come across some comments on other sites where this poem is posted that it reflects some sort of abuse or inappropriate touching. I hadn't thought of anyone applying that meaning to it. This is a fond memory of my grandfather. There is nothing untoward or abusive in anyway implied. I hope it will bring back some fond memory for you the reader. Enjoy
G.K.Fralin


He would reach out for me
draw me into his giant arms
pull my pretzeled body close
tickling, laughing, hugging dance.
My writhing little body caught
“Grandpa’s got you, you can’t
get away.” Then his deep
throaty laugh rang through the house.
I’d squiggle, wiggle, squealing
pain and glee. “Let me go,
let me go, no grandpa
not the whiskers please.”
A five o’clock cheek to my
delicate skin, he raked his tough
stubble till I cried “Grandma come help.”
She would walk in, wiping her hands.
“Paul, let that child be.” He quickly
released as I rolled to the floor.
I’d jump to my feet teasing
Grandpa can’t get me.”
taunting - out of his reach.
He seemed to ignore while he plotted,
waiting a moment - surprise attack,
Grabbing and planting sandpaper kisses,
lips chewing my neck, fingers tickling
my wiggling, struggling frame
while he whiskered again.
“Grandma, Grandma help me.”
“Not this time she’d laugh.
You deserve what you get.”

Pink April

Pink April

Today I’ll buy a pink brassiere
wear under sheer white top.
Not any day would be so brash
to celebrate my breasts.
But now as April proves
my cup can yet be full.
I’ve need for outward sign
of what the doctor’s left.

Today I’ll buy pink ribbons
to turn about in bows
and join them pinned
as million others will
to celebrate woman’s gift.
The sweet milk suckled
from our nipples
by tender newborn mouth
cleave two mounds of flesh
for proud bellies filled

Today I’ll touch unashamed
the curve upon my chest.
What God endowed be as it is
no need to hide from me.
If it be gone to save my life
in time, as time unfolds,
I’ll have memory of
the soft bare flesh
of my womanhood.


As featured on Helium.com

Thistles in the Corn

Hey, it's not as bad as it looks. I've just been cleaning up my blog from the past of stuff. So now I am going to be sharing again some of the new and old of my work, I invite you to comment as always and even leave an address please where I can find you check out your blog or site. Or an e-mail address so that I can reply to your comments.

This story is one that I wrote some time back. My guess is that this is what I get when I cross a folk tale style with a parable. Is it then a folk parable? Your guess is as good as mine, but do enjoy this short piece.



Glenda K. Fralin (author) copyright pending
Approximate Word Count 595

Thistles in the Corn

“Move faster,” the father called. “We must dig these thistles out of the corn.” The mid-day sun was beating down, and Boy’s water was running out. He’d sweat the liquid from his body. He felt dizzy, and began to reel. Drinking his last gulps he pled to the father.

“Sorry son. I think we can break until the sun drops over those trees. You don’t look so good.” The father replied with a look of concern for his son.

They took some shade under the pickup parked at the edge of the field. Boy grabbed a jug of water and downed several gulps of it, then grabbed a sandwich. Reclining on his elbows, he looked out at the corn field. It was a small acre patch of sweet corn. But, it was a money crop at the farmer’s market.

The father spoke looking at Boy, "Son, I am getting very old and will die soon. I want you to listen. You must live a very good honorable life. It will earn you respect in this world."

Boy did not want to hear about his father dying, but he asked: "Father, it is so hard to live a good and honorable life these days. I know you are an honorable man. How do I live such a life?"

The father replied, "Well, the thistles are like the things that seem small. They can grow and take over. You must keep tending to your life each day as you do the thistles in this field. Now get some rest and we will refill our water flasks and get back to those thistles."

...

Boy woke up as he felt coolness brush over his skin, and knew the sun was moving on. The light would be fading soon. “Father, think we should get back to those thistles now?”

No answer.

Boy looked over at his aged father and knew that he had died. There was no color left in the old man’s face and the eyes lay open wide. Covering the father’s body with his own, Boy cried then picked up the elder man and lay him gently in the truck.

Boy called his mother from the hospital and asked her to come and tell him what to do.

The woman came calmly in and looked at her husbands still form in the emergency room. She told the desk clerk to call Hope and Faith Funeral Home to come and prepare the body. When the body was released the boy and the mother left alone clinging together for solace.

The next morning was the funeral rites with a few friends and family in attendance. “Our brother has gone before us,” the minister said, “we’ll catch up with him in our time. Love be with you all.”

The mother and son thanked the pastor and gave their few dollars of fee. They bound for home when the burying was done to do as the father had instructed.

That night the mother told Boy, “Father left this homeland to me till I die and then it will be yours. But, to you son he left the acre and all it needs and bears.”

The morning broke early and Boy lifted his tired and woeful body from his bed. He drank some coffee and ate an egg. He kissed Mother on the cheek, smiled and left for the day. No words were needed.

Boy went to his acre, looked up to the only cloud in the sky, shed a single tear and cleared thistles from the corn.