Blue Monday: Tools

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Gardening tools at Micke Grove Regional Park, Lodi, California.
 
 

The gardener lays down his tools,
‘Cause working, he thinks, is for fools.
The longer his breaks,
The less cash he makes—
He’s willing to play by those rules.

 
 
Photo and limerick © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
BLUE MONDAY BADGE

 
 
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Macro Monday 2: In the Cemetery

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A bust of the Virgin Mary, Yuma Pioneer Cemetery, Yuma, Arizona.
 
 
Photo © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
MACRO MONDAY 2
 
 
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In a Creative Fashion


In a creative fashion I was cutting film with knives
By the road to a location that was littered with beehives.
’Twas a scene from the Inferno (what I’m telling you is true),
With a backdrop that was bursting into flame—or was that you?
Bystanders taking pictures to upload to Instagram
Watched in admiration as the river reached the dam
And pulverized the concrete to a billion little bits,
And then continued onward with neither starts nor fits.
It’s time to end this story, it’s getting much too long,
And turning into something besides a simple song.
You’ve read this far with pleasure (at least I hope that’s true),
But now I’ll take my leisure and say goodbye to you!

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #226
 
More Poetry Pantry #489 at Poets United

Shadow Shot Sunday 2: Shopping Cart

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A shopping cart seems to be taking a nap in the shade in Yuma, Arizona.
 
 
Photo © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
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Breath

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Detail from a painting in a Yuma County, Arizona church.
 


Grandpa’s wooden chair—
the breath of a startled cat
lingers on the seat.

 
Haiku and photo © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Haiku My Heart at Recuerda Mi Corazon

Send Me Silver Messages


Send me silver messages on wings of bees or bats.
Send them to the sad café, where I wear many hats:
Baker, barber, barkeep—even chairman of the board;
Table number three is mine, beside the safety cord.
 
Also in the library, where dancing Buddhas shine,
You may find me barely sober (I’ll be drinking wine).
Remember now, for safety’s sake, parking’s not allowed
Near the curb, or where bad news is breaking to the crowd.
 
If you can make some sense of this, you’re better than I am;
Farewell, dear friends, my journey starts—I’m off to Vietnam!

 
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #225
 
More Midweek Motif at Poets United: “Safety”

Ruby Tuesday Too: Desert Sunset

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Day’s end, Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, Southern California.
 
Photo © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More SkyWatch Friday

 
 
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Blue Monday: Mary’s Place

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Mary has a special place at Yuma Pioneer Cemetery, Yuma, Arizona.
 
 

When I go to Mary’s Place,
I remember her sweet face,
And the way she used to pray
At the start of every day:
“Bless, O Lord, both great and small;
Shower good things on them all.
Let not evil have its way
This or any other day.”
Thus she prayed for you and me,
Prayed nonstop, prayed fervently.
I can almost see her face
When I come to Mary’s Place.

 
 
Photo and poem © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
BLUE MONDAY BADGE

 
 
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Macro Monday 2: Thorns

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Ocotillo thorns, Robert J. Moody Demonstration Garden, Yuma, Arizona.
 
 
Photo © by Magical Mystical Teacher

 
 
MACRO MONDAY 2
 
 
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Butterfly Bandage

My four-year-old self was a daredevil. I was fearless. I’d climb trees that were off limits,
visit neighbors several blocks away without telling my mother where I was going, and put dirt in the gas tank of my daddy’s car, because I wanted to “help out.”
 
One day I jumped on my tricycle and raced toward the street. Instead of stopping at the curb, I kept going. As I plunged into the street, I also tumbled over the handlebars. My chin smacked the pavement. Blood spewed everywhere. I ran back to the house, screaming in terror, sure that I was going to bleed to death.
 
My mother gave me a towel (cloth, not paper!) to stanch the bleeding, and then put my little brother and me into the Old Black Ford (no seatbelts!) for a trip to the doctor’s office.
 
“It’s not that bad,” the doctor said, after his nurse had cleansed the wound with stinging antiseptic. “But I want to close it up with a couple of stitches.”
 
Stitches? I screamed hysterically. No needle and thread in my skin! No way! Even the doctor’s soothing reassurances could not calm me down.
 
Finally he relented. “All right,” he said, “I think we can take care of that with a butterfly bandage.”
 
After he cut a piece of tape in the shape of a butterfly and placed it over the wound, the doctor sent me on my way. “Keep that butterfly on for about four or five days,” he said, “and then have your mother take it off. You’ll be just fine.”
 
My mother and I agreed to follow the doctor’s orders.
 
Decades later, though, whenever I tilt my head back while looking in the mirror, I see a jagged scar on my chin—the price I paid for having escaped the dreaded stitches.

 
 

© 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More A Pantry of Prose #6 at Poets United: “Stitches”