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Megalomaniac

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

 

Looking at news headlines this morning and actually all week and beyond, I was inspired to write this verse, this little ditty sung to a variation of There’s a Place For Us from Westside Story. You can choose your own head of state-past or present, or head of a boardroom to envision while you sing.

Come on. Everybody sing!

Megalomaniac

 
ronald_reagan-620x412Megalomaniac, 
That’s where it is really at. 

 

Power here. Power there.
Power, power everywhere,

 

All the power I can find
Even if it is only
In my mind.

 

 
© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

 

Word play fun for Asher and Parisa.

Fiddle Faddle Fumbly

 02534_1075

 

Fiddle Faddle Fumbly, my friend Finn, 

Sleeps with one leg out and with one leg in. 
 
 aldin2
 
 
 
 
 
One leg is cold and the other is not. 
 
The one not cold is the one that’s hot. 
 02534_1077
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Then Finn begins to thrash about,
 
Moving wildly back and forth.
aldin3
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The leg that’s cold moves south. 
 
The one that’s hot moves north.
 
aldin4
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Finally, at last, sleep sets in. 
 
Fiddle faddle fumbly, my friend Finn. 
 
 
 

 

 

In 1929 Cecil Aldin (1870-1935), an artist with a passion for dogs, published Sleeping Partners, a charming series of twenty colored sketches of his two pooches, Micky, an Irish Wolfhound, and Cracker, a Bull Terrier with a dark patch over one eye, asleep and cuddling on Aldin’s sofa.
 

 

 

 

 

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

 

Word play fun and love for Asher and Parisa.

Bug Hugs and Kisses

 
three snails on dewy toadstools

Magical Macro World Of Snails And Bugs By Vadim Trunov (10/27)

 

Big hugs and kisses, 
Bug hugs and hisses, 
Mugwug, Missus, and You.

 

Swish of wings and 
Humming bug things. 
Caterpillar dances the soft shoo.

 

Squiggles and wiggles and 
The trickle of giggles, 
Tummy tickle kisses too.

 

Big hugs and kisses, 
Bug hugs and hisses, 
Mugwug misses you.
© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2014

My dog cannot sleep through the night. (Therefore I do not get to sleep through the night.) She has needs. She needs to bark at the rabble rousers on the street. She needs to bark at the totally silent and invisible via amazing stealth skills cat that she knows is out there. She needs to do those out door tasks that dogs need to do, or so she claims, any where from 3-5 in the morning. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. But I know that if I don’t get up, she will have to do it and it will be in the house. So I get up, and even though my yard is fenced, I grab some outer wear, put her on her leash and go out with her. If I don’t, she will be out there way too long, tangling with the occasional stray opossum or raccoon, barking at invisible cats or making a ruckus of some form or another that no one appreciates at any time, but especially so early in the morning.

If she wakes me early enough and she does her business in a cursory manner, I have enough time to get a little more sleep before I need to get up for work. I always hope that I had remembered to pull the sheets up to hold on to some of the warmth of sleep so I don’t have to climb into a once again cold bed.

Returning to Sleep on a Cold Morning

 
Last vestige of heat
Calls her back in warmth of sheets, 
Back into sleep.
 
Bedtime story by Jeanie Tomanek

Bedtime Story by Jeanie Tomanek

 
© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2014

October is gone, the grayness of November is definitely here. I am greeted today by gray: the gray of the sky hovering over the drying brown of leaves on the ground, little by little giving way to mottled sunlight.

Gray Early November Day

 
Dawn blanket of gray
Lifts, falls away. Light nestles 
On brown leaf litter.
 
 
November

~~Brrrrrrr~~ by Paula Ford

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2014

There were different times in school, a teacher would ask us what we want to be when we grow up. I definitely did not want to be confined to one of the few socially acceptable options available for women at that time. Nothing wrong with being a mommy, a secretary, a nurse or a teacher. They were just not what I wanted to do or be.  I wanted to maybe be a spy, a comedy writer, a scientist, an architect, a linguist who was fluent in at least 7 languages (I like the number seven), an artist, a writer, a doctor, a healer, a shaman, or a mystic. Finally I realized that I wanted to be Leonardo Da Vinci, a renaissance man, or woman in my case. ( I love the word polymath.)

I have this horrible fear of being categorized, labeled and put into a box. I have a variety of interests and have studied a number of things and areas. But I am sadly not professionally fluent in any of them. If growing up means embracing that box, well then I may never grow up. But I have grown old, antiquated, obsolete. Just as one boxes up old stuff and shoves it in the attic or the dusty spider webbed corner in the basement or garage, I feel society is putting me in a box for not belonging, not conforming. I do not feel the here and now is my place. Do I belong in a time past, or a time yet to come? Is this box a portal to prepare, to let go and move on.

 

anatomia_leonardo_da_vinci-300x225Being Da Vinci

 
For ‘ere, when I grow, 
 
Leonardo
Da Vinci
 
I’ve wanted to be.
 
 
© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2014

Once during those years between childhood and full blown adolescence, I yelled at my mother, “I wish I had never been born!” (original dialogue, huh?”) “Well you were! So make the best of it.” she responded.

I remember thinking I did not sign up for this. I didn’t sign any contracts. As a child, this was not the life as I wanted it. And as an adult, I still think this is still not the life I wanted or had imagined.

Now in all fairness, there are parts of it I love. I love my children, and now, also my grandchildren, some family and friends. I have met some pretty neat people along the way. I have been given gifts, talents, and insights that not everyone has.  It is during the everyday struggles, the tests cutting away, molding, shaping, as on a piece of clay:  health and economic problems, the joy and sorrow of being alone, and just the general perversity, decay and destruction of the planet and all life systems at the hand of humankind-perhaps that should be human”unkind”, that I again think, “I did not sign up for this life, this very strange script of this very strange tour of duty.

I have read someplace, but of course I can’t remember where, that the soul chooses the conditions into which it is born in this realm that will create opportunities for growth. I don’t know if that is true or not. I do know that every day, every week, my whole life has seemed like tests. Opportunities for growth, maybe. Maybe I am still stuck in spiritual adolescence.  Every time I think I have figured something out, had an aha moment, thought I had grown a little, the script seems to change. There are scenes that never existed, never will exist, let alone make it to the cutting room. I would like to be a little more of the director and feel a little less like the player or the played.

 

 

The Cutting Room

 
Agreed to the script.
Director made changes-strange 
People and events.
 
Girl in a Chair by Al Lofsness

Girl in a Chair
by Al Lofsness

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Out of the essence of knowledge I gave thee being….
Out of the clay of love I molded thee….

The Hidden Words, Arabic #13

 
 
 
 
 

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