A Poet Prepares

FMM: 4 mi


Greetings, Eskimoes (Can I still use that word?)

It is currently -12.6 Celsius in Columbia. I'm not quite sure how that converts, but I know it's cold...I'm continuing to prepare for the state visit from my children. Yesterday I bought 5 umbrellas. The average life expectancy for an umbrella here is anywhere from 10 minutes to 10 days. I have composed a little ditty to illustrate the sad life of an umbrella here in Ireland. Are you ready? Are you sure the boss isn't peeking over your shoulder? Here goes...

The Death of A Dropstopper


My bumbershoot died today;
It passed in the usual way.
I walked out the door
Up toward the moor
And the wind did take it away.

I chased it down the walk
A few began to gawk.
I picked it up and held it tight
I tried my best to make it right.

It changed its shape,
I cannot lie;
It even tried its best to fly.

Alas, it did not reach new heights
At dumpster’s edge,
It got Last Rites.


I think my kids will be begging me for a phat hat/haghat/sonnet bonnet/Maude's Melon Bag/ Granny Poncho/ Blue-hair protector/Plasto-bonnet/ Hair condom/Little Clear Riding Hood before their visit is over.


I am not walking with the Seashore Ladies today. My goal is to complete my travel agent duties. As you can see, I'm not getting too far since I spent the last 45 minutes composing a poem about a bumbershoot. Nonetheless, I have that "creative urge" out of my system for the day and am ready to get down to business. Really! By tomorrow morning, I will have all the tickets purchased, phonecalls made, websites checked, and itineraries updated. You can count on me.


Planning, playing, and poeming,
I remain,

Tizzie/Tiz/Tizmom/Mom/Liz/Elizabeth