Week 5: Poems and Yet More Words

A Limerick for the Cat-Dog

My cat is a dog in disguise,

Who knows she is smart and all wise,

She claws at the doors,

In sleep, runs and snores,

The cat had a pup, oh surprise!

Bound by the Number

     The number is what we truly dread.

     The number determines, succinctly, if you can ride the ride or if you are too young and unknowing.

     The number now calls for children to be bred, seizing on every digit: zero is selfish, three is too many, and six is reserved for zealots.

     The number forces you to retire, hobbies in one hand and family in the other, ignoring that many have neither pastime nor kin.

     The number finally determines whether death is an game-changer for one, an actionable tragedy for two thousand, or a damnable statistic for six million.

Spirits Sublime

The creeping moon cannot explain the time

Lost to pondering for spirits sublime.

Are they joyous with their dead, buried state?

A dancing party for spirits sublime,

Mai Thais and margaritas all around,

Gambling on card games for spirits sublime

A good adventures friend, discovered here,

Dean Martin crooning for spirits sublime

Stop not the party just for me, dear ones,

Enjoy what is fun for spirits sublime.

Basketball and Inappropriate Reactions

I recently went to a first basketball game for second and third grade girls. I tell you I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt. For their entire lives, it has been all about treating each other kindly, no running indoors, and oh, yes, the ever-important sharing. Now, everything they had learned under the threat of “be sweet or be beat” was out the window. Gone, gone, gone. Early in the game, there was one little girl, blonde hair in ragged pigtails, who was facing a dribbling opposing team member in the center of the court. From her perspective, she could see the girls from both teams thundering towards her (okay, there was some skipping in there) while all she could hear was the crowd was yelling conflicting directions. She came to a full stop and looked toward the bleachers.

The expression on her horrified face said everything: how did I get here? Had she been an adult, it would have been “how in the (insert bad word of choice here) did I get here?” I must admit I laughed even while I sympathized. The veteran sports mom sitting in front of me knowledgably commented, “It usually takes them two or three games before they get it.”

That stopped me. Perhaps, after all these years of not understanding the allure of sports, that was the purpose: to learn how to extricate oneself when stuck in a “how did I get here?” situation. If had only known that, I would have attempted a sport. Wait. I forgot. I did attempt a sport. Fencing. It didn’t end well. I trained, got the rapier and the clothing, and finally the day came when my trainer said, “You are authorized to have a match. Go hither, and bring honor to me and my training.” I excitedly walked out onto the grassy field and faced my opponent, a happy-looking, thin young man.

The referee said “go” but what some previously-unknown part of my brain heard was “This is life and death. You must kill your opponent. Dead. Now.” I would love to be able to claim that I was on drugs, was under duress or the subject of a subliminal experiment, but it wouldn’t be true. I just went berserk. Thank goodness the rules required he wear padding and a cup. (Most especially the cup.) Eventually, he backed up and the sound of people yelling at me to stop sunk in. I stood there, panting, as horror began to replace the adrenalin. I slowly set down my rapier and removed my mask. The young man stoically listened to my apology and then he (rightfully) stomped off the field. The following weeks weren’t pretty ones. My trainer found he had to move out of state. My remaining friends treated me carefully. Eventually, they must have decided I was safe as long as I didn’t have the rapier as it disappeared. Still, this dreadful knowledge about myself has had a positive side.

First, everyone has been getting DNA testing done recently, but not me. I know there are berserker genes in there somewhere and I’m not going to go looking for them again. So, I don’t have to pay to get the results that everyone has been showing on Facebook.

Second, I now know how I react when pushed up against the wall. So does the robber who came into the shop where I worked. “Give me your money!” he said. “No. It isn’t yours,” I responded. Perhaps this wasn’t the best response. He didn’t shoot me or anything but it certainly pissed him off. Having said that, whatever berserker traits he saw in my face stopped him from going ahead with the robbery and he just left. It was great. The actual danger didn’t occur to me until someone else pointed it out much later. Like the next day.

Third, I’m not bitter about the sports I could never play. If I had played, perhaps I would have taken someone out in that red demanding fog of “kill, kill, kill” and my soul is just too delicate to take on that amount of guilt. Mixing berserker genes with the kind, mushy ones may not have appeared to be a problem to my parents (as if they considered that aspect), but it makes for a dreadful dichotomy. If I had a real and legitimate reason to kill someone, that I could live with. This, not so much.