Twenty-one years of marriage on National Pot Day 4/20. We’re making the drive to Singer Island to celebrate this special occasion. Here is the poem I wrote in honor of my wife, a salute to the very first one I gifted her titled “De Feet, De Nose, De Toes” – long before I ever started penning this blog:

Deniseciation 

Twenty-one Years,
Plus a few more.
You’re the one person,
I absolutely adore.

A fabulous cook,
With little credit.
“No appreciation,”
There, I’ve said it.

I’m not so good,
At compliments.
And even worse,
At common sense.

I don’t appreciate,
What I’ve got.
When it comes to you,
My wife is hot.

Beauty and class,
My silver fox.
I miss the cues,
When opportunity knocks.

I’m well fed,
And greatly loved.
But thanking you,
I’ve badly flubbed.

You’ve built us,
A beautiful nest.
And filled it with,
Only the best.

I’m a lucky man,
With you at my side.
My life’s best move,
Making you my bride.

Yet, I often don’t say,
“I appreciate you.”
And words of love,
Are long overdue.

You’re the Belle,
Of Islandwalk.
As the most desirable,
You’ve defied the clock.

Not just the block,
The whole universe.
All you’ve given me,
I’ve failed to reimburse.

I’m grumpy and gruff,
Not worthy of you.
And I’ve always had,
The better view.

From De Nose to De Toes,
De Best of Sweetie Pies.
I hope that you can see,
De Admiration in my eyes.

Deniseciation,
Is what I send.
I love you more,
The end.

Copyright 2022 johnstonwrites.com

Three poems in one day is probably a record but two of them have been in the works for weeks.  I just put the finishing touches on them and submitted them to my blog. I’m not supposed to write about this subject because I was a little vague with my sister about going to meet the cousins or not. At first, I thought that local family matters would interfere with my plans to drive to Bonita Springs. My sister was not included because of health issues and this was disappointing to both of us. We are all connected through my dad’s father, Grandpa J., who passed in 1992, thirty years ago. I am the modern day Grandpa J. 

The restaurant was called Traverna in their Vasari golf club subdivision. The sad and embarrassing moment was when I was shocked to discover that my eldest cousin’s husband passed last year. As a result, I had awkwardly put my foot in my mouth. The visit did inspire me to write the poem, “Dozens of Cousins.” (See Post #1993). They all heard the poems that I wrote for my parents’ funerals and asked if I would do one for our long overdue reunion. I’ve complied in short fashion below. 

Years ago, the family would gather every year at Simonton Lake in Elkhart or at nearby Oxbow Park. We’d have a picnic and play croquet or catch, as was the tradition. The only pleasant get-togethers in recent years have been the girl’s weekend that this year happened to be by our new Florida home. Two men were actually in attendance this year, while my cousin John was not included, and I crashed the party accompanied by my wife. 

By the way, the names may have been changed to protect the innocent – more poetic license. 

Cousins Unite 

Glad we reunited,
At Traverna this year.
The news was mostly good,
Except that one sad tear.

I crashed the “girls” weekend,
And now I must confess.
Glad Al could join us,
Cause I forgot my dress.

Vasari is beautiful,
And we’re not far away.
Maybe we can do it again,
Some other glorious day.

I think of you all often,
As cousins and friends.
Our Grandpa J. connection,
Will thankfully never end.

Though we have many cousins,
You’ll always be our “favs.”
And I refuse to rhyme this,
With the obvious “graves.”

I miss Simonton days,
And even Oxbow Park.
Sadly, our reunions,
Have been left in the dark.

But the Florida sun,
Brought us together.
While John was stuck,
In Hoosier weather.

Copyright 2022 johnstonwrites.com

It’s been over a month since I wrote my last poem and that was a recap of our trip to Key West (See Post #1960). I haven’t spoken from the creative heart for some time (See #1934) and that was not of a rhyming nature. Today, I wrote two in an attempt to play catch-up from my goal of one a month. The first will be #258 on this blog under the category of poetry, and it is not to be interpreted as suicidal. In fact, I’m not really convinced their is a heaven, let alone a gate. This is called poetic license. 

“Let’s Get This Over With” is a phrase I too often use jokingly with a mutual friend to show my general impatience or discomfort in an unfamiliar setting. I’m definitely not one to smell the roses and consequently miss the beauty of life. Every year on my resolutions, I promise myself to see the beauty in life, but I sadly live too much in a hurry. 

The End

Let’s get this over,
Is my first thought.
I’m not sure when,
This notion was taught,

There must be a flaw
In my D-N-A.
That makes me rush,
My life away.

I prefer to look back,
Rarely forward.
To fill all the blanks,
On the scoreboard.

I have no patience,
Can’t wait till the end.
I need to see,
Around every bend.

If life was a book,
I’d read ahead.
I’d scan the last page,
To see what was said.

If instead a movie,
I’d cut to the quick.
Skip to the good parts,
And finish the flick.

Forget slow motion,
It takes too long.
Push fast forward.
And speed life along.

I can’t wait to start,
Now, where’s the conclusion?
Showing restraint,
For me, an Illusion.

I eat just as fast,
Always in a rush.
Never a trickle,
Give me a gush.

I like a short-cut,
To the Checkered flag.
To wait for Christmas,
Was always a drag.

No time to smell roses,
Or savor the flavor.
Get to the punch line,
Do me a favor.

Save all the details,
For someone who cares.
Don’t try to embellish,
Or attempt to split hairs.

I’m in a hurry,
Life is too short.
Give me the answers,
Not a boring report.

All that I want,
Is the FINALE.
Let’s get to the end,
No need to dally.

Get it over with,
I just can’t wait.
Show me what’s next,
At Heaven’s Gate.

Copyright 2022 johnstonwrites.com

Here is the wrap-up poem for our adventure to Key West – most of the details are found in the previous four posts (See #1956, #1957, #1958, and #1959):

Key West 

High speed ferry,
Key West and back.
Marriott Beachside,
Bags to pack.

We’d had a better,
View of the sea.
If it weren’t for,
My missing ID.

Then we encountered,
A disagreeable zinger.
And my tongue got caught,
In the washer’s wringer.

Alonzo’s dinner,
Conch fritters.
Everywhere around,
Those Rooster critters.

One eventually,
Went after you.
Jumped on your back,
Cock A Doodle Doo.

Six-toed cats,
A manatee!
So much to see,
On the Key.

Southernmost Point,
Scarlet and Rhett.
Spanish Treasure.
Mallory Square Sunset.

Floating Tiki huts,
Boardwalk Moonlight.
Truman retreat,
Where’s the cockfight?

River taxis,
Shuttle stops.
Conch Express,
Flip flops.

Blue Heaven,
Oysters raw.
Shrimp Fettuccini,
La-Te-Da!

Toes in the sand,
Key Lime Pie.
Papa Hemingway,
What a Guy!

Margaritaville,
Duval Street.
Haagen-Dazs Ice Cream,
For a late night treat.

Sloppy Joe’s,
More French fries.
Fancy yachts,
Seagull cries.

We’ll go back,
For what we missed.
And as for the argument,
We made up and kissed.

copyright 2022 johnstonwrites.com

Back in the late 1990s, when I first bought Limoges porcelain boxes, they were primarily found at exclusive gift shops, typically locked in glass cabinets. Most of these trinkets were priced around $300, but I was drawn to the hidden hinged-compartment that allowed me to include a ring, gem, or poem and make the offering even more special. My marriage proposal was even delivered inside of one. (See Post #146). I quickly learned the the French words “Peint Main” meant hand painted, so each box is a unique piece of art. They became my gift of choice and over the past twenty years I’ve purchased hundreds. Each contains a customized poem.

My wife and I have traveled to the city of Limoges and often search for them in stores or on-line. The internet has certainly made them easier to find since  outlets like Macys, Bloomingdales, and Gumps no longer stock them. The prices have also become more affordable, especially on Ebay. On the internet, my go-to source for many years has been Groundstrike Collectables, based in Austin. I once had lunch with the owner, Sam, whose ex-wife is a competitor in the business. Then there is Phyllis, who owns Gaslight Collectables in San Francisco that we visit on occasion. Anymore, it’s challenging to find unique Limoges Boxes that we don’t already own or have seen many times before without an interest in buying. 

Disney once had licensed their characters to Artoria, one of the French ceramic manufacturers, but that relationship has since discontinued. They still tend to be in high demand and the most valuable in our collection. Some command price tags in the thousands. Nearly twenty years ago while shopping at Disney World we foolishly passed on buying a couple of pieces while browsing and found them gone when we returned, never to be seen again. We did however purchase Djali, Esmerelda’s pet goat in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. To this day we’re convinced that it was mismarked at only $85 (should have been at least $285). We snatched it up and consider that price to be THE bargain standard for any currently available hinged-box on the market.

Our collection features travel souvenirs, holiday themed pieces, garden knick-knacks, and cartoon characters – to include a few broad categories. My wife spotted one last week at an local antique show and paid the Djali price. Then, we found another on Ebay for half a Djali. Both finds have been added to the collection, accompanied by this hidden poem:

Limoges for Less

Back in the day,
Djali was THE  bargain.
A cheap Disney box,
Authentic “Peint Main.”

Now easier to find,
With the internet.
Discount French porcelain,
Without going in debt.

Two such “deals,”
Were found this week.
Without an occasion,
Or reason to seek.

At an antique show,
Bottled scents.
For eighty-five bucks,
The purchase made sense.

A Mixer on-line,
Was then your desire.
For a mere forty-five,
We became buyers.

We got these djollies,
At a third of the price.
They weren’t free,
But should suffice.

Copyright 2022 johnstonwrites.com

I refer back to Post #1905 that somehow triggered this first poem of 2022. It’s not exactly inspirational nor an accurate reflection of my personal ailments, but portrays the challenges of growing old:

Not Easy Being Me

It’s not easy,
To be old like me.
In a few years,
You too will see.

I’m battery powered,
With hearing aids.
Where did I put those,
Blue-blocker shades?

Need shoes that tie,
And support hose.
Because too often,
Can’t feel my toes.

My arches have fallen,
And can’t get up.
And I drink my wine,
From a Sippy Cup.

What hair is left,
Has long turned gray.
Social Security,
My only pay.

My heart’s still beating,
But my breath is foul.
I’m about ready,
To throw in the towel.

A Chiropractor visit,
My big day out.
This darn foot,
Has a touch of gout.

Lines and creases,
Mark my face.
I buy Advil,
By the case.

A scratchy voice,
Makes me hard to hear.
Losing my balance,
A constant fear.

Muscles that sag,
And wrinkled skin.
A beer gut,
And a double chin.

Glasses are a given,
Cataracts a curse.
Not quite ready,
For a full-time nurse.

A heating pad,
Keeps me warm.
Sore joints,
A nagging norm.

Right and left knees,
Are always stiff.
But the wee-knee,
Is a big IF!

What used to flow,
Now just trickles.
My pot of gold,
Nothing but nickels.

I’m like a Mummy,
In braces and wraps.
And in constant need,
Of extra naps.

If I’m a Grump,
This explains why.
But I’m not ready,
To say Good-Bye.

Copyright 2022 johnstonwrites.com

My last poetic offering of 2021, as directed to my son and his family who have tested positive for Covid this Christmas. Only his 14-year old son escaped infection. They were all over for dinner early this week so my wife and I are also in the testing process. Today we stood in line under the hot sun for about an hour for a swabbing. Tuesday, we get rapid-tested and should also get today’s results. Heck of a way to end the year and start a new one. I wrote this tongue-in-cheek tribute to the holidays while waiting for my test:

Unwanted Gifts

Some people got socks,
Or coal in their stocking.
Some got what they requested,
While certain gifts were shocking.

Many offerings this year,
Were not under the tree.
It was something unexpected,
That we couldn’t even see.

There was no wrapping,
Or card to read.
And the kind of present,
No one would ever need.

Covid for Christmas?
Don’t know what to say.
It shouldn’t be re-gifted,
Or passed in any way.

So many holidays ruined,
By this unwanted gift.
And if you received it,
You are surely miffed.

It can’t be returned,
Or even taken back.
Nobody wants it,
Once it’s unpacked.

So, we’ll be home,
For New Years.
Forget the toasts,
And cheers.

We’ll wear our comfy PJs,
No need for gown or tux.
Dinner plans are cancelled,
Saving lots of bucks.

The ball will drop,
As always.
But we’ll avoid,
That craze.

We’ll be asleep before,
The clock strikes midnight.
No rowdy crowds to battle,
Or DUIs to fight.

No “Jolly Good Fellas,”
Or stranger’s hug or kiss.
These awkward traditions,
We’re grateful to miss.

It was a Covid Christmas,
And New Year’s Quarantine.
Won’t be donning silly hats,
Or renting a limousine.

We’ll continue to vaccinate,
Until the virus goes away.
And get another Booster,
For our next Birthday.

Copyright 2021 johnstonwrites.com