Baby Seated

well seated

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

In the shade

Out of sun

I am still

Having fun.

Even these

Stubborn bubbles

Will stop

Giving me troubles.

I’ll persist

And resume

Turning a chair

To a play room.

 

 

For the Pull Up a Seat Challenge

 

 

Come Play!

play NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

My pink shoes are a mess

But I’m in no distress.

I have been in the dust

For elephants it’s a must.

I’m a fierce one, you see

Will you come play with me?

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Play

 

Find Your Métier

 

professions-in-english woodardenglish.com

 

Maybe it is healing

And the saving of lives,

Or the wonder of teaching

And forming young minds.

Maybe it is farming

To nourish and grow,

Or building the homes

For the shelter we know.

Maybe it is writing

Putting words to the page,

Or any vocation

That forms our age.

May it be that whatever

Strums your soul, fills your need

I pray that you find it

And its call you will heed.

 

Merriam-Webster’s word for July 1, 2018:

Métier

This post continues the blogging challenge in which Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day, serves as inspiration a-la the “Daily Prompt.”

Want to join me? Feel free to link to this post on your blog, and/or post a link to your blogpost in the comment section below so others can enjoy it, too. Poetry, photography, short stories, anecdotes: Go for it!

For more visibility, tag your post with #WordOfDayNY, so your post can be searchable.

“Follow” me if you want to receive future prompts, or just pop in when you’re looking for inspiration. Here’s to the fun of writing and our ever-evolving blogging community!

 

 

Cookie Share

round biscuit with heart jelly in center

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” she said. “And you have to answer.”

“Fair enough,” I smiled. After all, I’d just subjected this child to a long list of questions to which she had to respond.

“What if,” she began, twinkle-eyed, “you had only one cookie, but you needed to share it with fifty kids?”

“Hmm …” I pondered. “That’s a tough one. One cookie only?”

“Yep!” She raised her eyebrows in satisfaction at what had to be my stupefied expression.

“Can I hand out something else instead?” I bargained.

“Nope. One cookie, fifty kids.” The eight-year-old was utterly too pleased with herself.

I smelled a rat but I wasn’t going to show it. She’d earned this after soldiering on through the difficult portions of the testing battery. “I give up.” I raised my hands in surrender. “I don’t see how I can split one cookie between fifty kids.”

“I never said how big the cookie had to be, did I?” she chortled. “If you have a gigantic humongous cookie it would be easy peasy to have everyone share it!”

 

 

For Cee’s Share Your World June-18-2018

Jabberwocky

down under SmadarHalperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

If the spoot

Got your boot

And the ptuk

Stole your truck,

It is time to call

A glonky

To clean up

This jabberwocky.

 

 

Merriam-Webster’s word for June 18, 2018:

Jabberwocky

This post continues the blogging challenge in which Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day, serves as inspiration a-la the “Daily Prompt.”

Want to join me? Feel free to link to this post on your blog, and/or post a link to your blogpost in the comment section below so others can enjoy it, too. Poetry, photography, short stories, anecdotes: Go for it!

For more visibility, tag your post with #WordOfDayNY, so your post can be searchable.

“Follow” me if you want to receive future prompts, or just pop in when you’re looking for inspiration. Here’s to the fun of writing and our ever-evolving blogging community!

 

Kind of Famous

Rose DvoraFreedman

Photo: Dvora Freedman

 

“I’ll be famous,” she said, twirling and eyeing her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a particularly twirl-worthy skirt and a shiny pair of sandals.

“Yep, famous,” she repeated with finality. She spun a few more times then stopped mid-turn to face me. “Do you know what famous means?”

I raised an eyebrow in half-query, half-invitation. Children’s explanations are immensely more informing than anything I might attempt to guess at.

“It means everybody knows you and everybody likes you a lot.”

“It does?” I lent a slight undulation to my voice in what I hoped was just a smidge of challenge for the second part.

She’s a perceptive little one. She caught it. Paused. Frowned. Pursed her lips and pursed them again in front of the mirror to inspect the effect. “Well, everybody knows famous people,” she countered and puckered her lips a few more times to make a point. “But … maybe not everybody likes them?”

I smiled and raised my eyebrow again.

She straightened and crossed the room to lean into me. “Because some famous people can be bad?”

I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Some. Sometimes people get famous but not for very good things.”

She nodded into my side. “Like Hitler and … you know?”

“Yes. Hitler … and some other people … are known for doing very very bad things.”

“I don’t want to be that kind of famous.”

I gave her a squeeze. “I understand. I wouldn’t worry … You are nothing like that … You have a beautiful, loving, caring heart. It’s not a bad thing to want to be famous. Most famous people aren’t bad. Most people in general aren’t bad. Famous and not famous ones.”

She leaned into me a moment longer. She knows hardship. Young as she is, the pain of cruel actions isn’t abstract to her.

I took a deep breath to remind her she was safe. She followed. Took another. Shook the pensive worry off and looked down into her magnificently twirl-worthy skirt.

“Well,” she stood and made a quick half-turn, watching the edges of the fabric lift and roil and dance and fly. “I’ll be the good kind of famous.” She walked back to the full-length mirror to reinspect her reflection. “The beautiful heart kind …”

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Break The Ice

 

break the ice1 AmitaiAsif

Photo: Amitai Asif

 

Reach out to those frozen

In the ill at ease place

Of unfamiliar

Meeting known.

Note the edge of green

On those still a tad tender

Around the social gills.

A kind word can steady

Many an awkward gait

Upon fiddly ice

Still awaiting to break.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

A Knotty Problem

knot DavidJFred

Photo: David J. Fred

 

 

She refused to retreat

In the face of defeat.

She pursed lips, furrowed brow,

Still the bead would not bow.

Pushed into the string’s knot

It slid off … yet she fought.

All suggestions were waived

She refused to be saved.

Five more minutes she spent

String nor bead would relent.

Just as frustration frayed …

Cookies came to her aid.

 

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

The Crank

Silver Gelatin Print

Photo: Vivian Maier (Girl Crying) N.Y. 1954

 

She huffed and she puffed and she stomped her small feet. She whined and she cried and she kicked the car seat. She refused to wear shoes, threw her coat on the ground. Made sure everyone heard her for miles around. She tossed food on the floor. Then asked for some more … Like a kid on a mission for the spoiled child edition.

Evening came.

Gramma called.

Mama handed the phone.

“Tell me now, little one, what on earth’s going on?”

“I’m a crank,” the child said in response. “Now Mama’s tired, all on my own.”

 

 

 

For more of Vivian Maier’s amazing photography: http://www.vivianmaier.com/

For The Daily Post

The Lost Quartet

fishbowl

 

 

He reached into his pocket and rummaged around. “I’ve brought something to show you,” he said, eyes searching mine. “But it’s a secret …”

“Oh?” I offered.

“Well, sort of,” he shrugged as an uncertain smile worked its way into his cheeks. “I took them to school … but I didn’t tell anyone … because we’re not allowed to … The teacher woulda’ taken them away and other kids maybe woulda’ told her or asked to see them and then she’d know …”

I hiked my eyes up and nodded my expectation.

The grin grew but it still held a sheen of sad.

He pulled his fist out of his pocket and turned it so the back of his hand rested on the table, then ceremoniously uncurled his fingers.

Four grains of rice in tiny vials, strung onto a keychain ring.

“They have names on them,” he said reverently.

I squinted and reached for a magnifying glass. Handed him one.

Our heads met over the small nest of palm and he mouthed the words, more sigh than voice.  “Fee, Fi, Fo and Fum.”

A quartet recently eaten not by a giant smelling the blood of an English man but by a feline with a swishing tail who had knocked the fishbowl over and left not one golden scale behind.

 

 

For The Daily Post