The Trouble with Plastic Buckets

 The Trouble with Plastic Buckets

 

My bucket list keeps changing shape, which is rude, honestly.

One day, it’s a pilgrimage to the Panama Canal, provided the sky can act right—no hurricanes, no tornadoes, no weather auditioning for a lead role.

Another day, it’s next season’s theater tickets, because hope, apparently, comes with assigned seating and a service fee.

It’s my health, and the creaking parliament of my joints.

It’s losing ten pounds, though vanity and gravity remain in active negotiations, and eating less with all the glamour of a hostage situation.

It’s drinking less, though certain evenings still make an excellent closing argument, hiking more, putting one stubborn foot in front of the other, and learning that solitude can be both a map and a compass—plus cheaper than therapy.

It’s planning future travel because waiting around is rarely an itinerary, and keeping old friends close, tending the small bright fires that still know my name.

I spend less, though I still browse as if hope were on sale. I clean out the closet, since only half of what I own still fits, and the other half is apparently waiting for my comeback tour.

I take a writing class for inspiration, just in case the muse needs a syllabus and a firm deadline. I read poems aloud in public, lending my voice to the room before doubt can grab the mic. I send my writing out like small paper boats into larger waters, then make new lists as if stationery alone can save me.

I listen to other voices rattle the furniture in my head. I read more books in this new YA fantasy phase of mine, because dragons, frankly, have better boundaries than most people.

I spend extravagant amounts of time with family, the truest luxury I know. I get a new bucket because even metaphors need better hardware, then carry forward what still holds water and quietly retire what leaks.

And then there are the things no checkmark can settle: being kind to myself, speaking up more, drawing the map of my boundaries in bolder ink, naming my priorities before the noise names them for me.

And always: hug Mom—because some things are not a goal, they are the whole point.

 

 

 

Can I Get A Pass?

 Can I Get A Pass?

 

or a little mercy—

the kind that hushes even the shiver in the leaves.

I’ve been laboring since dawn—

the kind of labor counted in acorns, wind, and worry—

said the squirrel, still a quick brown spark in the branches,

flitting from limb to limb like a thought that would not settle,

and the forest answered him with laughter.

The birds, being birds, turned mockery into song—

a bright unruly weather of chirps and shining eyes,

as though all spring had been a rehearsal

for the sweet small privilege of teasing a squirrel.

Hershel sighed for a holiday.

Sally, meanwhile, wanted one as well—

preferably with cake and a patch of afternoon sun,

which seemed, for squirrel ambition, almost courtly.

You’re nuts,

said one voice, and not with kindness enough to make it praise.

Ask again in five minutes, when hunger comes back wearing its old crown.

We all have a stake in this—

if not in heart, then surely in bark and timber.

Then even the deer and mountain lions lost their solemn manners

and laughed as though some ancient burden had skipped them for a day,

and even the trees leaned softly into the joke,

bending in the breeze with that old wooden laughter

that begins in the leaves and ends in the smallest wheeze.

So there it was—

a brief and shining mercy, dressed up as a punchline.

 

 

 

Posing For The Directory

 Posing For The Directory

Hello there—name’s B. Owl, pleased to meet your gaze,
Local legend, night patrol, working oddball days.
I haunt your hood, patrol your block,
A burrow boss around the clock.

My family tree? Oh, quite profound
We dig our dreams straight underground.
Champions of the sandy sprawl,
Cape Coral knows—we’re tiny but tall. 

We’re pocket-sized predators, yes, that’s the deal,
Mini Hawk vibes with a bargain‑meal feel.
Feathers fierce but fun-sized, cute,
Think raptor… in a travel‑size suit. 

Prolific? Please. We multiply like gossip,
Burrowing babies—you simply can’t stop us.  

We’ve got runway legs—oh, honey, they strut,
Long, lean lines? Yes, we serve that cut.
Takeoff smooth, landing bold,
Frequent flyer miles untold.  

We soar like Allegiant—no snacks, no frills,
Just feathered finesse and aerodynamic thrills.  

By day we chirp, by night we scream,
We cluck, we rasp—we run the theme.
Coo, rattle, shout, a vocal buffet
Broadway cast of the avian way.  

So do admire us—but mind your space,
We’re cute, not cuddly—respect the face.  

Spring has sprung—our season’s prime,
Burrows buzzing—it’s go‑time, it’s time!  

 

 

 

Easter with Family

Easter with Family

We are gathered here this weekend,  to gorge on the solid chocolate Easter Bunny. 

Let the jelly bellies roll

and not overtake the spiral Ham, a stout fellow who did not receive a pardon from the president.

Let us bow our heads, to the Lady Godiva chocolate raspberry bar at Macys and pray that the weather be sunny and warm but not too warm lest the peanut butter and chocolate eggs melt inside our Spring designer handbags.

Let us run not walk over the Mid-Hudson Bridge to Poughkeepsie to catch the latest sale at TJMax because their Fashionista bathing suits come in eye catching tummy control.

AND because shopping in this family is not a trial, it is a weekly event and available on easy pay from QVC.

So pack your wet naps and save your coupons because the sale isn't over until after the Fit lady sings, Jesus comes back, OR whatever! Get a clue, people!

Ready girls, can I get an Amen and a bunny hop across the floor from the hungry eaters who have already inhaled two bags of chips and salsa and slurped down ALL the Skinny Margarita’s?

It is official New York, the diet is off ….and just two more 30% off shopping days at Kohl’s. 

Happy Easter Everybody! Let the feasting begin!