"You are what you eat!"

 


Not being a carefree youngster anymore, I am thinking more about health.
I was raised by a Registered Nurse mother dedicated to wholesome nutrition.
We planted a huge garden every spring, drank Guernsey milk from our dairy
and ate little not crafted by hand under her tutelage.
Mom's oatmeal bread was legendary, winning purple ribbons at the county
fair into her 70s.
We made and bottled our own root beer and for the adults, mom was a master
(small batch) winemaker of elderberry and dandelion wine.
Thanks to her, I have been aware of good health habits all my life. Now in my
60s, I am living, walking proof of my efforts.
Unlike many of my contemporaries, I am the correct weight for my frame,
possess enviable blood pressure and other excellent statistics. And thanks to
good nutrition, yoga, Pilate's, hiking & biking, I am energetic and vital. I cannot
imagine being any other way; I shall continue to fight the good fight against
malnutrition and physical unfitness.
Our culture is not conducive to health. I recently re-read Sugar Blues by William
Dufty. It was published in 1975 and still rings true.
Yesterday I viewed "What the Health" on Netflix. Two opposing views: the first
blames sugar and the second blames meat and dairy
The fact of the matter is that they both agree that our choices are confusing because
the are driven by the greed of the food, pharmaceutical and health care industries.
When I see people eating in restaurants (which I resist frequenting) I see a direct
correlation between their food choices and portions and their physicality.
This is not rocket science, folks! As a population, Americans are digging their
own graves with their forks and spoons.
My suggestion? Eat consciously. Fuel your body. Study what is good for you and
eat right to build your own health and avoid disease. Guess what? You can have dark chocolate, if you need a sweet treat. Fresh fruit is good, too
 There used to be an old saying, when I was young, "You are what you eat! It so resonates with me now, in the autumn of my life...

raintreepoet, reflecting.

In my Opinionated Opinion

You know those address labels,

 non-profit organizations send you to guilt you into giving

them money for their good cause? 

The address labels with your name embossed on them.

 The ones younever ordered, but they keep showing up

 in your mailbox, like it or not?

By now, if you have not round-filed them you have hundreds,

perhaps thousands—more than any one person could ever use.

Had you given into the guilting, you would have spent hundreds

of dollars for them all.

The whole proposition was disturbing to me so I decided a long

time ago that I wasn’t going to pay for what I don’t need,

 didn’t order and since I already pay my taxes,

 I have already helped subsidize all these non-profits,

 who write everything off, anyway.

These labels aren’t exactly FREE, but possession is 9/10s of the law

and clearly they are printed with my name and address,

 so it is logical to believe that they belong to me!

 Ever since that light bulb moment, I use them with impunity 

and have no regrets.

(After all I have had friends that work for “non-profits” who made more

money than me and had way more benefits.) How dare those non-profits

try to guilt people into paying again and again for what our tax dollars

have already  paid.

The unmitigated gall…

Raintreepoet, grinching.

Neither Shakespeare Nor I can compete with you

This on the occasion of a fellow writer wanting me to listen to him read what he had written, when my mind was other places. He was miffed. I was miffed right back.

 Rebuttal on ten note cards...

1. Okay! Here is my defense: There are 64 plots to man's narrative since the beginning of human history.

2.Chances are, if you talk to me in "plot" you will hit one of the 64, which might cause me to respond with, "That's familiar."

3. Pardon me, for having been an English Literature major and having heard those plots more than a few times.

4. I believe I have already told you that I am a "character driven story" fan and that "plot" is pedestrian to me.

5. So, "Mr. I am Offended because you aren't listening to me", hear this: If I wasn't compelled to listen that should be a clue!

6. Perhaps your plot drivel/driven narrative is not beguiling me!

7. You, as a writer have no right to manipulate or bully your reader

8. when she happens not to be entertained. The fact of the matter is, newly declared writer, if you write with the need for always positive feedback

9.  you will forever be waiting as a thirsty man for water. Write because you love it,

10. because it is rewarding in and of itself or cease to write at all. If the act of writing is not self-fulfilling for you, you were't meant to be a writer---but with that dogged attitude, you will probably be published long before me! 

raintreepoet, reporting.

Back to the Farm

5:15 a.m. - The big dogs that guard the sheep

wake me

Their bark is always with purpose-their job

to guard 40 odd sheep and 34 new born lambs

This is my spring break-my escape from the city

to a place much like my own agrarian roots

I’ve missed my family farm for decades

City folk bought 5 acre plots of it- so,

it is no more

But my friend’s family farm, 70 acres, is in tact

with its refurbished 70 year old barn

I come here for respite and to recall my own

farm girl days

My friend and I met as teenagers in Seattle

at the Washington State Dairy Princess Contest

Neither of us has been close to a dairy cow in

nearly half a century, so we laugh, wistfully

at the hard work of our youth and the fancy

dresses we wore to the big city

America was once 87% agrarian and now it is

something like 2 or 3%

People hunker in cities, drink Starbuck’s and

wander through clean, clipped parks to try to

feel what Mother Earth is really all about.

I am proud of my country bumpkin roots.

When I retire in a couple years, my fiancée and I

plan to move back to the land outside some

small town in the west that doesn’t have a

Starbuck’s. Then I’ll wear cowboy boots and

herd my cats and dogs…

Raintreepoet, reminiscing & looking forward.

SUNSHINE

 Sunday morning

Sunshine woke me!

Over the telephone,

Sunshine spoke a

Call to play

And so it goes

Quickly, I pack my car

With bottles of water

And a light backpack

The hiking sticks,

Already onboard

I dress in layers because

Winter still reigns,

And drive post haste

To Sunshine’s house

He greets me with a

Broad smile and a

Big kiss and

We are off to adventure!

The day sparkles with Joy

I love Sunshine and

Sunshine loves me

Dedicated to GM

Almost spring 2017

What Poet Isn’t Passionate About Words?

They are our greatest and best toy!

We jump in the deep end and back stroke through

the dictionary like we own it—and we should!

We love words so much, every single one should

be ours.

My heart thrums with such joy when I page through

my Heritage (dictionary) and spy a word I’ve never noticed,

But the letters tell me that it is a word of distinction and

station

I relish reading the meanings, 1 through 5 and chuckle

at the odd pronunciation—-O my, what possibilities this small

 microcosm of the English Language!

 It carries a whole narrative of a miraculous journey

 through mystery and intrigue

If I decide to swim deeper, I go to the Oxford English Dictionary

where a whole page can be dedicated to  a single word and its ancestry, explaining all of its origins-enough drug to  keep a word geek high

for an entire afternoon!

But I digress…

Googling will never give this generation the satisfaction of

Savoring a word, masticating it carefully and swallowing its

Essence

Only hard copy can give such satiety and ultimate pleasure

But I am a word geek and a silly poet-what do I know?

raintreepoet, reporting.

White Carnations in a Cobalt Blue Pitcher

For G.M.

Oh, what lovely flowers you brought  to

comfort my sorrow

Delighted, I cut off their ends and arrange them

In a blue pitcher

The next morning I find three scattered on the table

I pluck them up and rearrange them

into the pitcher again

Then chide my cats to be more polite

Morning two: Again several more flowers are strewn about the pitcher, dehydrating in the air

I put them back, wondering which of my two cats the culprit is

When I arrive in the afternoon, I notice flowers strewn about again

One cat, Oliver, was inadvertently locked in the small bathroom

As I free him I note his innocence

I now know who to indict!

Morning Three: Blue pitcher on its side,

Water soaked magazines and papers

in close proximity (the carnations may have been sassy)

apparently it was them or him

(Winston), and he prevailed

As I leave this morning, the flowers in

the blue pitcher are set safely in the sink

There will be no more cat vs. carnation skirmishes

This cleaner has surrendered-has decided not press charges

Nor mete out punishment!

P.S. That grey cat can thank his

cute furry little ass.

raintreepoet, reporting cat tales.