The World Around Us

January , 2004

Outer Space Bound: January

         Welcome back to another adventure into space, time and fantasy . . .

         In The World Around Us we get to go everywhere! We’re not just stuck on the planet Earth, of course. We can voyage into space and visit Mars and Venice, or go to planets that we’ve never heard of. We can talk with aliens and have adventures in space. We can ride a comet and take a spaceship through a wormhole. We can even play music on an asteroid. Anything is possible for us!

         In fact, we can go into alternate worlds. Alternate worlds -- that's the place where magic happens, where dragons roam and animals talk, a place where elves frolic with kitties, and kitchen coffee pots complain about their day. Would you like to travel with me into that world?



          Be cautious. Remember, I said, anything can happen there. We could be attacked by a toothbrush . . . We could watch a snowman fall in love. We could even turn the moon into banana cream pie . . . Well, I did promise you a trip to a fantasy world, didn't I? So, ready? Here we go!

Fantasy is another word for make believe.

Like when the elf king tells another miraculous tale,

And when the princess wears a cloak of magic weave,

When fairy dust appears, and dragons shake their scales,

Then fantasy rises before your enchanted eyes,

And as you read the words, magic multiplies.

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         I often like to weave myself into fantasy through my poetry pieces. This poem is about a snowman who comes alive and sees his own true love.



The snow was falling
The moon was out
When the snowman first woke up.
He turned around,
Not easy to do
When he hadn't any legs.

The very first sight
That met his eyes
Was a lady made of snow
He dipped his hat
To catch her eye
Then twirled and gave a bow.

With the worst of luck,
His twist went wild
His lower torso bumped her.
The smooth impression
He'd planned to stage
Had somehow gone awry.

But the lady smiled
Her arms came down
And hugged the snowman tight.
Their noses met.
They hugged and kissed.
I blushed and hurried home.




         Sometimes I like to think about little elves, the ones who hide behind flowerpots. Do you believe they are there? Sometimes people call them Brownies. There are many stories about the mischief Brownies do, like hiding your toys or carrying off your sweater when you’re sure you put it in your room. I wonder if the little folk really do hide under toadstools (mushrooms) and live in snail shells. What would it be like to be so small?

         This poem is about some elves who get into trouble with a kitty. I suppose cats think elves and Brownies are mice for they are at times almost the same size. The elves in my poem use their magic to get out of the situation.

The Elves’ Victory

Nine elves in a circle were dancing about
Merrily singing beneath an old waterspout.

When out crept the pussy, fierce and mean
Licking her chops and bathing them clean.

With a sly little pounce she scooped up one elf
And ran fast away to be by herself.

Her teeth, they were sharp; the elf couldn’t flee
There was no way that he could get free.

When out of the house came the old cottage maid
Ready to see how many eggs had been laid.

She spied the bad cat with a bird in its hold,
And chased him around until with a scold

He released that wee elf who ran swift away.
Then the maid dropped like a big lump of clay,

Confused that she’d chased old Pussy around.
For what did she care if some birdie he’d found.

Panting and fanning herself til she’d been rested,
She finally got up to see the eggs nested.

She never glanced back to see the spry elves
Who had conquered the kitty all by themselves!


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         My next poem is about a girl who encounters a dragon. What would you do if you met such a beast? Would you try to talk with him? Would you scream and run? This girl had a quite different reaction.






Cowering Before Dragons


The dragon raised his scrawny neck,
Tilted his eyes with their golden flecks,
And peered myoptically upon me.
My first thought was that I'd like to flee,
But I couldn't 'cause my foot was stuck
In the bottom of the cavern's muck!

He wagged his head and rolled his eyes.
I tugged at my foot for several tries.
He studied me with his toad-like glare.
I wanted to tell him it's rude to stare,
But his tongue dripped green saliva slime,
So, I wasn't sure it was a real good time.

"Please, Mr. Dragon just let me go.
I promise I'm really not your foe."
I never found out if dragons hear.
He never even tried to ease my fear!
He opened his mouth to breathe out fire;
I was sure it would be my funeral pyre.

That was bad, but things got worse.
I moved my hand down into my purse.
Then, I cringed back in sudden fright.
For I'd just seen a more terrible sight!
The saliva slime had begun to bubble:
Acid! I was in increasing trouble!

But even worse, as I edged back-
This reptilian serpent had awful plaque!
A toothbrush was what he desperately needed;
But any dentist would soon be deleted.
I should have felt sad ... but his breath on my face,
Forced me to spray him with a can of mace!

I never meant to really hurt him
I sure didn't do it on a whim.
And I hated to hear him whimper like that,
So I calmed him down and gave him a pat.
I tucked him in bed and read him to sleep.
Then I tip-toed away beyond his heap.

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         The following tale is about a stuffed animal who becomes real. Sounds like the Velveteen Rabbit, doesn’t it? That’s one of my favorite books. I hope you get to read that, but I think you’ll see that this story is very different than the Velveteen Rabbit.

Being Real

I’m not a sentimental person. I hate collecting things. I don’t display glass dolls, or plates that lean, or hang fragile stained-glass butterflies from my window ledge.

So why did I pick up the bear? That was different. He had lost eyes. I don’t mean he’d lost his eyes – I mean his eyes were lonely, and he made me recall my favorite book, The Velveteen Rabbit. The teddy had been loved, you could see it. Someone hadn’t wanted to give him up. And he hadn’t wanted to leave.

Let me backtrack. I was on my weekly pilgrimage to the thrift store. My arms were filled with more books than I could carry. I was balancing, juggling, and attempting to make it to the counter without dropping the whole load of them, when the teddy – the one with the patchwork quilt material for fur, stopped me. He was crying.

Yes, I heard him. The store was silent. No music was playing. No voices were speaking. There was only the teddy.

I plopped my load down on the counter. Two of the books spilled over the top and landed on the floor on the opposite side. I couldn’t do anything about it. My hands were already reaching for the teddy.

How did he end up in my arms? I don't know exactly. My only daughter was grown, and she would have laughed at such a shabby thing. But, I couldn’t put him down. He was clinging to me, scared and hysterical.

The clerk returned. She reached over and picked up the books that had fallen. I apologized. She shrugged in reply and rang up my books. “$18,” she said, “and that doll?”

"A teddy,” I told her.

“Yeah, whatever.” The girl added it. Her gum cracked loudly as she rang up fifty cents. “You want it in a bag?”

“No, he ...” I stopped. It was crazy to be clinging to a toy. The cashier rolled her eyes and bagged my books.

I handed her a twenty, collected the change, and my two bags of books, and then, still clutching the teddy, I left the store.

Spring was in the air -- a typical January day in Southern California. I carted the books to my car and tossed them into the trunk. Then I paused. Shaking my head at my silliness, I loaded the teddy on the seat beside me, and drove home.

I had groceries to unload and books to shelve. I was thumbing through an almost new copy of Andre Norton's Voorloper that I had just found at the thrift store, when I remembered the teddy. I set the book down and went out to bring in my new arrival.

I lifted him out of the car and brought him inside. He was just a pink and blue patchwork bear. I wondered what had made me fantasize about him in the store. I placed the little guy next to the other bear a friend had given me. I needed neither of them. Maybe next Christmas I'd donate them to charity.

Yet the months passed and so did Christmas. Then another and another. Cleaning the entryway one day, I picked up the bear, and his arms hugged me. I swear he wiggled closer. It was an automatic reaction to hug him back. Rationality told me that I was imagining things. I put him down and forgot about it.

That Christmas I readied donations. The two teddy bears were almost into the bag when I heard tears. I shook my head. I blinked my eyes. Then I sat down and stared at the patchwork teddy.

A section of material was coming unsewed. The area where his eyes should be was starting to fray. He was a neglected bear, no longer fit to be donated.

“Oh, bear,” I said, “What should I do with you?”

“Just love me,” said a tiny voice.

I almost dropped him; I was so surprised.

Instead I turned him over, searching for the button or knob which had brought forth that noise. There was none -- nor places for batteries. The teddy was soft and squishy everywhere.

I don’t know why the compulsion came over me, but I went to a yardage store that day. I bought some patches in pinks and blues, and I sewed Teddy a brand new covering. Two little buttons in sky blue, with dark blue centers became his eyes, and a vest with matching buttons added to his look. I placed him back on the entryway chair, and once more I forgot about Teddy.

Years went by, and my granddaughter came visiting from another state. She was a bouncy little four-year-old, full of smiles. “How beautiful she was,” is all I could say, and I kept staring at her in amazement because she looked so much like my daughter had at that age.

Little Susy kissed me and laughed, but her eyes had found my teddy. She oohed when she saw him just sitting there. Her hands stretched out, and I think so did Teddy’s, and the two fast became friends.

Little Susy left with Teddy. I miss them both. But I’m positive the bear's no longer crying. I can see the two of them playing together, drinking tea out of miniature cups. I hope Susy likes dressing him with the clothes I sent her. Teddy will soon have a new hat, vests, and pants.

Was Teddy magical? That’s a question I ask myself at times as I sit in the chair in the entryway.

Yes, I think he was. You see, Teddy was real just like the Velveteen Rabbit, but I don’t think that the author got her story right. Being real is not about hopping away into the woods on rabbit legs. I think being real is about finding someone who loves you and loving them just as much in return.


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         I wrote several poems about monsters. I wrote about a toothbrush that causes me to have a phobia. Do you know what a phobia is? It’s just a fancy word for fear, and no, I’m not really afraid of my toothbrush, but it was fun to pretend I was.

My Phobia Acrostic

Personally, I think toothbrushes are quite hairy-looking.

Have you ever dreamed about them chasing you in the night?

Out into the street, running down the highway, they scream,


“Brush with me, brush with me. Feed me toothpaste.”

I wake in the morning, drenched with my fear and dread.

And the moment I go to wash my face, there it sits,

Saying, “Brush with me. Feed me my toothpaste!” Ack!!!!!!


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         This poem is about the kitchen. Did you know there could be monsters in a kitchen? Use your imagination, and there can be monsters everywhere. What's that on your arms? (Of course, those are only freckles! Ha! Ha!)

(I am brave and daring, but my cooking is usually rather an odd adventure.)

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Kitchen Queen

In the depths of my kitchen lives a jungle of pots.

I wade through them, pulling back spatulas,

Weaving in and out of pot holders and sponges.

At times, I must crawl through the forks and the spoons,

But always I'm wary of knives, for they bite.

I kick at the cookbooks, I toss dirty plates to the side,

And still I tread on; mighty queen of the jungle am I.


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         And then, I wrote about monsters having a party. Don’t you think they deserve one? I like parties, so why shouldn’t monsters?

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The Ball

The hairy, scary monster is dancing at the ball.
He’s partnered with a lovely surfing Barbie doll.
Across the way, Frankenstein attempts to do the bop,
While waltzing most sedately with his pretty mom and pop.
Barnie’s all dressed up with his halo and purple wings,
Tap dancing with an angel doing seventeen hand springs.
The band plays loudly with some forks and tiny, golden spoons,
And Godzilla croons quite sweetly with two silvery baboons.
King Kong stands in the corner, laughing with five clowns,
And G.I. Joe, up on stage is hanging upside down.
I wish that I could join them; they’re having so much fun.
But it’s sadly almost bedtime, and my homework’s still not done.

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NOTE:
Barbie, King Kong, G.I. Joe, Godzilla, and Barnie are all registered trademarks. The symbol was left off for the flow of the poem.

Frankenstein is copywrited, and the symbol was left off for the flow of the poem.

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         This story/poem got even sillier. A girl reads different books. Each time she reads a story, the animals in the books come to life. She has a terrible time, cleaning them up and keeping them from fighting.

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Silly Sammy

Silly little Sammy read a very scary book

Full of creepy monsters that got her kind of shook.

She put away her book and got a second one.

It had too many tigers, and it wasn’t any fun.

She exchanged the book of tigers for one on baby cats,

But all the little kitties changed to funny bats.

The baby bats kept flying up and down her room.

So Sammy went and got her mother’s skinny, little broom.

She swept those flying bats outside the backyard door.

But when she turned to look, there were tigers on the floor.

The tigers started chasing the monsters, bats and cats.

But Sammy didn’t care. She read a book on rats.

The tigers then were fighting the monsters and the bats.

The cats began a battle with the pages full of rats.

Silly Sammy closed her books, and put them all away.

She'd had enough of critters to last her all the day.


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         But of all my poems, this one is the absolute silliest. A child turns a moon into a banana cream pie! He must be really hungry, I think.

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NOTE: The following is called an Englyn Unodl Crwc.
That is a special kind of short rhyming poem
from Wales, part of the United Kingdom.


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                   A round banana cream pie

                   Dangles closely in the sky.

                   I keep wishing I could fly through the air

                   And taste it; I shall. Goodbye.

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         Teens:Ok, all those poems and tales above should give you a chuckle, but this one is especially written for you. Imagine the day has come when you get to go away and live at college. What fun, what freedom, what delight to be at the mercy of a roommate! Ack!

         What would you do if you came home from classes and found that your friend had planned a surprise birthday party, and your parents were coming over for a visit, and . . . a ghost showed up to party with you? (By the way, this story needs a chapter two. What happens next? I hope you write it. I can't wait to see how it all turns out!)

It Would Have Been Cool, But . . .

Rickie hung the last of the silver and black helium balloons. With the night lights glowing from each floor outlet, the ceiling and lamp bulbs replaced with black ones, and the crepe paper streamers entwined with fake black widow spiders, the dorm room had taken on the atmosphere of a haunted house, or at least a Halloween party. But Sam’s birthday was in January, so no one would be expecting to walk through spider webs and black confetti. Rickie guffawed, thinking about all the other surprises.

“This party’s going to be so cool,” Rickie told Ebony, Sam’s cat. Ebony blinked two huge green eyes, eyes that looked like an owl’s ----- or worse.

Sam was the first to arrive. He walked through the spider web and screeched most delightfully.

“Happy birthday!” Rickie called out.

Sam blinked. His eyes looked so much like his cat’s, Rickie took a step backward.

“Are you surprised?” Rickie questioned him.

“What are you doing? What is all this?” Sam was staring around the room, his face pale and slightly green.

“Why it’s your birthday. I’m throwing you a party, with a cake and everything – see it sitting on the table! I was going to put a picture of Ebony on it, but I decided you’d probably like a Dracula better, so . . .”

“Dracula? Oh, no!”

Sam took a step toward the cake, but then the doorbell rang. He froze and stared at the door, his face so pale, it was ghostly.

“See, there’s your guests. I thought it’d be cool if I reversed the surprise. I knew you’d want to see everyone come through the spider webs and scream.”

Rickie, his smile broadening, turned towards the door and yelled, “Come, in!”

“No!” cried Sam, his hand outstretched as if he could halt what was about to happen.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” screamed a high-pitched woman’s voice. Behind her a man called out, “What in . . . What is all this?”

Sam’s parents stood in the doorway, their face, hair, and clothes covered in spiderwebs and black confetti.

“What is going on here?” Sam’s father bellowed out.

Sam’s mother was silent, her eyes were busy surveying the room: the black and silver balloons and crepe paper streamers, the pictures of vampires and werewolves on the wall, the cherry red vampire teeth that were sitting in a bowl ready to be worn.

“It’s my fault,” Rickie called out, his voice cracking. “I can explain everything."

It was good Rickie had done the volunteering, because at that moment the naked woman who, hearing all the chatter had decided it was time to pop out and say, "Happy Birthday," did so.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh," Sam said, just before he fainted.

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         Teens: This fantasy piece is actually a letter. It is a letter of resignation – that’s when someone quits a job. Doesn’t sound much like fantasy does it? . . . except that this letter was written by my coffee pot . . .

Teens,

You may not be a coffee drinker. Perhaps you'd like to write a letter of resignation from the refrigerator or the vacuum cleaner. I bet the car would have lots to say. What would your stereo say or your computer? I'd love to hear your letters . . .



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                                                           February 7, 2004 8:00 PM



Dear Sir and Madame,

          I have decided to hand in my resignation. I have tolerated all that I can, and you have with this last step, gone beyond what I can accept.

          Every day, week after week, I burbed, regurgitated, and issued fresh coffee. I didn’t mind heating the cold water you placed inside me. It is good to feel needed, sometimes. The coffee that you fed me was often of inferior quality. (I very much prefer Starbucks, but I understand, if price is prohibitive, that you cannot serve the best every day.) Yet still, I did my best. I steamed, I filtered, I pushed the hot, bubbly brew down into the pot for you.

          There were times when I was quite frustrated. I can never forgive you for walking away with my belly full, and yet you turned off the lights, locked the door, and deserted me. Do you know how that feels? All day long I brewed and brewed over why you'd abandoned me. I thought it was because I was not as good as I used to be. I feared that I was getting old. I sat there, acid-stomach, eating at my glass, wondering, worrying. The day was long. The sun set, the night approached, and still you did not return to do the simple things that one does for a friend.

          Churning with the stress, caffeine-high with all eight cups inside me, I steamed. My stomach lining was etched with black by the time you finally arrived home. The lights went on, but still you ignored me, puttering about the kitchen as if I were undeserving of even a single glance. I shone my light brighter than it has ever been to catch your attention. I blared the red of warning. Yet, as if my life were of no consequences to you, you continued to ignore me.

          Your abuse and neglect, I suppose could be tolerated. We machines must accept our role in life, down-trodden citizens as we are with no rights, no vote, no choice in the selection of coffees ... yet, I was crushed. I had believed that you were different. The pain of my anguish almost blew my fuse, but I remained quiet as was my humble place.

          It wasn’t until the darkness was like mocoa-flavored Columbian and the moon, light as creamer, shone through the window, that you finally condescended to look at me and tend to my needs.

         Oh, woe is me. My dainty glass housing -- stained like false teeth. I cringed with the embarrassment of it, yet carelessly you rinsed me out, not even scrubbing where it itched so badly.

          My temper flared then, but like a good servant, I continued to supply your need. Cup after cup I dripped for you, without thanks or tribute or salute. But last night was the last straw. I am finished. I am on strike. Do you hear?

          When you de-boxed that impudent upstart, that health food guru that now sits next to me -- that was it! I cannot take one more insult! If you think that I will continue to make your coffee in the morning with that tea maker sitting beside me, you are absolutely mistaken. I will not.

          As of this moment, my service to you is at an end. There will be no more Folgers, no Starbucks, not even that disgusting generic brand coffee, in your mug tomorrow. I quit.

Sincerely,
Mr. Coffee Pot

PS
You are welcome to drink instant
in the morning, but try not to shudder
too loudly because tomorrow morning
I shall be sleeping late.



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         This one is for everyone: It's a zany poem that tells about things stranger than strange. It's about getting Seussified. I’m not sure what that means, but I think that’s when all the Cat and the Hat books creep into your life and take over . . .

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I Got Seussified at School One Day

My teacher said that I had to stop rhyming
But I couldn’t do that, unless I was miming.
So what I could I do? What could I try?
My teacher was sad; she started to cry.
Perhaps chewing gum, my words would not rhyme.
I knew I must do that. I’d chew it big time!
But bubblegum is out. The school won’t allow it.
No Chiclets ® in school without a permit.
But that’s the solution! I’ll just get a note.

I went to the office, but I found there a goat.
“Where is the principal?” I called and I called.
The goat wouldn’t answer, just pulled up his shawl.
So I went to the nurse and knocked on her door,
But the nurse had changed too -- into a gray colored boar.
I left it behind and went off to the lunchroom.
But all the cooks had become large brown mushrooms.
They danced all about and looked very sweet.
They offered me milk and cookies to eat.
“You don’t understand, it’s urgent you see.”
I said it five times and then twenty-three.
The stress of the morning was making me ill.
I returned to my classroom and found it an anthill.
This day had progressed from sickly to sicker.
I didn’t believe things could get any thicker.
But they did as I watched; they got snicker and slicker.
So I picked up my lunch pail and walked to the bench.
I ate up my sandwich, every bit, every inch.

Then my teacher came out and said, “All right.
I wish you’d stop rhyming, but I don’t want to fight.
You may recite me your sad, bad, dad, keypad,
If only you’ll return and stop being mad.”
Well, I wasn’t so angry, I started to say,
But it was time for recess, and I wanted to play.
So I zipped up my mouth and nodded my head,
And tried not to look at her new second head.

         Teens: For those of you who like technology, this is an impossible story. It's supposed to be a fantasy because computers really can't do what this one does. This computer learns to write limericks. (Have you ever written them? They're a must for St. Patrick's Day: There once was a ... Well, you'll see when you read the story.

         Anyway, this computer not only learns to write limericks, he writes good ones and then laughs at them! (Warning: this is a romance. Can you take it?)

STATIC

The Irish Computer  (E) What if you could teach a computer to have a sense of humor? #574897 by Shaara

         For those of you enjoying the romance, I have another one. This one is about Little Miss Muffet who falls in love with an evil elf. (It's ok, though because in the end he turns into a good elf, or at least he's learning to be one.)

Invalid Item  This item number is not valid. #764003 by Not Available.

         Ok, I’ve avoided science fiction for this whole month's edition, but I just have to slip at least one sci/fi into my selections, don’t I? The following story is about how animals save the earth from aliens.

The Farm  () Aliens take over a farm and want to know if humans are treating the animals well. #712599 by Shaara

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I think elves are little guys who like to help you out,
But if you want, they’re big as trees, of that I have no doubt.
Unicorns are usually white, but polka dots look great,
With a silver mane, pinkish-orange, curly, fringed or straight.
The dinosaurs can come to life and gobble up your books
Or friends from outer space can land and teach you how to cook.
It doesn’t matter what you choose, adventure’s all around.
So come on board and take a flight.
We’re the Outer Space Bound.



          Sorry, I don't have a magic wand, and my face is not a cool shade of alien green, but I smile lots and love to dream, and this is who I am - a teacher, a mother, and a poet-author.



Smiles until next time,
Shaara