Let's go shopping

Funny but I'd rather buy something old and used than something brand new. Re-purposing items is a satisfying adventure for me as you will read in this poem:

Thrift Store and More

Thrift stores are addictive; it's the thrill of the find,
A bargain, a treasure, a one-of-a-kind,
I know, I'm a "thrifter"; I've got lots of spunk,
Buying what many others considered their junk,
It's nostalgic and curious to see what is there,
It's the precious reminder of grandma's old chair,
I can browse there for hours, getting lost in the past,
I take a leisurely stroll; nothing rushed, nothing fast,
I'm just looking for something; not knowing what it will be,
The surprise of it all is the best part you see,
Do I need it?  Is it useful?  Oh, probably not,
I have all I need; I have quite a lot.
It is fun; like fishing, and the reward is the catch,
Old books, glassware, random items that don't match,
Donate your old stuff to the thrift store you choose,
It's a win-win situation; you've got nothing to lose,
You may have the treasure that I'm looking for,
As I wander about in the second-hand store.

Tammy Harvey   written:  6/5/2016

Reality Check

While my postings to date have been mostly whimsical and lighthearted or nostalgic, I do on occasion write serious poems about what concerns me.  I call this a reality check.

While I don't believe the world is any more evil than it ever was, I think with the advancement of technology the perception is that it is. We now have access to the news as it happens.  Instead of the nightly news of old, we have 24-hour news channels that repetitively tell the tragedies.  Instead of waiting to read in the newspaper the next day, we have social media and the internet reporting to us. It can be overwhelming.  I think that is what prompted me to write this poem:

  I cry

I cry inside when the world news is tragic,

I cry inside for wars, poverty and black magic,

I cry inside for hatred and scorn,

I cry inside as babies have no chance to be born,

I cry inside for injustice and unfairness,

I cry inside for apathy and unawareness,

I cry for myself when others mistreat me,

I cry for myself when I let them defeat me,

I cry for myself when the words to me are harsh and unjustified,

I cry for myself when I am confused and terrified,

I cry for mercy, I cry for harmony,

I cry because I am lonely,

I cry but no tears will flow,

I cry but only my heart will know,

The sadness that cries out inside,

While holding back from others, I hide.

I hide from them the sadness I feel,

I won’t let them know it is real.

I cry.

Tammy Harvey 

written:  7/21/14 

She'll eat anything

We have had our dog Jada since she was a 4 month old pup.  Jada is a black miniature dachshund with a very loud bark. She will be 14 years old in October and has survived the ingestion of an assortment of items: underwear, money and toilet paper, to name a few favorites. This poem is reminiscent of the day she had inflamed ear flaps, and I accidentally medicated her with the wrong dose of aspirin!

The Incredible, Indestructible Jada Hound

The day I almost killed my dog,

I must admit, I was in a fog,

When I misread the dosage of the pill,

I had no idea it could make her ill,

Her ears were puffy, sore and hot,

I thought an aspirin might hit the spot,

But woe is me when I found out,

I began to holler, scream and shout:

“To the vet let’s go Go GO! “

“In the car now, don’t be slow”,

But “no, no, no” said Dad in charge,

He said the cost would be too large,

He said 12 years of life she’s had,

Her life’s been mostly good, not bad,

So let her be and take a chill,

Her stomach is like a cast iron grill,

She’s had much worse and made it through,

She will make it this time too,

She ate; she pooped; she slept quite sound,

The incredible, indestructible Jada hound!!!

She survived the overdose quite well,

She even jumps and wags her tail!!

Tammy Harvey   written:  7/24/2015

Meet Jada.  (She looks guilty of something!)

Side-tracked

If you will indulge me, I want to interject another of my writings, not a poem.

Having taught preschool for 13 years, I have had the privilege to read many books written for children.  Back in 2008, I wrote a children's book in hopes of someday publishing it. I can't seem to get that goal accomplished, but I thought I could share it here with you.

                             

                                              

               

                                         

              

              

              

                                              

             

            

           

           

           

           

Nothing runs like a Deere

Hay

Driving the tractor, cutting the hay,

Row by row, a long hard day,

Down one edge and back again,

Sweat beads forming on his skin,

Piles of golden grass laid by,

Almost done, he breathes a sigh,

Wait to dry then hitch the rake,

Windrows will be next to make,

Contoured lines and lines so neat,

The hillside’s looking mighty sweet,

The mounds of hay are ready to bale,

Oh no, can’t be!  There might be hail,

The weather can be a friend or foe,

It could pour down, you never know,

He looks up at the darkening sky,

The heavy clouds are looming by,

He prays that God will spare the rain,

His patience he must now maintain,

Then sunshine breaks through the dark sky,

The threatening weather has passed him by,

A new day dawns and all is fine,

He gets the baler and gets the twine,

Square bales fall out onto the field,

Like giant sugar cubes, great is the yield,

A harvest once again is done,

After many hours in the sun,

He is tired, but in a good way,

He is thankful for his bales of hay.

Tammy Harvey  written:  6/12/14

I have a special place in my heart for the agricultural industry, and a great respect for farmers and the farming community.
This poem is a tribute to all those who toil in their fields year after year.

Searching the shore

Many years ago I discovered a hidden treasure uncovered by the ocean waves.  What might seem a boring activity is very exhilarating when you find what you are looking for.

 Shiny Black Treasure

When I go to the beach, I could play volleyball,

I could sit by the pool and do nothing at all,

I could catch a few rays and relax on the sand,

I might even listen to my favorite band,

But that is not what I chose to do,

Oh no, not me, I am strange, it is true,

I don’t comb for seashells like most people will,

I stand in one place and stay perfectly still.

I watch and I wait for the perfect tide,

To wash in the treasure that I seek out with pride,

In the wet sand that refreshes with every swift wave,

A glistening of uncovered pieces I crave,

Small tiny black pieces that just might reveal,

The remnants of sea life I’m ready to steal,

It’s shiny and smooth and black as the night,

And I look through my sunglasses with all of my might,

Until one appears, no patience I lack,

I must grab it at once or it washes right back,

I search and I search until my eyes feel quite blind,

Yes, shark teeth, are what I am longing to find,

I spend hours and hours just hoping to see,

A bright shiny tooth to take home with me

Tammy Harvey  written: 7-20-2015

Here are examples of  shark teeth we have found.  My husband and I found the huge one at Fort Fisher, NC a few years ago.  The museum there identified it as a Megalodon  tooth.

I'm impatient and indecisive

 I am adding this bonus posting because I am impatient and indecisive on which poems to share each week.  High anxiety has plagued me most of my life.  Some of you may suffer from similar anxiety and fear.  If so, I hope this poem will help you in your struggle to put the beast (anxiety) at bay.

The Beast Within

Anxiety, a beast that makes my mind numb,

When unleashed, it’s hard to hide from,

It gnaws and gnashes at my core,

Heart-racing panic, I can’t ignore,

It wants to shake me, make me stumble,

It stalks me until I finally crumble,

Relentlessly it feeds me lies,

Worry, heartache and hopeless cries,

I want to keep it in a cage,

Never allowing its rants and rage,

It is tricky and sneaks up on me,

Forcing me to want to flee,

Flee the pain and all the fear,

Doubt and sorrow are too near,

I have to stand and face the beast,

I must rely on the very least,

The smallest mustard seed can grow,

When nurtured by the One I know,

He slays the beast when I pray,

For strength and guidance every day,

He helps me dwell among the light,

The beast loves darkness, never bright,

I put the beast back in its place,

By choosing daily to seek God’s face

Tammy Harvey   written:  8/31/2015

Look up!

We forget to look for the rainbow after the storm, literally and figuratively.
Look up! God is an awesome artist.

Color Me a Rainbow
Color me a rainbow when the sky is clear,
After storms have passed; your presence is so near,
Give me all the colors, not just one or two,
Remind me of the promise made to me by you,
Nature is your pallet and you are in control,
The sun is peeking slowly out; the brightness soothes my soul,
Your canvas is a large white and puffy cloud,
Your hand has grasped the paintbrush which sounded really loud,
A gentle breeze is cooling what was a thunderstorm,
A smooth, sweeping stroke makes perfect colors form,
First, violet, like the flower given the same name,
Then, Indigo and blue, like the oceans that you tame,
Next green like the grass, covering the ground,
Yellow is a sea of daffodils, growing all around,
Bright orange is the color of pumpkins in the fall,
And red is the sparkle of a favorite Christmas ball,
You put them all together in a beautiful array,
I think that you must know just how it makes my day,
The pot of gold is YOU, painter of the sky,
Your promises are real, may your Name be lifted high!

 
Tammy Harvey
written: 1/31/2016

Oh yes, we did

This posting is a true story poem about an activity we invented as children. Aunt Sylvia still lives on top of that hill were we ran wild and free....oh yes, we did.

Gravel Driveway

Rocky, dusty gravel driveway,
Long, steep, and rough, I might say,
My aunt's house high upon the hill,
Her mailbox at the bottom still,
When we were young, we called it fun,
To time how long it took to run,
To get the mail and back again,
Always excited to see who would win,
To you it might sound really lame,
But there was a catch to this old game,
There were no shoes allowed you see,
We ran barefooted, wild and free,
Our small brown feet were mighty tough,
Upon the gravels, sharp and rough.

written: 4/24/2016 Tammy Harvey

Throwback Thursday

Scraping Taters

Mam-maw on the back porch, concrete floor she sits,
Pan full of water, the knife she occasionally dips,
Scrape, scrape, scrape, knife blade made of steel,
Doing what she does so well, preparing for a meal,
An apron of small taters, sitting on her lap,
The sun has barely peeked above the Tennessee Cumberland Gap,
Carefully she picks one up and inspects it through her glasses,
Scrutinizing if it’s culled or if it thoroughly passes,
Getting rid of eyes, and spots and skin, she scrapes each tater,
These golden jewels she will add to green beans, a little later,
Giving attention to detail, her nimble fingers toil,
These taters she planted, raised and dug right from her own rich soil,
I watch her work so carefully, as I peer out the back screened door,
I’m just a child but I already know; she is my pride and joy.

written: 1/31/2016 Tammy Harvey
Me and Mam-maw in July 2006:




Many of my poems are about my childhood days and a few specifically about my Mam-maw Langston. She died in 2007 at the age of 97. I am honoring her memory by posting "Scraping Taters".
(For those of you who don't speak southern, a "tater" is a potato.)

Third time is a charm

It is said that third time is a charm. With that thought in mind, I chose "Southern Charm" as my third posting. This poem is one of my most recent writings, and this is the time of year to partake of that charm.

 Southern Charm

 On the edge of summertime when the weather is clear,
 Thousands of small petals are bursting forth in a sphere,
 New broad green leaves are fresh and tender,
 While old woody stems snap with brittle surrender,
 The size of melons, fluffy and light,
 Mesmerizing blooms, a magnificent sight,
 Beautifully displayed in soft pink or soft blue,
 A hydrangea bush is really quite thrilling to view,
 Blooming in harmony with the magnolia tree,
 Hydrangeas have southern charm, wouldn't you agree?

 Tammy Harvey written 6/2/2016

Okay, I'll tell you now

The Number Three
Lucky number, so they say,

I have to admit, sure seems that way,
The number closest to my heart,
The number present from the start,
It is odd… just like me,
Drum roll please, the number is… three,
Three, thirty-three to be precise,
The time I was born, isn’t that nice?
My mother arrived Nineteen thirty-three,
So what? You may say, Fiddle-dee-dee,
Well, there is more than you have heard,
And it is wonderfully absurd,
Just wait right now and you’ll agree,
Something is special about #“three”,
My husband and I, three sons we have had,
In ’88, ’91 and ’94, I might add,
These sons, though the spacing of them was real smart,
They are almost exactly three years apart,
Three sons and three years apart, yippee!
But that is not all, now listen to me,
Our first son was born three years after our marriage,
And thus began, the three-year heritage,
Since digital clocks have come into style,
I often will see 3:33 and I smile,
Sometimes it’s in daytime and sometimes it’s at night,
That’s right I wake up, and it gives me a fright.
What is it about this magical three?
I don’t know- it’s important to me.
Tammy Harvey
written: 6/28/14
I have chosen to allow my second post to answer the questions: What's the significance of 3:33 in my life? Why did I name my blog threethirtythreepoetry?