I decided to enter a poetry contest. But I didn’t realize this might become a team effort.

 

My wife got involved. And this made the process of entering . . .

 

 

A Contest To Remember

 

As I sat in front of my computer preparing to enter a poetry contest,

     my wife came into my den—my creative home.

She asked what I was doing and I said I was trying to select one

     of five contest categories in which to write a poem.

 

The first, “What Money Can’t Buy,” I told her made me think of things

     such as peace of mind, happiness, and living a loving life together.

She looked me straight in the eye and, with a wry smile, stated,

     “If you purchase the expensive ring I desire, you’d capture my heart forever.”

 

I took a deep breath before announcing the second category,

     “Unbelievable But True,” which seemed like a provocative topic 

     to address.

“As an example, my meeting you through a dating website was unbelievable, 

     but I never expected it would lead to a lasting relationship,” I must confess.

 

Before she could comment, I blurted out the third category, “A Very

     Special Year,” which got my heart pounding.

But then she rattled off a list of what should happen, including winning

     the lottery, refurnishing the house, and becoming famous, all quite

     astounding.

 

She looked over my shoulder and saw the fourth category jumping

     off the screen—“Reaching For The Stars”—something to aim

     for in life.

I said, “This is where I can dream of exciting goals to attain—retiring

     early, traveling the world, and not always having to please my wife.” 

 

She glared at me and commented, “I see the last category, ‘My Most 

     Embarrassing Moment,’ will make you expose something in your

     past you’ve been hiding from me.”

With a grin on my face, I replied, “I guess this is one category

     I’m not going to select for there are certain things in my past,

     I don’t want you see.”

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

At times, we may be forced to deviate from the route leading to our destination. This can be troubling.

 

We have to watch where we’re going and pay attention to . . .

 

 

A Fork In The Road

 

We drove down Highway 195 on our way to Bridgerton State Park

     to celebrate the end of our summer vacation.

Our kids, Miller, six, and Sarah, eight, were out of control—

     yelling at each other and showing signs of frustration.

 

Two hours in the car had taken its toll on them,

     but this was where Teri and I had celebrated our first anniversary

     and we wanted to revisit the scene.

We hadn’t been back in years, but today was the perfect day,

     sunny and warm, to see if the picturesque park was still pristine.

 

Teri buried her nose in the novel she’d been reading at home

     and didn’t pay much attention to the road ahead.

So I frightened her when I yelled, out, “Oh, no!

     They’re doing construction, the road is closed,

     and we need to take the detour instead.”

 

“You’re not serious, Eddie? This could take us out of our way

     and delay our arrival today.”

“Well, do you have another idea—one that would keep us on track?”

     I asked. “Come on, what do you have to say?”

 

She didn’t answer and then Miller whined, “I’m hungry.

     I haven’t eaten anything since we left the house.”

“Well, reach over and get the bag behind your seat. Mom packed

     goodies for the trip. See what you can find, my little ‘mouse.’”

 

“I’m not a mouse, Daddy. I’m a roaring lion who wants to eat

     everything in sight.”

“Okay, but for now you’ll just have to be satisfied with what you find

     in the bag. Is that all right?”

 

An earsplitting sound came from deep inside him, as he said,

     “I’ll eat anything I can with the ‘Fork in the Road.’” 

His statement came out with such force, it made me shake,

     and I felt I might explode.

 

Had someone dropped silverware on the highway? I thought.

     Then what I saw blew me away.

A kitchen fork, standing under the stop sign in the road,

     seemed to be commanding us to stop and stay.

 

But then things got weird, as Sarah blurted, “Mommy, Daddy,

     look behind the fork. What do you see?”

Oh, my God! An army of cutlery stood at attention,

     armed and ready to move in our direction. Were we history?

 

Then without warning, all four car doors swung open,

     tossing us out of the car onto the ground.

The fork looked at its troops, shook in anticipation

     of its wonderful find, and motioned to them to gather around.

 

Not knowing what would happen next, we witnessed

     the strangest thing—salad and soup, meat and potatoes,

     and veggies galore fell from the heavens above.

I looked at my watch. It was dinnertime. The silverware danced

     and offered their service in helping us eat,

     in a momentous gesture of love.

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Do you remember the song, “Growing Up Is Hard To Do?” Well, that describes my life.

 

My mother was in control. She thought I needed therapy, as you will see in . . .

 

 

Busted

 

Growing up

I didn’t know

how to please

my mother,

and this

made her

quite disgusted.

She gave me

a hard time,

criticized

my every move,

and told me

I was maladjusted.

 

She took me

to a therapist

and directed me

to do

what he said,

as she’d known him

for years

and considered him

a man

to be trusted.

So I worked hard

to become

the person

I thought

I should be—

a young man

who did

everything right,

one who

was well adjusted.

 

Under his direction,

he twisted

my mind

in ways

I couldn’t

have imagined—         

the object

of his efforts

to make sure

I was readjusted.

He made me

miserable

in ways

I hadn’t expected

and I couldn’t believe

my mother felt

with my future

he should be entrusted. 

 

One day

he asked

me questions

that made

my head spin

and I became     

overwhelmed

and flustered.

I couldn’t

understand why

I was here

and felt

his actions         

made him someone

who should

be mistrusted.

 

Not wanting

to continue

my session

with him,

I stood up

and headed       

toward the door,

with the courage

I’d mustered.

Then something

weird happened,

as he spun

out of control

and blustered,

 

“My being

your therapist

is all

your mother’s fault,

for she

encouraged our affair,

and since then

for her

I’ve lusted.”

Hearing

his words,

I turned,

smiled,

and said,

“I’ve recorded this

on my phone,

to share,

with the authorities,

so now

my dear therapist,

you’re busted.”

 

“But you can’t

do that,

my son.

I told her

this

should’ve come out

sooner,

but she insisted

that the past

be put behind us,

and I did

as she instructed.”

“You’re telling me

it was my mother

who made you

do this,

and you’re saying

I’m your son.

This is absurd.

I can’t trust

either one of you.

So you’re both

busted.”

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.