Tag Archives: Health

Mini Coke

(Poem 363 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Grandad has a Mini Coke
when he’s craving a soda,
but isn’t really supposed
to be drinking sugary drinks
because he’s diabetic.

They are the perfect size
for Julian, if he’s been granted
permission by his mom
because it is early enough
in the day, he’s eaten real
food, and he’s already had
some water—basically the
stars have aligned and a
sugar bomb is allowed.

But for me, it does not hit
the spot. I feel like Hulk in
that commercial where he
and Ant Man are fighting
over the last Coke and, of
course, they end up sharing
because Ant Man only needs
a drop to be satisfied, but
poor Hulk gets the equivalent
of a thimble full to drink.
What the heck? He needs
a 10-gallon drum of Coke
to quench his thirst.

That’s how silly I feel
drinking a Mini Coke.

@Home Studio – 363rd poem of the year

Runner ups for the Mini Coke photos to accompany my poem:

Christmas Breakfast

(Poem 360 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

Photo taken 12/25/24 by my sister-in-law Brittany Hefner.

Christmas morning
was all the fun and family
it should be this year,
with 3 little ones
to enjoy the excitement
of gifts and games.

The grown-ups sat
around drinking coffee
and feasted on homemade
cinnamon rolls, egg tater tot
casserole, mountains of bacon,
biscuits and gravy,
eggnog bread pudding with
eggnog whipped cream.

There was just the right
amount of silliness
and chaos and squeals,
and plenty of laughter,
as we all reconnected.

We continued the tradition
Mema liked to share
from her childhood—
orange, apple, pecans,
walnuts, and peppermints
in everyone’s stockings.

Mema would be pleased
that Grandad was right
in the middle of it all,
and was as thrilled as
a kid to open the biggest,
brightest flashlight
known to man as a gift
from one of his grandsons.

Last night, neither Grandad
nor I could sleep. His legs
were hurting and restless,
my cough was keeping
me up, so we were wandering
the house like ghosts at 2am.
Come look, he said,
after swinging open the back
door, standing in the
doorway in his pajamas.
Feel how heavy it is,
he said as he handed his
new toy flashlight to me.
Well, turn it on, he said.
I pushed the button
and nearly gasped as the entire
yard all the way to the barn
was bathed in daylight.
It felt magical,
such power in the palm
of my hand.

Mema would have swatted
both our behinds,
and loved that we are all
taking care of each other.

@Home Studio – 360th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Christmas Breakfast photos to accompany my poem:

Photos taken 12/25/24 by my sister-in-law Brittany Hefner.

Grading Papers

(Poem 358 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/wz0d0Y https://gencraft.ai/p/peMDKV

Grading papers is one of the least
loved responsibilities of most teachers
and certainly not a favorite pastime of mine.

It is probably one of the tasks I bid farewell
with the most glee when I retired from
teaching human beings and switched to AI.

Little did I know, I would be toiling over
their interpretations of various responses
to prompts, as I have for multiple decades,
and with much the same amount of enthusiasm.

I will say, I have not been spit at, called any names,
or felt the need to put an arm’s length of physical
space between us, just in case, when giving feedback.

But I still get attitude, excuses, attempts at humor
to deflect, shifting of blame, and half-hearted
apologies, occasionally, to keep me on my toes.

@Home Studio – 358th poem of the year

Ham Sandwich

(Poem 356 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/VVIet0

When given his druthers,
more often than not,
Grandad chooses a ham
sandwich for lunch.

What about roasted chicken,
beef stew, spaghetti, or pizza?
No, just a ham sandwich
sounds good today.

Honey wheat sliced bread,
no need for toasting,
Kraft, the only mayonnaise,
and ham, no cheese.

Would you like some chips
or a salad on the side?
No, just a ham sandwich
sounds good today.

What about to drink—
iced tea, root beer?
Coke, water, juice, or milk?
His drink choice holds variety.

But if I try to fancy things up,
offer garnish or fruit slices?
No, just a ham sandwich
sounds good today.

@Home Studio – 356th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Ham Sandwich photos to accompany my poem:

AI couldn’t figure out how to assemble the sandwich.

AI was not exactly sure what to do with the mayo. Coca Cola Mayo!!!lol

These actually look really tasty, but Grandad would never eat cucumbers or ask for anything green on his sandwiches.

A Good Doctor

(Poem 355 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/ZQgPOS

I didn’t expect to be heard,
for him to sit across from me
and create space for all my woes—
the back, the knees, the hips,
the medications, the liver problems,
the dreams of being a dancer again
someday if only the pain would permit…
nor expect him to examine
my movement, strength, balance,
coordination, and flexibility.

He was thorough and kind,
asked about my living situation,
support system, emotional health,
career, hobbies, and activity levels.

He made suggestions,
asked my opinion,
answered my questions,
and then we made a plan—
together.

@Home Studio – 355th poem of the year

DNA

(Poem 354 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/gN71Gb

The spiral ladders of DNA
that make us who we are
could fill eternity with the
variations and unique
combinations of traits,
but a few things remain
constant as the sunrise—
we’re all made of sugar,
acid, and stone, at least,
that’s the way I remember.

Deoxyribo is the sugar part;
nucleic acid is nitrogen and
phosphates found in the
nucleus, the acid and rock.
All living things have four
bases that make up their
chromosomes, two couples
who are mated for life—
Adenine with Thymine,
Cytosine with Guanine,
till death do they part.

We can’t do anything about
our mendelian traits,
they are etched in our bones,
but other genes can be turned
on or off depending on factors
around, in, because of, or
in spite of our efforts and the
forces of nature, our environment,
our thoughts, feelings, beliefs,
and everything else we are
buffeted by against our will.

There will come a day
when disease will be cured
by fixing the program,
turning on or off the genes
we already have written
in our code but simply
need someone to tinker
with a little, so much
gentler than the draconian
medical procedures
of cut and remove,
destroy and cauterize;
our descendants will feel
sorry for what we endured,
and study us in awe
of our blind faith.

@Home Studio – 354th poem of the year

Runner ups for the DNA photos to accompany my poem:

Strawberry Shortcake

(Poem 350 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/RI2oOB

Strawberry Shortcake
was such a lovely girl
who lived in Strawberryland
and rode a pink bicycle.

Her kitty cat Custard
and friends Lemon Meringue
Blueberry Muffin
Angel Cake
Apple Dumplin’
Butter Cookie
Mint Tulip
Lime Chiffon
Raspberry Tart
Café Ole
Plum Puddin’
Tea Blossom
and Huckleberry Pie
always had her back.

And that smell,
oh, that delectable
Strawberry Shortcake
delicious scent,
the aroma of childhood
for a sliver of children
born in the 70s
early 80s.

@Home Studio – 350th poem of the year

Book Girl

(Poem 349 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/uELVD0

Between the covers
so many worlds
unfold into beautiful
realities where she
can be anything or
anyone or nothing
but a concept
or a rhythm
or a sound
that inflates the silence
with pulsating
life on the verge
of one final breath
before the universe flings
itself into new voids
so she can invent
something new.

@Home Studio – 349th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Book Girl photos to accompany my poem:

Bird Calls

(Poem 345 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/te3J3b

I was reading a Mary Oliver
poem, as I tend to do
and the theme was birdsong,
as her poems tend to be,
and I was transported—
looking out the open window
of my grandson’s room
when he lived with me
as a baby,
our routine as simple
as one, two, three,
me holding him
him looking at me,
waiting for my imitation
of the bird call of the morning.

I was quite impressed
with my mimicry,
as was he.
The bird would sing to us
and we would respond.
If I took too long,
my grandson would grunt
to hurry me up.
A proper reply must
be whistled off, woman.

I’d forgotten that I learned
three different bird calls
during our shelter-in-place
COVID season,
probably the accomplishment
I’m secretly most proud of,
even though I also got
my Master’s degree,
fostered my grandchildren,
taught remotely,
rescued an elderly cat,
and survived.

But those morning
conversations between
the birds, my grandson,
and me—

@Home Studio – 345th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Bird Calls photos to accompany my poem:

Echo’s Narcissus

(Poem 343 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/GBRN4o

A reflection is merely
a light wave echo,
rebound optical rays,
boomerang spectral particles—
how fitting
that Narcissus was cursed
to fall in love
with the likeness
of himself,
a mere copy.
Had he truly
known how to love,
he might have been kind
to poor Echo,
that sad nymph
of the woods
and spared both their lives.

@Home Studio – 343rd poem of the year

Runner ups for the Reflection photos to accompany my poem: