Under the Umbrella of Paradise

We left the tropics at the end of March,

Lush greenness embedded in our minds.

The swaying palms and the flowering shrubs

Showing colors of all kinds.

As we traveled north the colors changed,

From Kelly Green to Forest.

Higher elevations brought changes as we drove,

We began seeing branches at their barest.

The Howler Monkey, how they cry!

With their screaming growls racing through the sky,

Like a charge from the light brigade.

The sound is very loud,

And they seem pretty proud,

Of the fact that they can be heard for miles.

We have two friends who are always ready to help,

Whenever they are needed.

Knowledgeable and direction oriented,

Their advice is always heeded.

They work tirelessly and endlessly,

Until the work is done.

And my trying to keep up with their amazing pace,

Is a battle I have not won.

It’s early Sunday morning. I am alone on my porch at my house because my husband is traveling and won’t be back for two more days.

It’s very still out here. The village we live in has not awakened.

We hopped in our golf cart and went for a ride.

Decided to see the sea since it was high tide.

When we arrived, it was windy as heck,

Which did keep the skeeters from nibbling my neck.

We brought cocktails for our beachside happy hour,

And a bowl of popcorn that we could devour.

But when we started eating our buttery delights

Before getting to our mouths, the corn took off in flight.

Some friends walked by our garden gate and stopped to exclaim,

“Come look at this spider’s web!” Their tone had no disdain.

A fascinating spectacle, of that, there was no doubt.

The spider had made a great big edge and began to fill it out.

Traveling with our RV in 2004, we found PaaMul, which was an RV park in the state of Quintana Roo, Mexico. It was located south of Playa del Carmen, a small beach town that catered to tourists on the Caribbean coast of the Yucatan Peninsula. We were looking for a place to camp that would have access to a dive shop, and PaaMul fit those needs.

Ah, the chirrups, tweets, whistles, and trills,

Which come from such tiny little bills,

That I hear each morn when I arise

The musical conversations I apprize,

And value each, and every note.

I saw a man running, early New Year’s Day.

I grinned at his determination,

to start his goals with intention,

But wondered if they would continue ‘til May.

The problems with resolutions are not the intent.

It’s when we let life get in the way

to slow down our resolve to pay

For those sins we fall back on to vent.

Mistletoe = kissing. That's how I associate the parasitic plant that is oftentimes hung above a doorway during the holidays. But what is the true history of it? Research told me that there were several theories about how mistletoe became associated with kissing.