August 25: Sleeping In, Recuperation, Classic Saint Marty

I slept in this morning until around 10:30 a.m.  I haven't slept that late in years.  My life doesn't allow me that luxury.  However, with the pain medication, I just couldn't rouse myself any earlier.  When I finally climbed out of bed, I felt like I was moving through oatmeal.  I have an inkling I'm not going to be up and at 'em quite I quickly as I was planning.

Today, I have a Classic Saint Marty from September 9, 2011.  It's about kids going back to school and mythology and religion.  You know, the usual.  Hope you enjoy it.

Saint Marty's going to find a recliner and take a nap now.

September 9:  Prize-Winning Poem

Below you will find the poem I wrote based on Wonder Twin's winning suggestion for the "Name the Poem" contest.  Wonder Twin's winning entry was "jealousy/envy," something she thinks I know a little bit about.  Aside from this poem, of which she will receive a special, autographed copy, Wonder Twin will also receive the saint holy card scanned in below.  Saint Gianna Beretta Molla is known as the Martyr of Maternal Love.

Congratulations, again, Wonder Twin

If you are jealous of these prizes, you should have entered the contest.  It's your own fault.  However, despair not.  Just stay tuned to this blog for my next contest.  I'll try to up the stakes even more.  I'm a big believer in friendly and/or cutthroat competition.

Saint Marty presents Wonder Twin's poem...

The Miracle of the Bus

My son stands curbside, coiled tight.  Waits for the bus to appear in the morning light like some mythic mammal with beaver fur, kangaroo tail, pelican mouth.  He cocks his head, listens for the stampede of diesel in the air.  Distant at first.  The way, I'm sure, buffalo herds sounded in the Old West.  Tremor.  Tremble.  Rumble.  Roar.  Avalanche of back and horn and hoof.  When it appears at the end of the street, my son knows a miracle is about to happen.  He jumps, claps.  If he had palm fronds, he'd be waving them, singing hosannas with the rocks and trees.  The bus groans to a stop.  Its door exhales, opens.  My son ascends the steps.  Slow.  Heracles climbing to Olympus, joining the other gods in this yellow chariot.  The door sighs.  Closes.  The bus coughs, moves off into the blue air, leaving me, mere mortal, jealous, hungry for the ambrosia of chalk and crayon and recess.