Saturday, January 30, 2010

Robert Frost, The Poet Who Gave My Heart Wings

The first book of poems I ever owned is a fat copy of  "The Poetry of Robert Frost".  I fell in love with him when I was about 13 years old and began memorizing his poems.   The poems below are a few of his that I know by heart and are still my favorites.  Something about these long, cold, dreary, gray Winter days always brings him to mind.

My 13 year old grandson was over last night and was complaining because his Reading teacher was making them study etymology and memorize lots of word origins.  He said it was too hard and he didn't understand it.  (This from the boy who at 7 years old could name, spell and SAY hundreds of Pokemon characters!) We had a long talk and I gave him some suggestions, like writing each word origin he had to learn ten times.  That's what I had to do in elementary school for Spelling homework, I told him.  He was horrifed.  TEN TIMES, he said, incredulous?? 

I know he watches too much TV, spends too much time texting and on his cell phone, and on the computer watching YouTube videos.  He's still young enough that he confides in me and tells me everything, so I know this stuff.... But I'm not his mother, just his Grammy, so I tried not to lay into him too much.  But when his Mom and Dad came to pick him up, I did lay into my daughter, the TEACHER.  I won't go into the gory details.  I told him I'd come to his house and tutor him if he wanted me to.  (He didn't.) 

And to think when I was 13 I was camped out at the library (which I'd walked a few miles to get to or ridden my ratty, used bicycle---I still have scars on my knee from a bicycle wreck in front of the library) scribbling down poetry from the reference books into a notebook I still have......  Ah, the good old days before we had cell phones, the Internet, computers and the world at our fingertips.  God knows how we did it having only our imaginations to lead us...

I'm not so sure things are better now, just faster...way too fast, for sure.




by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


By Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.


By Robert Frost

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

By Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.


By Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain --and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.


By Robert Frost

A tree's leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bark, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.

But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.

Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.

I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.

Leaves and bark, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued,
Leaves are all my darker mood.


Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Cigarillo by Cate Marvin from "World's Tallest Disaster"

The book from which this poem came is amazing.  Every single poem is awesome, just perfect.  I highly recommend that you buy it and devour each and every word. 

Poetry is life distilled.  It's medicine for the soul and spirit-candy.  We must buy and read poetry and support poets because this genre is suffering.  Every time I go into Books-A-Million, (our only book store now that Waldenbooks has folded) the poetry section has shrunk another five shelves.  It used to be 15 shelves, then 10 and now it's 5 measley shelves with mostly ancient poetry books from dead old men.  As often as I can, I call and order books from their store, but I'm just one lonely poetry-lover.  Wishing you sushine, poetry and inspiration. Blessings!  ~Marion

Here's the book from which the poem below came:


By Cate Marvin

The visit of a body.  Ants gathered sugar
   along the kitchen counter.  Their bounty was significant.
      But a moon ought to be red, too ripe for the sky.
         Instead, it lay a calm hand on the body.

By the door's unsealed edge, a chill found entrance.
   But a moon ought to be full.  Instead, it was half.
      It hung like a low-watt bulb, gave just enough light to read
         lips by.  Enough that it and the lit tip of the cigarillo

were all right to see the body by.  In the half light,
   the belly was clean bone almost.  The skin so young,
       I thought soprano.  Rare to have a visitor call, strange
         to be overcome.  But a moon ought to open for occasion.

Should I have called up the whole sky, interrogated
   constellations?  No, it wasn't summer enough for flowers,
      even in the sky.  But the moon was up so why
         wouldn't it attend to the evening?  So my selfishness

would have stars fly like tears from a tossing head---
   but, no, the stomach was like pearl, the bed inhabited.
      The moon should have been as wide as the eyes were blue.
         Even if I couldn't see either through the smoke

from the cigarillo, which waved gray arms like ghosts
   in the room.  I've had the sky in my grasp before, squinted
      hard to make a star shoot---but I was stunned before bareness,
         skin breathing its paleness.  If the weather were in concert,

the perfection might have been bearable.  The cigarillo's lit
   tip kissed darkness.  It was a shrill moment, the touch
      of finger to tendon.  In the yard, a leaf opened slowly.
         Sweet.  The ants took to their  path on the counter.

From:  "World's Tallest Disaster" by Cate Marvin


I don't create poetry, I create myself, for me my poems are a way to me. ~Edith Södergran


Like butterflies in Spring
Poetry awakens the Spirit,
stirs the imagination and explores
the possibilities with each stroke of its rhythmic wings.  ~Jamie Lynn Morris

Come voyeur my poems
Feel free, I feel free.  ~Carrie Latet


Friday, January 22, 2010

The Poetry of Wintrer Sky; By Dark by W. S. Merwin

Blue sky fading and clouds moving in.

I think it would be an insult to try to put too many descriptive words to these pictures.  I took them a few days ago in my front yard before a big rain storm hit. 

Oh, the clouds....the clouds, the clouds, the clouds!!!

God knows I try to throw away tin cans.  I really do.  When I open those cans of spaghetti sauce, or tomato sauce or green beans, I wash them out and try to toss them in the garbage.  But I can't.  I end up painting them and using them for my paint brushes, pens, watercolor pencils, scissors, and other assorted fun stuff.  These are just a very few of my huge collection.  I have a big basket of cans backed up for painting.  Is that recycling or am I just a hoarder?  Hmmmmm.......

This is my Muse of Writing.  She was a gift from a Florida friend and I love her a lot.  I have a piece of yellow electrical wire (my son-in-law, the electrician, gave me a part of a leftover really comes in handy) strung above my desk with inspirational stuff pinned on with tiny craft clothespins.  I ran out of space on my desk and shelves, so I took to the air above.  :-)

I bought the Pulitzer Prize winning book of poetry from which this poem comes, The Shadow of Sirius by W. S. Merwin.  It's an amazing, moving, fabulous book of poetry which I highly recommend.  And who of us hasn't known the black dog of night, age, depression, fear or despair? 




By Dark

by W. S. Merwin

When it is time I follow the black dog
into the darkness that is the mind of day

I can see nothing but the black dog
the dog I know going ahead of me

not looking back oh it is the black dog
I trust now in my turn after the years

when I had all the trust of the black dog
through an age of brightness and through shadow

on into the blindness of the black dog
where the rooms of the dark were already known

and had no fear in them for the black dog
leading me carefully up the blind stairs.

from: The Shadow of Sirius.


Saturday, January 16, 2010

Kim Addonizio, Poet Extraordinaire!

Kim Addonizio is a fantastic poet.  I love her because she was born the same year as me, yet she looks like she's ten years younger.  LOL!  You have to admire women who march to the beat of their own drummer....It's not an easy thing to do.  She also has some cool tattoos.....And, she makes a living with her poetry!!  She caught my attention with a poem in "More" magazine many years ago.  I emailed her and she emailed me back and encouraged me to write to magazine editors and suggest they put more poetry in the mags.  And I did.  The poem that introduced me to her is this one:

What Do Woman Want?
By Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

So I bought "The Poet's Companion" writtten by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux, another favorite poet of mine.  The book is awesome, just loaded with inspiration and poetry.   Here's another favorite poem by Kim:

The Divorcee and Gin
By Kim Addonizio

I love the frosted pints you come in,
and the tall bottles with their uniformed men;
the bars where you’re poured chilled
into shallow glasses, the taste of drowned olives,
and the scrawled benches where I see you
passed impatiently from one mouth
to another, the bag twisted tight around
your neck, the hand that holds you
shaking a little from its need
which is the true source of desire, God, I love
what you do to me at night when we’re alone,
how you wait for me to take you into me
until I’m so confused with you I can’t
stand up anymore. I know you want me
helpless, each cell whimpering, and I give
you that, letting you have me just the way
you like it. And when you’re finished
you turn your face to the wall while I curl
around you again, and enter another morning
with aspirin and the useless ache
that comes from loving, too well,
those who, under the guise of pleasure,
destroy everything they touch.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Kim's books of poetry are "Lucifer at the Starlight", "Tell Me", 'What is This Thing Called Love", and "My Dreams Out in the Street".  She also co-authored this collection of writings by famous authors about tattoos (and it's an amazing book!)  "Dorothy Parker's Elbow:  Writers on Tattoos and Tattoos on Writers".  Her latest book on the craft of writing poetry is the magnificent book: "Ordinary Genius, A Guide for the Poet Within".  If you're looking for some awesome poetry, or for some advice on the craft of writing poetry, Kim will not disappoint you.

I have my 13 year old grandson, Taylor, over so I have to make pancakes, then get dressed to go to the mall with him to buy Manga books.  (He's a bookaholic like me.)  It's a cold, dreary and rainy day here in swamp country, so the mall will be a bright, happy place...well, the book store will be. 

Happy Saturday, everyone!!

Love & Blessings, 

~*~ Marion ~*~


"Lord! when you sell a man a book you don't sell just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue - you sell him a whole new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by night - there's all heaven and earth in a book, a real book."   ~Christopher Morley


"Books can be dangerous. The best ones should be labeled "This could change your life." ~Helen Exley


Browsing the dim back corner
Of a musty antique shop
Opened an old book of poetry
Angels flew out from the pages
I caught the whiff of a soul
The ink seemed fresh as today
Was that voices whispering?
The tree of the paper still grows.

~Pixie Foudre


"You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you."  ~Joseph Joubert

Thursday, January 14, 2010

House, Garden, Madness by Cate Marvin from "World's Tallest Disaster"

A photo of one of my decoupaged, decorated journals.


Buy poetry and support new poets!!  This is an amazing poet and a fabulous book of poems!


House, Garden, Madness
By Cate Marvin

Meeting his mouth made it so I had house again.
I called him garden and drew him so, grew
his long lashes like grasses so I could comb
them with my stare.  Some evenings a low cloud
would arrive, hang its anxiety over the yard.

Having his mouth at mine again gave me back
home.  The walls painted themselves blue
flowers grew larger than my head, stared
at me with wide eyes through the windows.
I was surrounded.  A cloud stretched gray arms.

His mouth and mine again built something back
up with heat.  The house was home again, wherever
I lived.  The flowers grew fat, fed on weeds
around them.  Ladybugs tucked their red luck
beneath petals' chins.  The cloud came home again.

His eyes were closed but mine kept swinging open.
I saw him in the garden, surrounded by its light.
The flowers cut their own stalks, handed themselves
over to him in bunches.  He kissed their bouquets,
and petals raptured.  A cloud lowered, dark with fury.

I pressed my mouth to palm, closed my eyes
to find the garden, then saw:  window shut in fright,
roots drowned, flower stalks broken, their heads dead
in puddles.  Startled, I looked around.  The cloud
descended, prepared to hemorrhage in my arms.

From:  "Poetry Daily", page 173
first published in The Paris Review, no. 158, Spring, Summer 2001
also from "World's Tallest Disaster" by Cate Marvin

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

On the Subject of Poetry by W. S. Merwin

This window was created by my talented and beautiful daughter, April, who is an artist and a high school art teacher. It's faux stained glass made with tissue paper and glue on an old, recycled window.  The woman is sitting cross-legged and reading a book.  She gave me this masterpiece of art for Christmas year before last.  We LOVE homemade gifts at our house!!


On the Subject of Poetry

By W. S. Merwin

I do not understand the world, Father.
By the millpond at the end of the garden
There is a man who slouches listening
To the wheel revolving in the stream, only
There is no wheel there to revolve.

He sits in the end of March, but he sits also
In the end of the garden; his hands are in
His pockets. It is not expectation
On which he is intent, nor yesterday
To which he listens. It is a wheel turning.

When I speak, Father, it is the world
That I must mention. He does not move
His feet nor so much as raise his head
For fear he should disturb the sound he hears
Like a pain without a cry, where he listens.

I do not think I am fond, Father,
Of the way in which always before he listens
He prepares himself by listening. It is
Unequal, Father, like the reason
For which the wheel turns, though there is no wheel.

I speak of him, Father, because he is
There with his hands in his pockets, in the end
Of the garden listening to the turning
Wheel that is not there, but it is the world,
Father, that I do not understand.


I got a new book of poems by W. S. Merwin recently.  I'd never read his poems before and am now in the throes of new poet-love! 

Love & Blessings,

~*~ Marion ~*~

PS:  Please join me in praying for the people of Haiti who are devastated by a recent earthquake.  If you are able, please give to your local relief agency.  Thank you...

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Her Blood is Gold by Lara Owen

I mentioned this fabulous book in my last post and that it was out of print.  I was pleasantly surprised when Ms. Owen read my post, and in her comment told me that her amazing book is back in print!  I can't tell you all how happy I am to hear this.  This is one of the most life-affirming, positive books for and about women that I have ever read.  Every girl and woman should read it.  Too often young girls lose their power when they reach puberty and begin menstruating.  This book celebrates us.  Oh, how I wish I'd had this book when I was eleven years old and scared to death about what was happening to my body.  My mother called it the curse, as probably did her mother.  It is not a curse.  It is a blessing and it is a gift and this book celebrates the power of our blood.  Here is the blurb from

"We menstruate more now than at any time in human history. Girls are starting to menstruate earlier due to protein-rich diets and hormones in food; women are less likely to die young; we have fewer children and therefore spend less time not menstruating. Increased work and family stresses, in addition to more periods, mean that women are more physically and psychologically vulnerable to negative attitudes to menstruation. So it is more important than ever that we investigate ways to make our periods physically, emotionally, and spiritually healthy."  ~From:

I plan to buy several more copies of this book to pass along to my girls. 

I share with you a poem by Linda Gregg.  It seemed to want to be here.  :-)

Love & Blessings,  ~Marion~


The Precision
By Linda Gregg

There is a modesty in nature. In the small
if it and in the strongest. The leaf moves
just the amount the breeze indicates
and nothing more. In the power of lust, too,
there can be a quiet and clarity, a fusion
of exact moments. There is a silence of it
inside the thundering. And when the body swoons,
it is because the heart knows its truth.
There is directness and equipoise in the fervor,
just as the greatest turmoil has precision.
Like the discretion a tornado has when it tears
down building after building, house by house.
It is enough, Kafka said, that the arrow fit
exactly into the wound that it makes. I think
about my body in love as I look down on these
lavish apple trees and the workers moving
with skill from one to the next, singing.

~From:  "Things and Flesh"

Monday, January 11, 2010

Lucille Clifton, Soul-Food, Life-Affirming Poetry

I'll never forget the first poem I read by Lucille Clifton.  After reading it I wanted to buy a gallon of red paint and graffiti it all over the walls in towns everywhere for everyone to read:  It was this poem, "To My Last Period":

to my last period

By:  Lucille Clifton

well girl, goodbye,
after thirty-eight years.
thirty-eight years and you
never arrived
splendid in your red dress
without trouble for me
somewhere, somehow.
now it is done,
and i feel just like
the grandmothers who,
after the hussy has gone,
sit holding her photograph
and sighing, wasn't she
beautiful? wasn't she beautiful?


And then I bought the awesome book shown above and discovered a feast of her poetry, words that feed my soul to this day and make me happy to be a female.  I read this one yesterday and it made me laugh out loud:

Hag Riding
By Lucille Clifton

is what i ask myself
maybe it is the afrikan in me
still trying to get home
after all these years
but when I wake to the heat of morning
galloping down the highway of my life
something hopeful rises in me
rises and runs me out into the road
and i lob my fierce thigh high
over the rump of the day and honey
i ride        i ride


And when all of my girlfriends and I used to be bitching and moaning about our periods, I'd often pause, smile to myself and think of this powerful, life-affirming poem:

poem in praise of menstruation
By Lucille Clifton

if there is a river
more beautiful than this
bright as the blood
red edge of the moon          if
there is a river
more faithful than this
returning each month
to the same delta          if there

is a river
braver than this
coming and coming in a surge
of passion, of pain          if there is

a river
more ancient than this
daughter of eve
mother of cain and of abel          if there is in

the universe such a river          if
there is some where water
more powerful than this wild
pray that it flows also
through animals
beautiful and faithful and ancient
and female and brave


If you listen to men and the advertisers of today, you'd think a woman's period was a curse, a thing to be destroyed, something evil and bad.  It is not so.  I have an old, out of print book entitled, "Her Blood is Gold" and it's an entire book in praise of women and menstruation throughout the ages.  I'm saving it for my granddaughter.  It is no curse, it is a river of life, a metaphor for all of life. 

Jesus's mother
Buddha's mother
Mohammad's mother
Confusius's mother
Lao-Tzu's mother
Ghandi's mother
Freud's mother
Whitman's mother
Your mother
My mother---
Without menstruation,
None of us would be here.  ~Marion

One of my best friends, Angie, once told me this monumental truth, something like this, "The reason men are always at war is because they do not bleed and therefore, have blood-lust.  We women bleed every month and get our fill of it."  And trust me on this girls, when it is gone, you will miss it.  I sometimes cry for the emptiness within me, for having let a male doctor talk me into a hysterectomy only a few years before I would have entered menopause.  If you're considering a hysterectomy, get a 2nd and 3rd opinion, then do your own research.  I miss my uterus, the part of me which held and nurtured my 2 babies close for eighteen magnificent months...  And guess what?  Ms. Clifton has a poem for that too:

poem to my uterus
By Lucille Clifton

you uterus
you have been patient
as a sock
while i have slippered into you
my dead and living children
they want to cut you out
stocking i will not need
where i am going
where am i going
old girl
without you
my bloody print
my estrogen kitchen
my black bag of desire
where can i go
without you
where can you go
without me


So, if you're looking for a book of poetry that celebrates every aspect of being a woman, I'd highly recommend Ms. Clifton's books.  "Blessing the Boats" has new and selected poems from 1988 to 2000.  Her poetry feeds your spirit and makes you proud to be a grrrrrlllll! Celebrate your womanhood this week!

Love & Blessings,


Friday, January 8, 2010

Grief and Advice to Myself by Louise Erdrich

I have read and own every book written by Louise Erdrich.   My good friend, Angie C., turned me on to her with a copy of "Love Medicine" many years ago and I fell instantly in love with her writing and mesmerizing storytelling.  Her novels stay with you long after you finish reading them and the poems in the volume pictured above are all amazing.  Ms. Erdrich has an old soul and a heart overflowing with hard-earned wisdom and a deep love of language. 

I share two of her poems below.  I've posted "Advice to Myself" here before, but it bears repeating.  It's a perfect poem for the new year.  It's cold down here in the bayous and swamps and I am a total wussy about the cold.  I know my friends up North (as in Canada) are laughing their asses off at me, but we just do not get this kind of cold down the teens with wind chill factors in the single digits.  (Global warming, my ass!!)  My only hope is that it'll kill off our mosquito population for once.  (One can always dream.....LOL!)  I wish you all love, a warm fire and a good book to read. 

Love & Blessings,



By Louise Erdrich

Sometimes you have to take your own hand
as though you were a lost child
and bring yourself stumbling
home over twisted ice.

Whiteness drifts over your house.
A page of warm light
falls steady from the open door.

Here is your bed, folded open.
Lie down, lie down, let the blue snow cover you.


Advice to Myself
By Louise Erdrich

Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

~From: "Original Fire: New and Selected Poems", page 149

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Dust by Dorianne Laux

I took these two photos today.  The top photo is part of my kitchen window shrine.  In front of the picture of Jesus is the skeleton of a fish that we found washed up on the beach in Galveston, Texas, many years ago.  There were many of these bones, crucifix-shaped, just lying on the dirty sand.  We picked them up reverently as they were quite fragile, and packed them into our suitcase.  This is the only one left.  The bloom is from one of my Orchids Ray gave me for Christrmas. One of the cats broke it off.

The other photo is the dying flame of my green healing meditation candle that I burned yesterday, flickering in front of one of my small collages.  The candle burns down, but where does it go?  There is no wax anywhere.  Only the tiny piece of a wick remains of the tall, thin candle.  It's a mystery.

I share with you a poem I love by Dorianne Laux from her amazing book, "What We Carry".  Enjoy. 

Love & Blessings,



By Dorianne Laux

Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor--
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes--
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.


"The most tangible of all visible mysteries - fire."  ~Leigh Hunt

Monday, January 4, 2010

I Was Mean to You Today by Pat Schneider

I Was Mean to You Today
by Pat Schneider

Things were difficult
and I was impatient.
You were trying to explain
why I must reorganize the files
on my computer, why
they all have to have project numbers,
why I can't put them
where they've always been,
what the tax consultant said,
what you need for your report
to the Board of Directors,
and it boiled down to my files
have to be re-filed, and they
have to have titles with no more
than twelve letters to leave room
for project numbers,
and I said, Well, dammit.
And you said, Don't talk like that.

You sounded pained
and I was mean to you.
I was bored and tired
and mad, and you were
trying hard. Later,
I went out in the rain.
I went to the mall
and bought us both really
expensive pillows. Down
pillows with 100 per cent
cotton covers, 400 thread count.
I have lusted after them for years,
ever since Mama told me
that she asked Grandma,
who was 86 and dying,
"If you could have anything
in the world, what would it be?"
and Grandma answered,
"A down pillow" and Mama
didn't have enough money.
I bought two down pillows for us all,
to say I'm sorry.

"I Was Mean to You Today" by Pat Schneider, from The Patience of Ordinary Things. © Amherst Writers & Artists Press, 2003.


Saturday, January 2, 2010

New Grandpuppy, Bentley

We had Christmas with my oldest daughter, April, and her family yesterday. (We ate black-eyed peas, cabbage, cornbread and brisket. We always eat the peas and cabbage for luck and prosperity---an old Southern tradition that goes back to the Civil War and beyond). April is making me this fabulous quilt. She was almost finished, bless her heart. She did a lot of embroidery and hand work so it took her longer than she thought it would. It's got flowers, a dragonfly, a cat and even a spider web (I like garden spiders) on it. What a fabulous gift of love. The backing is a soft, furry, pink fabric. I can't wait to curl up under it!

This is Bentley, Taylor's new Chocolate Lab puppy (my grandpuppy). Taylor's old dog, Clover, got hit by a car last month and he was very sad. April and Brian found this puppy in a newspaper ad and got him the weekend before Christmas. He was a bargain ($25) because the owners didn't have papers on him. Cody (our Golden Retriever) stayed with them while we were out of town and April said he was jealous of Bentley.

His squeaky chew-toy is a chicken. He likes to sleep with his head on Brian's old boots. April said he's afraid of their chickens and turkeys, thank goodness! She said he's also afraid of the mule, the pig and the goose (they're a tribe of three....long, funny story for later).

Every dog needs a boy to harass him, right? I told Taylor he was used to having cats to play with, not heavy puppies! Bentley wasn't complaining, though.

He is so cute! If only they'd stay little puppies longer. Look at those eyes. I never really cared much for dogs until we got Cody about 7 years ago. That dog is so sweet....he's really a compassionate man in a fur coat. If ever I cry (which is often, and no, I don't need a reason) and he's in the room, he comes up to me and lays his head in my lap. I told Ray the dog would be a great grief counselor.

"One reason a dog can be such a comfort when you're feeling blue is that he doesn't try to find out why." ~Author Unknown

"Happiness is a warm puppy." ~Charles Schulz

Love & Blessings,