Monthly Archives: November 2017

More than Nostalgia

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The wonderful thing about writing down memories is keeping them. Because later, like me, you will find those written words.

I wrote this 26 years ago when my son was two years old:

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As grown-ups, we have learned much about life. But we learn much more by watching children experience and discover the world anew. I am about to be the grandmother of my fourth grandchild. I have much yet to learn.

Childhood and it’s atmospheric beauty!

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(my daughter’s first child — my second grandchild)

I am forever grateful.

 

 

 

 

via Atmospheric

Dancing Away Sorrow

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twirling-white-skirt-lg

My legs move fast

my feet still remember

Mama ran away.

The Charleston ends

my feet, still

I plunk a new recording on Victor Victrola

plant the needle in the grove

turn the crank.

My feet move again

green and yellow squares of rug

melt together

I spin, braid pinging from one shoulder

to the next

like two different suitors

tapping my shoulder

asking to be my dance partner.

Like a wild mushroom,

my skirt puffs

the swoosh of movement says,

“Everything will be alright again.”

I squint to believe.

 

photo credit

 

 

via Mushroom

Tethering to Glory

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ot69

In the arms of a rope:

 

I”d tether to the glory

of lily fields and daffodils

on wings of whip-poor-wills in flight

toward the moon’s calm light

 

I’d gather all the wisdom known

with loosened knots, embrace the thoughts

allowing plots of greater good

to be my livelihood

 

You, untangled chord of strength

the sturdy twine so blessed mine

a lifeline, filled with hope

this dreamer’s periscope

 

Photo credit and: “The metaphysicians, theologists and even the modern psycho-analysts, have been long using it – the imagery of swing, for defining the wanderings of self and a vacillating, wavering or indecisive mind, and aestheticians, poets and painters …”

 

The Recycling of Dead People

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Perhaps, with a droll sense of humor, you will chuckle to learn what French artist Martin Drolling used to make Mummy Brown.

“Art historians believe he used the remains of French kings disinterred from the royal abbey of St. Denis in Paris” to create the burnt/raw umber hue in the below painting.

Kinda makes you think twice about what the women on the canvas are actually thinking.

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credit

daily word prompt: via Droll

To Ask for Help

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The inside of your mind is torn

you ache for someone’s guidance

yet thrusted hand keeps them away

retained, a thunderous silence

 

Problems stem from holding back

and keeping troubles bound

The tigers growl, the gators snap

the lions, they surround

 

Isn’t is a comfort, though

to feel a warming hand

rest softly on your shoulder, stilled,

a yearn without demand?

 

To ask for help, there’s nothing wrong

seek others for direction

in grief or pain or lover’s quarrel

or self-imposed rejection

 

Why hold fast those troubled woes?

Let others help unleash

the honks of monsters, a demons fear,

a sorrow, then released

 

photo credit

Honk

 

 

Plain or Pretty – we can all relate to this

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A reminder about the challenges of growing into ourselves.

Unknown
I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say “come dance with me”
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn’t all it seems at seventeen
A brown eyed girl in hand me downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said: “pity please the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve”
The rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
So remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debitures of quality and dubious integrity
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received at seventeen
To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
When dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me…
We all play the game, and when we dare
We cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
That call and say: “come on, dance with me”
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me, at seventeen
                    by Janis Ian
photo credit
daily post prompt: Dubious

Releasing Your Breath

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Whenever you are stressed or can’t sleep, they say to concentrate on your breath.

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Laying under the covers, I closed my eyes and inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. My mind wondered. “Concentrate,” I scolded myself.

In, out.

In, out.

In my mind’s eye, I saw my breath as I exhaled. It drifted to the mantle of my fireplace and peered down at me. I pretended to sleep.

It flitted around the mantle examining my wooden Pinocchio puppet, peered at pictures inside their frames and at my grandparent’s non-functional antique clock.

From there it floated to my bookshelves and I stirred when it became agitated. No doubt, it saw one of Stephen King’s books. That’s when it made its escape.

It seeped under my bedroom door and took a quick left to the piano but couldn’t muster up enough strength to press a key.

In the family room, it found my antique rocking chair where it settled into a back and forth, back and forth rhythm.

A back and forth, back and forth rhythm.

I’m not sure what other adventures it had. Nor do I know when it returned to me during the night.

I was asleep.

 

Great breathing techniques here.