tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21058803280400294812024-03-14T05:43:05.466-07:00Kay's Kwipspoetry, thoughts on the second half of lifeKayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-19777862340468739372010-04-07T22:40:00.000-07:002010-04-07T23:02:53.185-07:00A Woman On Her Own<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A WOMAN ON MY OWN</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I went to work in ‘fifty three</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">At the local Daily News</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To prove to Mom that I could be</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A woman on my own.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">An independent seventeen,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I wrote obits, and wedding notes –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I found it fun to telephone</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For quotes to use in articles –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On who went where and what they did.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmp-kNuxSzKP6u-0rHereC5HKQSpRns_EzxmVeypAaiYfsl-3Nm7nblK_1Cjl5tJxPjgiS4QKvIk3NroevT2o4AzYOVbSTLhROff-dYdjNfdM9zk6tJAvVLHokDa-WTYUnh0mdDDiLISo/s1600/fe3-brenda-starr.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmp-kNuxSzKP6u-0rHereC5HKQSpRns_EzxmVeypAaiYfsl-3Nm7nblK_1Cjl5tJxPjgiS4QKvIk3NroevT2o4AzYOVbSTLhROff-dYdjNfdM9zk6tJAvVLHokDa-WTYUnh0mdDDiLISo/s200/fe3-brenda-starr.gif" width="138" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">No casual clothes for working gals in 1953 –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My car hop friends were envious</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That I dressed up for work.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I felt that I was all grown up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mom was</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Unconvinced.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I went to work in ‘fifty five – a summer job</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Out of town to prove to Mom</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That I was grown</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A woman on my own.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We sublet a flat, Leah and Elaine and I.</span><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I worked at a Boston brokerage.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My boss was Mildred Hatch.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I worked with Ginny Haggarty</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And Helen Jack from Dorcester</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My age, she was engaged to wed</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A Cambridge man; her parents feared</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She’d move away from Dorcester.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNlP4JreB6D9EpcvFKYtyHXM5bc_BgT_yHEq9tFnzhT8ZOV7aWLc3bSMJlEOUEpQBqylnw_1U258ltJxrpBCBr8Ce8G26N9ROfDZXyDWaiePrw96Hlz-EUea3oMkuZMLgKy-UuFObz2Kg/s1600/milkshake_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNlP4JreB6D9EpcvFKYtyHXM5bc_BgT_yHEq9tFnzhT8ZOV7aWLc3bSMJlEOUEpQBqylnw_1U258ltJxrpBCBr8Ce8G26N9ROfDZXyDWaiePrw96Hlz-EUea3oMkuZMLgKy-UuFObz2Kg/s200/milkshake_3.jpg" width="119" /></a> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I learned the Boston dialect –</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A milkshake is a frappe, a spa -</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A corner store, where tonic is a coke.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That summer my romance broke up</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Those Boston girls - they saw me through –</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The helped me laugh, and schemed with me</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To get him back. It didn’t work.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When I went home to tell my mom how grown I was</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mom was</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Unimpressed.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Then I grew up and had three kids and went to work – a full time job</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">From 8 to 5, two blocks away. We all came home for lunch.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A secretary at a church - whoever would have thought back then</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That typewriters and secretaries would soon be obsolete.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I went to work to subsidize the children’s college years </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And give those kids a chance to go</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To school in a different town, and maybe get a summer job</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Like mine had been. They did.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We moved once more – Move number ten</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I went to college once again</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Became a City Planner then,</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Got “Planning Certified”</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Became “Kay B – AICP”</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And after working twenty years</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Retired, with full benefits –</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A woman on her own</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">With better things to do.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">If Mom had lived, I know</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She would</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Approve.</span></div>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-62135609789253149382010-01-22T14:32:00.000-08:002010-01-22T14:32:12.759-08:00I have been so out of touch. I have just reseen <em>Julie and Julia</em> and am reinspired to blog.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Pick Up Your Bed and Walk</span></strong><br />
<br />
I am no longer in casts, the walker has been stowed away. I’m thinking of sending the boots to Haiti if I can figure a way. I have dusted off right shoes and my car keys. I am still slow, but walking. During my convalescence I have been writing poems which I’ll post. As I go along. My poems are no longer focused on broken legs or other malfunctioning parts. <br />
<br />
It is my desire to put together things on the blog that I will later include in a second book. I am excited about the prospect. The first book was well received by lots of people and that has encouraged me. If I keep writing, I may connect with people via the blog, and that would be wonderful. I don’t know quite how to do that, but I’ll keep trying.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-56813193663986462302009-12-08T15:23:00.000-08:002009-12-08T15:23:30.366-08:00I Wouldn't Do That"I would not do that," Mary Jessie said.<br />
She's said that many times over many years.<br />
She said that as I tried to comfort her<br />
About the friend who never calls -<br />
The kids who rarely help -<br />
About the friend who hurt the feelings<br />
of another friend.<br />
I would not do that, Mary Jessie said.<br />
<br />
"Of course I forgave her, told her so," she said,<br />
"but even then I knew I would not be like that,<br />
I would not fail to see a friend who's sick<br />
I would not fail to help my mom<br />
Whenever I was asked. I never would do that.<br />
I would not borrow money, and neglect to pay it back<br />
There are some things that I would never do," she said.<br />
<br />
Me, I always try to understand.<br />
I know I do not know just how it feels<br />
to have another life,<br />
Another life experience.<br />
Me, I'm never sure just what I'd do<br />
If I were someone else.<br />
<br />
Yet even as I try to understand<br />
To have compassion, and some tolerance,<br />
Not to judge what isn't mine to judge<br />
I hear this voice deep inside me say,<br />
Me, I wouldn't do that. No. Not me.<br />
As another voice asks, <br />
Oh, really? Are you sure?Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-38292361962307734662009-12-06T14:38:00.000-08:002009-12-06T14:38:57.116-08:00MeditationIf I call to Heaven and an angel answers me,<br />
Will I be scared? You bet!<br />
If I create a work of art<br />
A painting that was never there before -<br />
A poem -<br />
Is it not of necessity less - <br />
Than that which it was meant to represent?<br />
<br />
Because no one can create all the facets<br />
Possibilities, extensions,<br />
Of anything<br />
And then add on – not just mine -<br />
But your imaginings, and that man's over there,<br />
Or see what that child sees,<br />
It must be less – my poem, my painting<br />
Still I do not make that object less<br />
Just by my effort.<br />
<br />
If the angel isn't there, I don't care<br />
Just so long as I think it is<br />
And see my answer, hear my answer, feel it -<br />
That's enough.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-62843281764693346852009-12-01T15:38:00.000-08:002009-12-01T15:38:09.058-08:00Thoughts on RilkeIf I call to Heaven and an angel answers me,<br />
Will I be scared? You bet!<br />
<br />
If I create a work of art<br />
A painting that was never there before -<br />
A poem -<br />
Is it not of necessity less - <br />
Than that which it was meant to represent?<br />
<br />
No one can create all the facets<br />
Possibilities, extensions, emotions,<br />
Of anything -<br />
And then add on – not just mine -<br />
But your imaginings, and that man's over there,<br />
Or see just what that child sees<br />
When gazing at that reality<br />
In dimensions, from angles<br />
I cannot portray.<br />
It must be less – my poem, my painting<br />
Than the reality it draws upon<br />
And at the same time more<br />
Because it frees imagination,<br />
Not just mine,<br />
But yours.<br />
<br />
If the angel isn't there, I don't care<br />
Just so long as I think it is<br />
And see my answer, hear my answer, feel it -<br />
That's enough.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-65452636288401454082009-11-29T16:34:00.000-08:002009-11-29T16:34:42.354-08:00Christmas 1940<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JrO4yLUW05NXdh47tZ53a613x_hEXbYyM7w5xWY3ucZM3UtHkqLiduMOfOrc5ehpDgkkY7t1bsZc2qWrS86B1lm2VtQuijrDnRmrTBbRYHvIPI7N0PCuCviocYOi3qZZ5Zj01X_8f50/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JrO4yLUW05NXdh47tZ53a613x_hEXbYyM7w5xWY3ucZM3UtHkqLiduMOfOrc5ehpDgkkY7t1bsZc2qWrS86B1lm2VtQuijrDnRmrTBbRYHvIPI7N0PCuCviocYOi3qZZ5Zj01X_8f50/s200/tree.jpg" yr="true" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">What makes this season between Thanksgiving and Christmas distinctive one year as opposed to all the other years is when the unexpected happens, when plans and traditions have to be scrapped. In the end that Christmas is often special and, yes, memorable. With two broken legs, it is expected that this Christmas will be one of those unpredictable ones. And it brings to my memory another unpredictable Christmas.<br />
</div><br />
In September of 1940 my father hemorrhaged from his lungs.. I was four and my sister was six. The country was still in a depression, and money was tight. Dad was an intense young man who had spent long hours making his way in the corporate world. <br />
<br />
The hemorrhage changed everything in an instant. The diagnosis was tuberculosis which had attacked my father in a vulnerable spot, causing the hemorrhage. The doctor felt this was fortunate, inasmuch as it led to the discovery of the disease at a relatively early stage. However, tuberculosis was tuberculosis and at that time there were no cures. This was before there were drugs to treat the disease. The treatment then was food, bed-rest, sun, often relegation to a sanatorium. For many people TB was a death sentence.<br />
<br />
Later in the day after the hemorrhage the family gathered its resources. George and Marjorie, Mother's brother and his wife, arrived, and my grandmother, whom we called Minna. Uncle Don and Aunt Jane, not relatives but friends, came. I have no idea who else came, but there was a lot of activity which I recall as being confusing. <br />
<br />
There were decisions made in those first few days, and I have no idea how they were made or what went into them, but my parents established a pattern. They were not going to be defeated. They were going to make this altered situation work. The family would remain intact. And, where they could, they would enjoy the process. <br />
<br />
First, Dad would get to stay home. He would be confined to his room. His dishes would be boiled. We were not allowed beyond the door to his room – but we could go that far. During the months of his recuperation, he was still very much an involved father.<br />
<br />
The doctor came frequently and checked up on us. Ann and I were repeatedly tested (the scratch test). I would hide when Dr. Bartlett came, but he managed to find me in whatever closet I was secreted, and administer the test.<br />
<br />
Minna came to stay. I think for a while there were nurses, and other help, but if there were, I don't think they were there long. Minna was Mother's support and confidante. She was convinced Dad would recover. Her optimism was catching. The trays that went up to my father were elegant – little touches, cloth napkins, covers over the plates. <br />
<br />
The owner of my father's company offered to keep him on half salary during his recovery. What my parents didn't know at the time is my father would have to pay that half salary back by working at half salary another year when he returned to work. Money during the year of my father's TB was tight, and I'm sure it was a worry. My parents were survivors, and what fear they had that year they did not transmit to us. Cutting back became almost a game. <br />
<br />
Mother and Dad played board games and cards, and listened to the radio together. Dad listened to football games, and charted them using a red and blue pencil. Their friends and neighbors gathered around. There were visits and gifts, often in forms of food. Someone brought Dad a “Dutch wife”, a pillow to place under his knees. I hid it. Dad did not need another wife, even a cloth one. Sometimes friends and neighbors took Ann or me for an outing. Uncle Don, who worked with Dad, came every day on his way from work. <br />
<br />
Ann and I were part of the recovery plan. We were expected to behave, and I think Ann did. We both had birthdays that fall. I think we both had birthday parties. I don't remember mine, but I do remember Ann's. That was when I found that if you chew a sterling silver spoon, you can actually change its shape. When the crime was discovered, I blamed Nancy Renkinberger, because I knew my mother didn't like her much anyway. It took years before the Statute of Limitations would allow me to confess. Nancy wasn't invited back.<br />
<br />
With the approach of Christmas, Dad was given permission to come downstairs for the first time. He had his choice of coming down for dinner or earlier, for the opening of gifts. He chose to be there for the gifts. <br />
<br />
Friends who probably would not have given us Christmas presents in ordinary circumstances did that year. Ella Hume, across the street, gave us each hand painted soldiers that she had painted herself. She also gave us hand painted wooden ornaments, some of which I still have and treasure. <br />
<br />
The picture I have carried of that Christmas is the family listening to a recording of Peter and the Wolf. I can see my father in his chair, listening with us. He is wearing his Christmas robe. Mother is beside him. Ann and I were acting out the parts. We circled the dining room table, being hunters, carrying the wolf, with the duck inside, to the zoo. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BTkg_wbbxQUXfuChudEyhROUYwoNpDPJ8soVVnhsOPEcNwMeCAg-YKA8Cd5k4TiSkz0rUNmLN47mESWcmjpn4k7-pjz_yeXrqhuHdF2-crSv4fxQqEyxj3ypzZM3E2s3wUsJ7NiNyak/s1600/peter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BTkg_wbbxQUXfuChudEyhROUYwoNpDPJ8soVVnhsOPEcNwMeCAg-YKA8Cd5k4TiSkz0rUNmLN47mESWcmjpn4k7-pjz_yeXrqhuHdF2-crSv4fxQqEyxj3ypzZM3E2s3wUsJ7NiNyak/s200/peter.jpg" yr="true" /></a><br />
</div>Then Dad went back upstairs, and his dinner, as usual, was served to him on a tray. We knew he would be down again. It would not be long.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-88899385010308207542009-11-20T13:23:00.000-08:002009-11-20T13:23:58.336-08:00Emulation<div style="text-align: justify;">In junior high in the late 40’s, there was in me a consistent conflict between who I thought I was and who I thought I should be. So I went about the business of inventing myself. I dressed like Mary, laughed like Kathleen, tied my thick curly hair in a pony tail like Nancy’s, ignoring the fact that her hair was straight and much better suited to a pony tail.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sometimes I would hear something, see something, and tell myself, “I can do that, if I only try hard enough.” I watched Esther Williams swim. She was graceful, with a dazzling smile as she languorously stretched her arms in a backstroke. If water got in her mouth, she gently blew it out. <br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOI7qIUmyQNxgWw-NSLcQNnEvrKMhrrJq4WGtT7GsxsfI44Vrx4xAaxgek6wdnhxSG7lWSpwDhto1zYPXIYFmwz8TS2h3kol83P97iJAUlC1kIVyIknJ7SVFI1K1ZCVNuaypR4xLXTGY/s1600/esther.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOI7qIUmyQNxgWw-NSLcQNnEvrKMhrrJq4WGtT7GsxsfI44Vrx4xAaxgek6wdnhxSG7lWSpwDhto1zYPXIYFmwz8TS2h3kol83P97iJAUlC1kIVyIknJ7SVFI1K1ZCVNuaypR4xLXTGY/s200/esther.jpg" yr="true" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I grew up on Lake Michigan, with waves and undertow, not suited to languorously backstroking and blowing. Nevertheless I tried. Too often there was so much water in my mouth that I resembled a whale spouting rather than Esther blowing. Diving like Esther was out of the question. There aren’t diving boards on Lake Michigan, and if there were, my instinctive fear of jumping to my death kept me off them.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">One day, before junior choir, I heard a friend of my mother’s, Peggy McKee, practicing. She was on vacation from New York, where she sang professionally. Her voice was rich, warm, expressive. Listening to her, I was transported. Could I sing like that? Could I make people feel the way I felt listening to her? <br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why not? She had to start somewhere. I practiced. I belted out Old Man River. (I knew the words.) I decided I was a contralto, like Peggy. My sister, Ann, held her ears, and begged me to shut up.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We had one bathroom, shared by four people. The bathtub had claw feet (when claw footed bathtubs were not stylish), and no shower. Hair washing was done in the bathroom sink with countless cups of water poured over my head. I would gaze in the mirror, arranging my soapy hair in the style of Marie Antoinette, and sing rising scales. Well, almost scales. They got a little flat in the upper reaches. I would imagine myself living in Manhattan, catching a cab for rehearsals, dressing in elaborate costumes, being adored.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-wzCZi3hAY77YNPXl23k2WGZzL9DwKXVwpiY75uB8sk76Wq59iWVNYu7H2gD_7Zn3RP1XtQO_F6RNYqrPyj4YrCN13kIz-DrEutT3ZUM1L0s8a6T02LQCEiCuuNgnEYaJcfohqUuP1Q/s1600/opera4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-wzCZi3hAY77YNPXl23k2WGZzL9DwKXVwpiY75uB8sk76Wq59iWVNYu7H2gD_7Zn3RP1XtQO_F6RNYqrPyj4YrCN13kIz-DrEutT3ZUM1L0s8a6T02LQCEiCuuNgnEYaJcfohqUuP1Q/s200/opera4.jpg" yr="true" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Peggy doesn’t sing at the Met,” my mother told me. “She sings professionally at big Manhattan churches.”<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“She’s good enough to sing at the Met,” I said, starting another trill.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Very few people are good enough to sing at the Met,” Mother said. “Kay, it is possible to admire someone, without having to compete with them. You can love good singing, and still not be able to hold a tune.”<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Eventually, with a lot of family pressure, my singing career ended. Sometime later I took up the cello. <br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">While at a music camp I heard Mary Ellen playing Malaguania on the piano. Wow. I had never heard the piano sound like that. Could I do that? If I memorized it? And practiced hours every day? Could I play just one piece like that? Well, that’s another story.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOeucSfC0bsSNQij4_vNFZBxkiugmfsgaNcmYNc38JZw2kNord33xoMXtRFO9vQgQbWfHJB4BWspiXaU-K1HtO5AJp5YOUTm0LejT1a6cH_wMbJMObkuV4S2SJ_YXUn96D6fAcuIoHBpk/s1600/piano.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOeucSfC0bsSNQij4_vNFZBxkiugmfsgaNcmYNc38JZw2kNord33xoMXtRFO9vQgQbWfHJB4BWspiXaU-K1HtO5AJp5YOUTm0LejT1a6cH_wMbJMObkuV4S2SJ_YXUn96D6fAcuIoHBpk/s200/piano.gif" yr="true" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-42167664184931066802009-11-14T13:19:00.000-08:002009-11-14T13:21:34.277-08:00TomorrowMy grandkids wonder what will happen<br />
When we're gone -<br />
Is there Heaven, is there Hell<br />
Will we come back someday as someone else?<br />
I wonder too, but not for long. I say<br />
“If I'm so busy worrying and stewing<br />
Over what it isn't ours to know<br />
What is going on right now that I might miss?”<br />
<br />
And God, the longer that I live<br />
The more I see and learn, the less I know<br />
Or care about who God is or not.<br />
I know that when I pray I feel heard.<br />
When I'm afraid I know I'm not alone<br />
That courage comes to me from somewhere else<br />
Sometimes I say what I hadn't thought before.<br />
<br />
Today I watched fall fattened, well-furred squirrels<br />
In our back yard.<br />
They sprang and climbed and flew from tree to tree<br />
First one in front and then they'd turn<br />
And go the other way; they danced and spun<br />
Their gray flag tails beckoning each other,<br />
As they flew along from rock to tree to rock.<br />
<br />
Do these gray squirrels cogitate on what's ahead for them?<br />
No. They fly, then dive, are here, then over there<br />
And up then down,<br />
They are absolutely now just where they are, <br />
One second more the squirrels are somewhere else.<br />
<br />
I look around my world, at squirrels, and folks I love,<br />
And people I don't know, who smile at me,<br />
And I say, Thank you God. I have no need to know<br />
Just who God is, or whats ahead for me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcZRQN5A_-C__yNWINwN3rdq8drKytiON656mgF0wMMMIDr7SbcWPScSE904VzDrJmRY-l3feJZAXVbCRy22QvTQhcinFRUIADX457tZeZq1f5hl0AS2hi71nFopI23XtFcGOeoTOiRE/s1600-h/squirrel02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcZRQN5A_-C__yNWINwN3rdq8drKytiON656mgF0wMMMIDr7SbcWPScSE904VzDrJmRY-l3feJZAXVbCRy22QvTQhcinFRUIADX457tZeZq1f5hl0AS2hi71nFopI23XtFcGOeoTOiRE/s200/squirrel02.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-17806098858701156382009-11-10T23:04:00.000-08:002009-11-10T23:05:44.211-08:00confession<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div>As I’m getting more “mature”<br />
I can admit to certain things<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I lied about before – Like this –<br />
</div>I never learned to ride a bike.<br />
In my young life I hid that fact,<br />
Would make excuses not to go<br />
On bicycle excursions. <br />
<br />
I have the penmanship, not of a doctor, no,<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Far worse – My writing’s not too unlike<br />
</div>A boy in the second grade, or third.<br />
It is absurd when my offspring say<br />
It’s my fault that they’re handicapped<br />
By the hand they got from me.<br />
I tell them, “Well, then, type.”<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The worst I guess, I must confess<br />
</div>Is sometimes when I read a book<br />
I read the ending first.<br />
<br />
Our three kids are grownups now<br />
With children of their own.<br />
That doesn’t mean we’re less concerned<br />
Than when those three of ours were new!<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">If truth be told, I must admit<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It worries me we cannot read<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The unlived pages of their lives.<br />
</div><br />
Nor can we wrap the grandkids up<br />
In bubble wrap so they won’t break<br />
Their bones or hearts along the way.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wGZtnDt_6m23uYFUm0lg0mV6ObvrbEWAvCISuXlaQCYIxlWyj8sr1GS-nuSPNVdSkxPZcJUOKyV3ZlVfRbgz8t7247aIAU9EQyEsasQr3Y7zUNjdhX0jQrxdhESnZnLuxj6hDP4m-lQ/s1600-h/LawBooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wGZtnDt_6m23uYFUm0lg0mV6ObvrbEWAvCISuXlaQCYIxlWyj8sr1GS-nuSPNVdSkxPZcJUOKyV3ZlVfRbgz8t7247aIAU9EQyEsasQr3Y7zUNjdhX0jQrxdhESnZnLuxj6hDP4m-lQ/s200/LawBooks.jpg" /></a>Life's a book that can't be read<br />
</div>From back to front.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-83041457520210923952009-11-09T17:37:00.000-08:002009-11-09T17:37:46.581-08:0013 Ways of Looking at a Broken Leg<strong><em>One</em></strong><br />
Ouch<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Two</em></strong><br />
Six strong and strapping EMT's<br />
Carry me down the outside steps<br />
Welcome heroes and I owe them<br />
Cookies, Station One and Station Three<br />
When I am whole again.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Three</em></strong><br />
Two legs casted, sticking out<br />
When they operated, couldn't they<br />
Have done a pedicure?<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Four</em></strong><br />
I am useless, I can't walk<br />
Can't run out and get something,<br />
Can't lean down, pick up something<br />
I have to ask for help.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Five</em></strong><br />
I have a wheelchair, it's black<br />
And scarey, too, says Blue the cat.<br />
Five other folks came home with me.<br />
That's scarey, too, says Blue.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Six</em></strong><br />
Two legs casted, sticking out<br />
I can't make corners in our house.<br />
Parking's never been my strength<br />
I've got a lot to learn.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Seven</em></strong><br />
My chief caregiver's the best<br />
The guy I married can never rest<br />
He picks up this and gets me that<br />
And don't forget to feed the cat<br />
My poor Fred will celebrate<br />
When my two cast legs ain't cast no more!<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Eight</em></strong><br />
Two legs casted, sticking out<br />
One is gray and wears a boot<br />
(Although I'm told it can bear no weight<br />
for another two months from now).<br />
The other's red with matching toes<br />
They are getting in my way.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Nine</em></strong><br />
Two legs casted, sticking out<br />
Now and then bump into things<br />
They sometimes seem to me<br />
To be no part of me.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Ten</em></strong><br />
Two legs casted, sticking out<br />
But if you take me knees to head<br />
The rest of me is just the way<br />
It always was, says Fred<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Eleven</em></strong><br />
Inside my two well casted legs<br />
If one could look inside,<br />
Not flesh and bone, but screws and nails<br />
And screens and plates in there.<br />
My doctor is a carpenter.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Twelve</em></strong><br />
Two cast legs upon the bed<br />
And one is gray, the other red<br />
And each one weights 200 pounds<br />
At least.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Thirteen</em></strong><br />
I should enjoy my two cast legs<br />
They get me out of lots of stuff<br />
How can I entertain Book Club<br />
Or donate blood, or clean the house<br />
With both my legs encased in casts?Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-90572406717051940852009-11-04T20:29:00.000-08:002009-11-04T20:29:13.287-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nyMrSVactR3M6ikBVZ-50LPiDZ8UaQS5mkvzZj0Oc290K-j1hPLdOJIKAOIw4q4eDYHZNBsgK6LQsUgC425fwaB5uXP5gsRqjUP8H30EHXN4ufKavlp43nz45W6x1CFHH7qIy_LRrO0/s1600-h/broken-leg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nyMrSVactR3M6ikBVZ-50LPiDZ8UaQS5mkvzZj0Oc290K-j1hPLdOJIKAOIw4q4eDYHZNBsgK6LQsUgC425fwaB5uXP5gsRqjUP8H30EHXN4ufKavlp43nz45W6x1CFHH7qIy_LRrO0/s200/broken-leg.jpg" vr="true" /></a><br />
</div><span style="font-size: large;">Coming Home Broken</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">or An Update on Cleaning for the Cleaner</span><br />
<br />
The best laid plans go awry. After I got my book printed, the next great project was cleaning my house enough to have a cleaning person do it. Instead, I fell on my front porch and broke the foot on one leg and the ankle bones (that's right, two bones) on the other.<br />
<br />
Usually when you know you are going to have lots of visitors, Thanksgiving,Christmas, a party, you have days and days to prepare. When you break your legs all at once the game is over. People are coming to your house, wanting to help in any way they can, and I had no time to pretend to be the organized woman I'm not. Worse than that, we lowered our bed to make it wheelchair height, and that wonderful storage spot for boxes of out of season clothes and also often the storage place for a frightened cat, was gone. Not only that, all those other neat little storage places for souvenirs and junk we don't know what to do with in the bedroom were gone as well. The room had to be made wheelchair accessible, and I wasn't around to make it happen. <br />
<br />
The big day arrived Saturday. Elizabeth and her husband, Gregory, and my neighbor, Ro, were here as we proudly drove up. They stood by and cheered as I gracefully skidded across the transfer board from car seat to wheelchair. Graceful could be an exaggeration. It is kind of a skid, a swivel, a lift, and grunt, and a lot of talking to myself, “lean forward, lean forward.” Greg and Fred wheeled me up the drive, across the lawn, down the dirt track beside the house, across the ditch newly dug by Matt, up the two ramps constructed by Fred and my son-in-law, Joe, onto the back deck and into the house. <br />
<br />
Judy arrived with dinner, and she and Ro arranged the kitchen, Elizabeth and Gregory settled me inside, the across the street neighbors came to welcome me home, and I had had absolutely no time to clean for all those guests who, in fact, cleaned for me.<br />
<br />
So here I am, home, with a lot of help from very many friends. And, guess what, I think I am as ready as I'll ever be for that house cleaner to come in. <br />
<br />
I do not recommend this particular method of cleaning for the cleaner.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhShFbOsm7MsF2ktN-j-nPjMK0jGIVj3sa_ycN8MdIKCxO6ryugYDArN4Y96rQTgkjrvjGNf-QBHpF2ksBpPUyuwEM_jnvT4vSmWLuoXeg9gXNfjdHuvrpdENK-hxeWhJONSyaKVViFOLA/s1600-h/wheelchair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhShFbOsm7MsF2ktN-j-nPjMK0jGIVj3sa_ycN8MdIKCxO6ryugYDArN4Y96rQTgkjrvjGNf-QBHpF2ksBpPUyuwEM_jnvT4vSmWLuoXeg9gXNfjdHuvrpdENK-hxeWhJONSyaKVViFOLA/s200/wheelchair.jpg" vr="true" /></a><br />
</div>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-1512628031554412762009-10-29T11:48:00.000-07:002009-10-29T11:48:29.505-07:00going homeJust to let everyone know I'm going home on Saturday. For the next couple of months I will be sliding on a board and swivelling on my left heel, the only part of the lower me able to bear weight. The plan is I shall become phenominally strongin my upper body, and my swivel movements will be of such grace that when I am repaired I will be a sensation on any dance floor.<br />
<br />
But the house cleaning preparation that I talked about before got interrupted. Alas poor Fred. Lots of people I hope will be coming to see me, will notice - why so many magazines? I can't imagine why this is there - etc. However, there is a good twist to everything. My house when I get home will be filled with the wonderful cards and flowers I have received. And there is hope - Claudia is coming Wednesday, ready or not! <br />
<br />
And I have Blue to blame. That cat! When he isn't busy calling the SPCA because we've put him on an unwelcome diet, complaining about the neglect since I broke my legs, he's been running around the house putting everything in the wrong place. He has been opening drawers, spreading papers, hiding things. We thought at least he could clean the kitchen, but no. He didn't even do his own litter box! Fred did that. He offered to help with the laundry. So Fred took it out of the dryer and Blue hopped right up and said he would do the folding later, but it was nap time. Of course, because he'd been so busy messing things up. That cat. So how could Fred fold the warm laundry with a sleeping cat on top? It is a good thing I'm coming home!Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-17935343436556139372009-10-26T19:55:00.000-07:002009-10-26T19:59:16.984-07:00BROKEN<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Walking down stones</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Buried in cement</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Wearing new rubber soled shoes </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Walking down steps trod</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Seven million</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Six hundred sixty eight thousand</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Nine hundred twenty four</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Times before.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A slip, a slide, a twist</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The rubber soled shoes held firm </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On the hard concrete</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When the feet</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Inside the shoes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Did not.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Sirens alert the neighborhood</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To tell the tale of feet that moved</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When shoes did not</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Two feet now encased in casts</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">No more shoes for the next two months</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Shall I tell them when they ask -<br />
I did it skateboarding?.</span>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-72996143810238999642009-10-16T17:47:00.000-07:002009-10-16T17:47:27.760-07:00Cleaning by Kay<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpyETPaXHf0EPaZXj1GnR2iHPcp1Xw38AR86n-t79lWgWNVlaTREIGYJVTM_1oR0PaW7VnsFlffbKg_Qy9u2rl-JL93AD4QaKHbpbR1KtJZYRhO30E7vZIx8haFTbYjQc6gX8r_oskIMc/s1600-h/image0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpyETPaXHf0EPaZXj1GnR2iHPcp1Xw38AR86n-t79lWgWNVlaTREIGYJVTM_1oR0PaW7VnsFlffbKg_Qy9u2rl-JL93AD4QaKHbpbR1KtJZYRhO30E7vZIx8haFTbYjQc6gX8r_oskIMc/s200/image0.jpg" vr="true" /></a>I had two projects I meant to do this month. The first was to put the things I’ve written into a book and sell it as a fund raiser for the church. I had a deadline. October 17 there is an auction. Yesterday I picked up the book – 100 copies – illustrated! – from the printer. Tomorrow is the auction. <br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The other project I outlined is much more difficult than writing and putting together a book. I wanted to clean my house sufficient to hire a housecleaner. My progress here has not been so fast. My excuse, working on the book. So I’ve been putting together deadlines. I work much better with a deadline. And I’ve been moving that deadline up.<br />
</div><br />
<br />
The first deadline I tied together with the auction (see above!) We’re auctioning a St. Pat’s dinner – March 17. Surely I can clean my house in time for that. The problem with that is it gives me much too much time in which to procrastinate.<br />
<br />
<br />
February we are hosts to a dinner party for ten people, some of whom I don’t know well, again from the church. That set the cleaning deadline up, but still it leaves way too much time for us to mess things up before we clean them up.<br />
<br />
<br />
Christmas – well that’s progress but my suspicion is that Christmas won’t be here.<br />
<br />
So I invited the children and their families for Thanksgiving. Now I’m getting a little nervous because Thanksgiving is just a little over a month away, and when the family comes there’s not a room I can leave out.<br />
<br />
I moved the deadline up again, and invited the children for our anniversary, November 8. I feel I’m getting realistic, now. <br />
<br />
Today I invited the knitting group to meet here in two weeks. I have the deadline I have craved. Now that the book is done I can really get to work. <br />
<br />
I walk around my house with an advertisement that tells me what a cleaning service would do in every room. I use it as a “to do” list. They talk of cleaning things like blinds, moving furniture, doing the whole job up right. This may get exciting. I wonder what I’ll find that I never knew I lost.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-943608662109723232009-10-11T19:21:00.000-07:002009-10-11T19:21:38.330-07:00Generations<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdnpiSyvMvYZ88BZUe91r9dAX6DG9Mmntn0vfwUMd9n2nXcuzhyab-Va-BvREamkjgYTomWzXfdIy6dkqP8k0Gvco2ULQyfmu-n_0w2DvRmomERj-Bw1cpYpjz1jG1kZVKj0TJdCt62I/s1600-h/image0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img $r="true" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdnpiSyvMvYZ88BZUe91r9dAX6DG9Mmntn0vfwUMd9n2nXcuzhyab-Va-BvREamkjgYTomWzXfdIy6dkqP8k0Gvco2ULQyfmu-n_0w2DvRmomERj-Bw1cpYpjz1jG1kZVKj0TJdCt62I/s200/image0.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A group of grown up, grey haired folk<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Grizzled geezers, grandmoms and pops<br />
</div>Are gathered - grouped to cogitate –<br />
They congregate to find a way<br />
Of reaching modern youth.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
These old folks sit in the youth group’s hall.<br />
They read the writing on the walls.<br />
Between the stenciled hands and feet<br />
The kids have written names and dates:<br />
“Karen, Class of Twenty Ten”<br />
“Jethro, two thousand three.”<br />
<br />
This room has odors all its own<br />
Of sleeping bags, of old popped corn,<br />
Honeysuckle by the door,<br />
The summer scent of fresh cut grass.<br />
The old folks, silent, contemplate<br />
How their own youth had slipped away…<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">They seem to hear those drawn-on walls<br />
</div>Ghostlike, whisper whimsically –<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">“Your parents, too, despised your clothes,<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Thought you outrageous, wild, and dumb –<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Would not succeed in anything –<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And look how far you’ve come!”<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT84tOjqmRr-iQOSdQV0M21Y6fNya8EnRpDdIyN938_WPybaiwtJyzz5dR12S03fVJ0tzhhI18Jfo92Ksq2B10MmhoZm7qfBcipkpC7Oboeckl1tm1eDHoSJqqGSoVXBbzUivCQo6KuCY/s1600-h/steph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img $r="true" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT84tOjqmRr-iQOSdQV0M21Y6fNya8EnRpDdIyN938_WPybaiwtJyzz5dR12S03fVJ0tzhhI18Jfo92Ksq2B10MmhoZm7qfBcipkpC7Oboeckl1tm1eDHoSJqqGSoVXBbzUivCQo6KuCY/s200/steph.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
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</div>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-82255542383100363812009-10-08T12:38:00.000-07:002009-10-08T12:38:46.095-07:00Fallen DeerA deer fell in our yard the other day,<br />
A doe, she tripped upon a rock,<br />
She staggered down into the street<br />
And fell, and then rose on wobbly legs<br />
And crossed the street. The doe lay down<br />
Beside the road, her head and ears were up<br />
She listened, and she watched.<br />
<br />
Raoul was working in a yard nearby.<br />
He saw the doe fall, also saw her fawn<br />
Who ran away.<br />
My husband Fred came home,<br />
The deer was still reclined<br />
Beside the road. He called the vet who said<br />
Call animal control. They’ll help the deer.<br />
Raoul had called as well.<br />
<br />
Fred stood and watched beside the road,<br />
He set a barrier so cars would not speed by<br />
And spook the resting deer.<br />
The two men waited for the doe to rise<br />
And disappear into the trees and lawns.<br />
They waited for her fawn to reappear.<br />
<br />
Animal control, it seems, knows only to destroy living things<br />
That lay perhaps in pain beside the road.<br />
They did not question how the doe was hurt<br />
Or whether, given time, she might get up<br />
And find her fleeing fawn.<br />
Get out, he said, and I will put her down.<br />
No argument would stay his course.<br />
A single shot. The doe was gone.<br />
<br />
We set out manna for the fawn<br />
Food recommended for an orphaned deer<br />
Three days gone by, the fawn appeared<br />
Alone, with faded spots, it looked across the road<br />
To where its mother died, and then it left.<br />
The deer food stayed untouched.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-3212054169139301042009-10-06T10:52:00.000-07:002009-10-06T10:53:13.401-07:00The Concrete Waterfall<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>The drowsy worker</strong><br />
<strong>By the concrete waterfall</strong><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Dreaming of rainbows</strong><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
The man lies in the shadow of his truck<br />
A yellow hard hat on the ground beside him,<br />
His shirt hangs listless on a branch above,<br />
He looks inside himself and sees<br />
The waterfall to come.<br />
<br />
He nearly feels the spray of splashing water<br />
Sees it leaping down his unbuilt path<br />
Sees it jumping over boulders, laughing<br />
Crystal droplets singing as they fall.<br />
<br />
He sees the water split by beams of sun<br />
He imagines arcs of color through the mist.<br />
He glories in the rainbow yet to be<br />
Created by the waterfall he’s building.<br />
<br />
In his mind he leans to catch the drops<br />
Bathe his skin in the magic of the spray<br />
He’d seize the rainbow, but as his hand shoots out<br />
The rainbow isn’t there.<br />
<br />
He wonders if he is himself a rainbow<br />
Is his life an optical illusion?<br />
Is he a glorious splash of color<br />
That in time will simply disappear?<br />
<br />
He stands, puts on his hat, spits out the grass.<br />
He rises to complete his waterfall.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-25430193948004352332009-10-05T20:29:00.000-07:002009-10-05T20:29:28.504-07:00Samsara<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMLUTlkuuOjUrNGao2wfj1LiLr7FGbKWbHhOtkDQb9qiturEEXF32IkQUsX1DA5Gf3xPc_0V7hLLx69LFP9Yl9DRp3edUW0Eblhgdy4gtTghZErWkf-xctnYaWtmYtIhL5SrSBYol3qY/s1600-h/191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img $r="true" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMLUTlkuuOjUrNGao2wfj1LiLr7FGbKWbHhOtkDQb9qiturEEXF32IkQUsX1DA5Gf3xPc_0V7hLLx69LFP9Yl9DRp3edUW0Eblhgdy4gtTghZErWkf-xctnYaWtmYtIhL5SrSBYol3qY/s200/191.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">A stray cat wandered into our yard and was made unwelcome by our cat, Blue. Tattered and pathetic, we took her to the vet, hoping that she had been implanted with a chip. She was far too friendly for a feral cat, we thought. We’d tried a game of ping pong at our table on the patio, and this cat loved the game, hopping with the ball from side to side. She was a cat who liked people in her life.<br />
</div><br />
She was infested by fleas, her ribs clearly seen beneath her fur. So we treated the fleas, and treated the hunger and the thirst, and since the day was very hot, we let her sleep in our guest bath, away from our cat, Blue, who liked her not at all. We posted signs around the neighborhood – had any person lost a friendly yellow cat? No one called.<br />
<br />
I talked to my friend, Jean. I told her if she took the cat we’d more than gladly help to pay for any alterations. Jean said no, she had friend who was a vet. She’d take care of that herself. I brought the yellow cat to Jean at a meeting, which the cat enjoyed. Not happy in her carrier, she befriended each one there, but seemed to know instinctively that Jean was hers. This cat was smart. <br />
<br />
Jean has studied Buddhism, and taught herself Tibetan. She recognized at once that this stray cat was of a royal ancient god-like lineage, and named the cat Samsara, the Tibetan word for “restless spirit”, a name well suited to the orange cat. <br />
At her initial pre-op visit to the vet, it was discovered Samsara was a he, who had been fixed before. <br />
<br />
Samsara, Sammy now, had found himself the home and friend that suited him. He considers he and Jean have equal rights around his house. His food is carefully prepared for him and set out on demand. When Sam is good and well behaved, the cat belongs to Jean. But when he bites, wakes up at three, or brings her gifts of snakes or mice, she refers to him as Kay’s.<br />
<br />
I don’t know how many lives he’s used, but the one he’s living now is fine with him, he says.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
</div>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-27858003294334244922009-10-04T19:53:00.000-07:002009-10-04T19:53:21.563-07:00L'Chayim: To LifeThe small stream dances, winding through<br />
And in and out between the rocks,<br />
Catching sparkles from the sun,<br />
Playing harmony to songs<br />
Of bugs and birds along its banks -<br />
<br />
It carries cold of melted snow<br />
To nurseries of fish and frog.<br />
It moves leaves and reeds along its banks.<br />
It waters bushes, quenches thirsts<br />
Of land-born life.<br />
<br />
It meaders for a bit, and curves,<br />
And then lays quietly in ponds<br />
Before it leaps and dances out,<br />
Cavoting around rocks and stumps<br />
Continuing its journey to the sea.<br />
<br />
Above the stream disaster crawls<br />
Metal yellow dinosaurs<br />
Rip up the soil, tear down the hills -<br />
Each day they roar across the fields<br />
Destroying what was always there.<br />
<br />
Rock strewn meadows, oaks and grass<br />
Will be replaced by velvet lawns<br />
Fed food that's made by Dow, not deer,<br />
Which washed into the brook will choke and<br />
Kill the life that flowed below -<br />
Until<br />
The water slows<br />
The laughter<br />
Stops.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-15028252266926838722009-09-30T08:49:00.000-07:002009-09-30T08:51:08.980-07:00Seventh Grade Blues<strong><span style="font-size: large;">I’M SO EMBARRESSED or</span></strong><strong><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">THAT 7TH GRADE FEELING</span></strong><br />
<br />
In 7th grade I was all arms and legs-<br />
Knocking into things, my socks slipped down<br />
Into my shoes, my blouse untucked<br />
My hair declaring independence from any sense of place –<br />
I wore the clothes my mother liked.<br />
I didn’t think I fit, so sure was I<br />
That everybody noticed what I wore<br />
And each dumb thing I said.<br />
<br />
I went to church last Sunday, just a little late<br />
The congregation watched as we walked down<br />
To sit in front. The other seats were taken<br />
By better folk whose lives are organized<br />
And neat. I sang the hymns my best, a bit off key,<br />
My husband said, but loud.<br />
<br />
We stayed for coffee after church.<br />
I stood alone with coffee in my hand<br />
The black stockings I had worn looked very blue.<br />
Should not have worn a skirt!<br />
My hair is standing quite on end today<br />
Great white wires going every way.<br />
If someone comes to chat, what will I say?<br />
The cookie that I’m holding’s shedding crumbs.<br />
<br />
Helen came, removed a cat hair from my sleeve<br />
And asked me how I was. I’m fine, I said,<br />
And so is Fred. We talked of her and me and church<br />
Til Judy joined us, and Sue, and Natalie<br />
Who had surgery a week ago. It turned out well.<br />
<br />
I’m all grown up from 7th grade, I think<br />
Until the next time when I stand alone, with Styrofoam<br />
Of coffee in my hand.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-16143131674115311212009-09-20T13:08:00.000-07:002009-09-20T13:08:34.893-07:00A MORNING WALK<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My walking buddy’s gone to Spain</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So now I walk alone – Except</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Except for geese, and dogs, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">chipmunks and squirrels</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And kids who rush to catch their bus –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And people driving by in cars.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I notice people wave at me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I wave back – but I can’t see</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Inside their car or who they are.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m forced to walk alone – because</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My walking buddy’s gone to Spain – Except</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have my thoughts. I ask myself</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whatever happened to the pair</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Who used to live in that house there – </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She used to go to Curves, perhaps</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Still does. I don’t.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Who does that lawn. What artistry.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Who would have thought to put that rock</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Right there, and black tanbark beneath the tree</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Spread out beneath its canopy</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No sprinklers needed near that oak</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wonder could we do the same?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My walking buddy’s gone to Spain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So maybe if we cleared the ground</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And got black tanbark spread around</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Beneath our oaks and planted rocks</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Instead of flocks we wouldn’t need to spend so much</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On fixing sprinklers here and there –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They never work or seem to spread</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Their grains of water far enough</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To keep our landscape green and fed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My walking buddy’s gone to Spain</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So now I walk alone except</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For geese and dogs, chipmunks and squirrels, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Kids, cars, and wandering thoughts.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQF13HcdLbVKvcGpS_9jBRs6S68KSXMapUY9JirjpfJqVtk4AtZ-KBdRtiKZ-End1u0_yFsVO2J9-QD6_u8xPDFygAeWvZZHKdDtB4AiWeWIIVlsRnAz1a5eSoQYiTSoWyZKgnQV6tpU/s1600-h/chipmunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" iq="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQF13HcdLbVKvcGpS_9jBRs6S68KSXMapUY9JirjpfJqVtk4AtZ-KBdRtiKZ-End1u0_yFsVO2J9-QD6_u8xPDFygAeWvZZHKdDtB4AiWeWIIVlsRnAz1a5eSoQYiTSoWyZKgnQV6tpU/s200/chipmunk.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-85659507720314434282009-09-18T16:55:00.000-07:002009-09-18T16:55:29.089-07:00BLUE<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have a black cat name of Blue</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And what he likes to do the best</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">(Aside from rest) is creep along the window sill</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And leap on unsuspecting bugs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He looks at birds beyond his reach.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">If he had speech – could say the words,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He'd say those birds are easy prey -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Were he without and not within</span>..<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS6IqhA1GPIjCFBVUn96xZLNj8ehC8eGadgXWOQ_KRlVQnQZEcBlfpb96DbpN0BsFWdlc6m81po3L-1dDnX_MLo-Ps4l8IjUpyBgkkUBJw_awWHjVm1v814jpMyqY4pIkqcPkVldwIPWM/s1600-h/cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" iq="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS6IqhA1GPIjCFBVUn96xZLNj8ehC8eGadgXWOQ_KRlVQnQZEcBlfpb96DbpN0BsFWdlc6m81po3L-1dDnX_MLo-Ps4l8IjUpyBgkkUBJw_awWHjVm1v814jpMyqY4pIkqcPkVldwIPWM/s200/cat.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-89033515176848139682009-09-16T16:54:00.000-07:002009-09-16T16:58:07.459-07:00Villanelle<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-large;">WRITER'S BLOCK</span></strong></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Today I’m suffering from writer’s block</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My head is empty, no thoughts to think –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I only sit and listen to the clock.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Could it be I’ve run amuck?</span><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sanity teetering on the brink?</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Today I’m suffering from writer’s block.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My head is heavy, filled with rock –</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My eyes are staring – Can’t even blink</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I only sit and listen to the clock.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am confused. I’m in a fog.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Cleverness gone – I’m on the blink!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Today I’m suffering from writer’s block.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">One deep breath, then I’ll take stock -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I know I <strong>must</strong> have thoughts to think –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I only sit and listen to the clock.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Where’s the key for my brain’s lock?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Where’s the fuel to help me think?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Today I’m suffering from writer’s block.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I only sit and listen to the clock</span>.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-R3sZ7DneIoGCpgvt2PgokPfg2tf68IUgiT1YXuQjKr9PXwSK0cSCZuUcDDEGmB093fSodFe0Ap3O2HwR7TWQhMAyJyBbZZUz4iwFF0NUDvD1eEFEFqnWgyRkb6hdC5uo1b26SDe9ib0/s1600/clock1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" mq="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-R3sZ7DneIoGCpgvt2PgokPfg2tf68IUgiT1YXuQjKr9PXwSK0cSCZuUcDDEGmB093fSodFe0Ap3O2HwR7TWQhMAyJyBbZZUz4iwFF0NUDvD1eEFEFqnWgyRkb6hdC5uo1b26SDe9ib0/s200/clock1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: justify;">Villanelle is a poetic form which entered English-language poetry in the 1800s from the imitation of French models. The word derives from the Italian villanella from Latin villanus (rustic). A villanelle has only two rhyme sounds. The first and third lines of the first stanza are rhyming refrains that alternate as the third line in each successive stanza and form a couplet at the close. A villanelle is nineteen lines long, consisting of five tercets and one concluding quatrain.</div>Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-64900810573390514462009-09-12T15:10:00.000-07:002009-09-12T15:10:25.619-07:00Antelope RunSilvery city, with the new city shine<br />
Streets laced with aspen<br />
New houses abound<br />
No antelope here, downtown Antelope Run<br />
Boutiques and cafes<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">All the newest of new</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg6FE1urYP8tuklV1Lyj-0fWfHlb0TqznuI901V6gL_GY_PMkxWui_0qOcbXnqtjB-HxudYXcHvbWcqWm3jISvptcjfy7HQvqZvw6-RGJVOdmdGcyLba7C75bgo7T-lEXzUQ0W1jvorlM/s1600-h/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" mq="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg6FE1urYP8tuklV1Lyj-0fWfHlb0TqznuI901V6gL_GY_PMkxWui_0qOcbXnqtjB-HxudYXcHvbWcqWm3jISvptcjfy7HQvqZvw6-RGJVOdmdGcyLba7C75bgo7T-lEXzUQ0W1jvorlM/s200/image001.jpg" /></a>Once Antelope Run was only a plan</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">An idea for building on difficult land</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Too rocky for growing much other than grass</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A commutable distance, and easy to sell</div>Half acre ranchettes, with golfing nearby.<br />
<br />
Now there’s Starbucks and Peets<br />
Only two blocks apart<br />
With tables outside, and bicycles parked.<br />
Velcro clad riders drink extravagant drinks<br />
Frappachino’s and lattes, Espresso drinks, too<br />
<br />
They’ve escaped from the city,<br />
They’ve followed a dream<br />
Country living this is, with the chicest of chic<br />
Mothers with children all carefully strapped<br />
In strollers for jogging, now how cool is that!<br />
<br />
Antelope Run isn’t sure what it is –<br />
No one has grown up here, the schools are new,<br />
No swings in the playgrounds – they simply aren’t safe<br />
Antelope Run is a city untested<br />
A sugar confection, as yet undigested.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2105880328040029481.post-52583435449422515762009-09-08T23:26:00.000-07:002009-09-08T23:26:48.034-07:00Tokonama,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bonsaispecials.nl/koya/album/tokonoma/slides/tokonama%20(13).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" mq="true" src="http://www.bonsaispecials.nl/koya/album/tokonoma/slides/tokonama%20(13).JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
A tokonoma is an alcove meant to rest the eye. <br />
It is the sole adornment of the room in which it stands. <br />
The tokonoma is looked upon, <br />
But never entered. <br />
<br />
The floor is raised, <br />
carpeted with tatami mats. <br />
To the left the eyes perceive a flawless beam, unvarnished, <br />
cut and planted so the moisture of the house can be absorbed – <br />
a beam that breathes. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.artisticbonsaicircle.co.uk/img/mr038b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" mq="true" src="http://www.artisticbonsaicircle.co.uk/img/mr038b.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>A simple flower, an arrangement of a single branch, <br />
is on the left as you look into the tokonoma - <br />
a solitary greeting from your host. <br />
Straight ahead there is a scroll hung high upon the wall, <br />
with oriental lettering. <br />
<br />
The scroll could be a poem or an ancient landscape, <br />
it doesn’t matter what it says or shows. <br />
To the right there is another,object, <br />
perhaps an incense burner,<br />
but no matching beam or plant to cause distraction.<br />
<br />
tokonoma seems to flow from left to right <br />
into a seamless space of solitude. <br />
The tokonoma is designed to bring forgetfulness,<br />
to still the senses, to remove complexities.Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956077696747602270noreply@blogger.com1