Tuesday, July 3, 2012
"The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.
But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.
It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everthing.
. . . ~ Mary Oliver, from "Flare - 8." The Leaf and the Cloud
My mom wore this watch
throughout the 50's and 60's -
her late 20's and 30's.
I loved it on her slender wrist
against her iodine and baby oil tan.
In evening dress it competed with the
sparkle of crystals at her ears
and moxie in her eyes.
For a couple of years,
it tolerated tendrils of smoke from her cigarette.
She smoked to "keep my dad company"
but didn't care for the way it made her feel.
She smiled gently at him with raised eyebrows
at the surgeon general's report -
put the last one down with a defiant stomp of heel.
The watch's bangle style faded with her tan
as new reports had her hiding from the sun
and the watch was mine to adore.
I wore it throughout high school,college ...
it survived hippie, grunge, preppie, career ...
my constant ... my talisman ... my tennis bracelet statement
ahead of its time or mine.
Then I disappointed myself
and there came a day
I shrunk so small the bangle watch
slid down, down - into a dark box - and away.
And then again ... when I became a mom and feeling strong
the nights with babies grew too long
and, bored, I stumbled upon - the box.
With trembling hand and smiling eyes
I recognized; it sympathized -
I came undone - slipped it on .... once more.
When I wore it I felt fearless ... controlled ... contained
It seemed to tick and tock my name
in my mama's voice and it sounded like love.
I wore it most every day ...
until my near-divorce
and again I hid it in the dark box and away
- my connection to who I've been
and who I am and how I've loved
and been loved along the way.
I found it again today.
It feels glorious and at home upon my wrist
reminiscent of my mama's smile
I hope and pray it's here to stay..
© Susan M. Kennedy 2012
And when the roses are half-bud soft flowers
And lovely as the king of flies has come
It was a fleeting visit, all too brief
In three short minutes, he had been and gone
He rested there upon an apple leaf
A gorgeous opal crown sat on his head
Although the garden is a lovely place
Was it worthy of so fine a guest
Dragonfly, dragonfly ...
Mystery Flower Solved ... hypericum
These were fillers in my Mother's Day roses (see the little bud to the left) and to my surprise and delight several of them bloomed a few days later ...
Definition of CUSP
: point, apex: as a : a point of transition (as from one historical period to the next) : turning point; also : edge, verge
My McKenzie at her graduation program ... in a few months she'll become a teenager - next year is middle school! Wow, do I love this amazing, loving, smart, talented, funny young woman - can't wait to see what she does next.. :-D
by William Cullen Bryant
A power is on the earth and in the air,
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid,
and shelters him in nooks of deepest shade,
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare.
Look forth upon the earth—her thousand plants
Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze;
The herd beside the shaded fountain pants;
For life is driven from all the landscape brown;
The bird hath sought his tree, the snake his den,
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men
Drop by the sunstroke in the populous town:
As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent
Its deadly breath into the firmament.
I've not yet met these wonderful people ... but they live a few blocks from me. There is only one road in/out of my neighborhood and so I pass by their home each day - and always look forward to it.. Each year they have their huge back lot filled with wildflowers -- from spring throughout summer. They've sprinkled the area, too, with rusty antique farming tools -- so it's not only quite lovely - they aren't faced with mowing this large area each week!
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.
And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.
I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.
He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.
He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art;
'T is a song of the merriest.
O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.
Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.
So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.
Monet, Rembrandt and Picaso were also once three ..., a photo by Sparky2* on Flickr.
of being three and unafraid to stand tall
in practically nothing at all but warm sun
letting brand new notions go,
flow unchecked, unapologetic.
For now he knows only the touch of soft wind on his back
the sounds of water and birds and barking dog
the scents of rosemary, gardenia and purple sage nearby
the taste of apples and cinnamon still sweet on his tongue
He sees the rich browns of chocolate in his cookie, fire engine reds
the perfect light that shines back at him from our eyes -
and there it all is ... captured on his canvas.
. . .© Susan M. Kennedy 2012
. .by James Galvin
Let us begin with a simple line,
Drawn as a child would draw it,
To indicate the horizon,
More real than the real horizon,
Which is less than line,
Which is visible abstraction, a ratio.
The line ravishes the page with implications
Of white earth, white sky!
The horizon moves as we move,
Making us feel central.
But the horizon is an empty shell—
Strange radius whose center is peripheral.
As the horizon draws us on, withdrawing,
The line draws us in,
Requiring further lines,
Engendering curves, verticals, diagonals,
Urging shades, shapes, figures…
What should we place, in all good faith,
On the horizon? A stone?
An empty chair? A submarine?
Take your time. Take it easy.
The horizon will not stop abstracting us.
by Charles Reznikoff
Not because of victories
but for the common sunshine,
the largess of the spring.
Not for victory
but for the day's work done
as well as I was able;
not for a seat upon the dais
but at the common table.
[ from early June ]
Old Apple Box ..., a photo by Sparky2* on Flickr.
...Score! Found it at a garage sale ... ♥♥♥ "Canadian Apples" - makes me think of all my Canadian friends! :-)
[ from mid May ]
Mother's Day Gift of Lilies ... :-)
The butterfly bush is now ovr 15ft tall - and solid with blooms, and bees and butterflies!
At any rate, the tiny seed starter pot on top still reads "Black-eyed". I didn't have time this year for doing anything at all with a thought toward spring in my backyard so at least the pots aren't sitting idle; they're simply making lovely water music instead of flowers! ;-)