Holiday Travels

I'm in Orlando, Florida for a stretch of time with the grands alone- yes! Then my daughter and her husband join us in Jacksonville at my sis-in-law's for Christmas and New Years- double yes! I'll write when I can but major family fun is job one.

Happy Holidays to you all, hope your family time is fun too!

Clean Your Bones and Catch Some R & R

Bones are surprisigly 

difficult to keep clean,

turns out white wasn't 

the best choice for beings

without skin. A search

brought me years ago 

to a distant island spa 

for bones- a pink lake

surrounded by a rim

of sand for scraping feet

and a dense woodland

of paperbark trees 

against which to rub.

Salt crusts cover

the shoreline and whiten 

stained bones. 

The flattering pink color

might come from 

organisms 

(that don't harm) 

or might arise from a dye,

but we choose not to use 

that word, what with it being 

a spa. Pink draws 

the ladies though. They carry

home clear pink water

in necklace amulets

that catch the interest

of friends and spread

the word. Bones

worldwide come. 

The bright pink
lends an appropriate

other- worldly air, the pratical

aspects of bone care

are tended to while

peer to peer contact

is facilitated. A whole 

package solution.

For Hannah at Real Toads who has us writing about Lake Hillier, a bubble gum pink lake that sparked  this (much) lighter tone in my bone poems series.

Bone Whisperer

Winter solstice, 

short nights 

and cold in our bones,

we gather in the dell 

among the alders

to greet our newest member.

Fear wreaths her head 

as she feints left to run,

so I am called 

to calm her and explain 

the bone scrum we form. 

She doesn't know 

our ways,

the comfort 

we derive

from bone on bone,

but she brings 

the latest news,

other nights

so recently hers,

perhaps she brushed 

a loved one 

lost to us

and carries 

their faint scent.

We have orchards

of hunger

for all she has.

Posted for Mama Zen at the Garden who asked to use homophones in our poem. I used feint and faint. I also found words in another prompt and used dell, alders, wreaths, and orchards but didn't write down the source and now can't find it again. If anyone can tell me I'd be grateful. This is another in my bone poems series. 

Bone's End

By the end

all I sought

was peace,

pain dove so deep

that suffering 

fused to bone.

Bone's meant to

hold up and not be

source of the final fall.

Can bones be haunted?

I was at this failure

so fundamental.

Death came
as sweet escape,

a swift descent 

to the ground of all being.

From the bone poems' series, a Flash 55 for Marian at the Garden. I took the photo of a dolmen (portal tomb) in County Clare, Ireland.

This is My Brick

"We pave the sunlit path toward justice toether, brick by brick. This is my brick."

Tim Cook, CEO of Apple

If Tim Cook's brick is his announcement of being gay and the support that that might give someone else, what is my brick? I was going to say apart from raising a daughter to be a thriving woman, mother and environmentalist. But maybe Kelly is my brick even if her outcome is in her hands now. From the moment of her birth, when she first looked around in her old soul kind of way and I breathed in the scent of her, I was utterly and hopelessly in love with her. Her announcement when she was barely three and disagreed with something I said that I should think my thoughts and she would think her thoughts put me on alert that mothering Kelly would have its challenges. 

I can't take credit for her since she was so inner directed from the beginning, such her own force of nature not looking for much direction from me. But being her mother was deeply satisfying, great fun and a unique source of growth for me as a woman. Still is. It's her birthday today. (For the next month and a half until my birthday, my Dad is 98, I'm 68, Kelly is 38 and my granddaughter, Kamala, is 8.) I used to marvel when she was young because she wouldn't hesitate to tell someone what she thought or give them advice even if they were older. She had that clear thinking and confidence. It was the beginning manifestation of her wisdom.

If we're paving a sunlit path toward justice together then my daughter is a vital brick in that path. The justice of saving the rain forest, the justice of interracial harmony, the justice of attachment parenting and educating children based on their interests and inner drives. Plus, she plays a wicked game of Scrabble. I only began her trajectory but she has flown far and true and built a life based on her values. I admire her for that and feel grateful to be her mother. I'm glad we've done the (occasionally) hard work needed to change and solidify our relationship as adults. I love that we're friends and part of each other's lives. Happy Birthday, Sweetheart, I'm really glad you were born.

Unwitting Evangelists

Some folks live in negative territory every day, 

live on the wrongside of the demographic altogether. 

Errors of brain wiring force them into a granularity 

of vision that would terrify the likes of us. 

They struggle, with unyielding integrity, 

to leverage what right functioning they have 

and build some kind of strategic staircase to normality. 

Aberrant fears drill down into vulnerable minds 

feeding back godawful beliefs they can't quite shake, 

shame cascading over it all as if crazy 

wasn't enough to cope with. It's like some sinister 

reduction in force of brain's powers.

In this space, getting ducks in a row 

becomes an effort in grounding. They try to capture 

their colleagues, stakeholders who must come 

to the party, like Alice to the mad hatter, in another 

effort to keep their doors open, to make
their thinking 360 degrees once again. At the close of play,
though, the paradigm rarely shifts, hallucinations,
like low hanging fruit, pre-prepare them 

for the idea showers that never end. Brain storms abound.
They yearn to be platform atheists to their version 

of holistic cradle-to-grave disorder. Instead, 

they're product evangelists even as it loops back on them

and drives others away. Challenges- 

how to conversate, how to sprinkle magic 

over bizarre behaviors, how to touch base offline, 

overwhelm them while answers steer clear. 

Going forward means being lost in a maze on no one's radar

at the end of the day, actioning damaged from the get-go.

Tony Maude has us writing biz-speak, jargon and buzzwords over at the pub. After 36 years working with the seriously and persistently mentally ill, these phrases, silly in a business setting, became a way to better speak the mentally ill's remarkably difficult story. They have my respect.

Right Now

The mountains are gone this morning, closeted by gray clouds. Everywhere is wet from last night's rain and the start of more today. Night winds blew the tablecloth on the balcony into the arms of a chair as if purposely placed there. I've kept it on late this year with its golden background and whispy gray-green olive leaves in collaboration with the warm, sunny weather of these last three months, autumn stretched into December. 

The vines are bare, pared back after the recent harvest. Pruned olive branches are piled in the groves of our neighbors. Wind blows bits of fog from the hills' crevices and smoke, like a thicker, deliberately-placed fog, dots the fields as discarded branches burn despite the misty rain. The scent is of earth and rain. 

Sun, behind cloud layers, looks more like moon. Andrea Bocelli, on my playlist, fills the room with his glorious voice. As sky lightens and ground fog creeps back, the mountains are suspended in air, blue ghost mountains. There is only this moment of full presence, of clarity and connection.


For Marian's Open Link Monday at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads who talked about the importance of our attention as poets and writing what we experience and who asked us to write about what's going on in our little corner of the world.

Giving Thanks

I'm struck lately

by the bounty

of time given 

in retirement,

the stretch of day

to do as I want.

The burden is to choose

wisely, to plumb

my heart and play 

my stars, each day.

The grace

is the freedom 

of choice itself. 

What excites me,

interests me, draws me,

expands me? 

How can I move

toward those?

How can I fall

more in love with

life, this life, my life?

Read, write, run,

nurture family,

talk to John,

visit friends,

settle after years of travel,

become a hub,

although the 'of what'

can't be known yet. 

Weigh in

on what matters,

Step toward it.

Be an ally.

That's all. Except to

give thanks 

for this life.

 For Brian at dVerse Poets Pub who asked us to write what we're thankful for. I took the photo of the Swan Boats in Boston this past summer.

Race

It's the sheer scale of the problem that daunts,

and the skew of things contoured by years

of seeing blacks as shadowed strangers.

Lack of contact clouds judgement, fears

fly without relief from here to the horizon

at each report of black on white crime

with dirt retold on 24 hour news again

and again magnifying fear each time

as if we were waiting to be reoffended.

Are we? Offended is the right word 

but are we? Women are blamed for rape

and violence against them. Absurd.

Only men, allied with women, can stop rape and violence

against women. Only whites, allied with blacks, 

can stop racism. So, increase contact, read, listen,

speak up, speak out, have each other's backs.

Posted for my biracial grandchildren and for Grapeling over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads who gave us a word list inspired by his plane travel but which I took in another direction in the wake of Ferguson, MO and too many similar incidents. In spite of the scale of the problem, we must believe we can effect change and then do it. If not now, when? If not me, who?

Who I Am

I'm red hair 

but not its quick temper,

except sometimes.

I'm freckles

that trace a map

of other lands on my face.

I'm muscular legs

that run me where I want

and take me to unfrequented places.

I'm fingers curled over

a keyboard capturing words

black on white.

I'm hungry mind seeking words,

filled by reading them,

yearning to learn new ones, 

playing games of them.

I'm celtic mix that savors

family, gathers it, celebrates it,

cheers it on, helps fix it.

I'm broken one

at home with other broken ones,

on their side, arms around their shoulders.

I'm woman in love

with other women, 

with bone feel for our 

persistent plight.

I'm woman in forty- year love 

with a man, a singular

bright light man who

shows me clear blue sky.

I'm mother, brave

enough to bear a girl child

and raise her to be brave.

I'm grandmother to two dear ones who

bring me dragons and build new worlds.

I'm threshold ready to expand. 

I'm wise elder to my tribe

and beyond.

Posted for Brian, who's hosting at Poetry Jam and asked us to write about who we are.

Fair Bones

The good thing about bones

is there can be no comparisons,

who's thinner, who's better looking or better dressed.

We can tell males from females, of course,

the angles of bones and width of spaces,

but expectations don't hinge on that

or judgements formed.

The problem with bones

is the lack  

of skin to hold us in, 

the vulnerability to breaks,

the hunger

that can never be stilled 

and the question we debate endlessly

of contact with the living.

We know things 

and want to pass them on,

especially to those 

who share our marrow

but the how 

eludes us.

That's what bones seek:
to be wrapped in skin again, to talk, to be heard.


Gay Reiser Cannon has us writing about "fair" over at the dVerse Pots Pub, Meeting the Bar. She gave various definitions but since I'm on a bone kick, I chose fair as "having a disposition free of favoritism or bias" for this and found bones to meet that standard in an exceptional way.

Bone Dreams

I dreamt last night.

It answered my question

about whether the dead dream.

Must mean dreams come from bones

not brains, bones as scaffolding 

for psych and soul with the DNA of generations 

carried deep within 

bones' marrow.

But about that dream,

some ancestral reverberation 

straight from the marrow,

grandfathers galloping through,

priests stealing things from children,

a girl rising up to accuse the priest,

she took things back too, wanted to reclaim

her grandfather's treasures, 

hand-carved.

That's what you can do with bones:

stand, yell, take, hold, dream.

Inspired by Grace at dVerse Poets Pub who wrote about The Book of the Dead Man by Marvin Bell and asked us for a poem written by one dead. The link has expired but here it is posted for Mama Zen with Words Count in the Garden who wrote of the circus and requested 90 words or less about which performer you are. This is skeleton man, or dead man walking.

A Country You Carry in Your Pocket

A country you carry in your pocket,

stays there as forgotten as pocket lint

but filters your perceptions, marks you plain when 

you walk through the world, it's not only you,

your country is in your pocket, carried lightly

or heavy in its heft, gravid as you meet others

with other countries in their pockets.

Posted too late for Mama Zen's Flash Fiction 55 over in the Garden so here it is for Kerry's Open Link instead. Inspired by Brian at the dVerse Poets Pub who shared the first line in one of his posts. It got me thinking of my experiences living in Italy and traveling around Europe.

This Poem Is the Poppies

This poem is the poppies,
one red ceramic poppy
for each British soldier killed
in WWI, a castle moat
filled with a red sea planted
in waves by silent volunteers
stretched as far as eyes can see
and farther than hearts can bare.
This poem is the war
did not end wars.
It happened again
and again and again.


Posted for Gabriella at dVerse Poets Pub who has us writing War Poetry. I saw this exhibit in London in September where a single red ceramic poppy was planted in the moat around London Tower for each soldier lost in WWI. There will be 800,000 when finished so this is just a fraction. WWI was called the war to end wars at the time. There were over 37 million military and civilian casualties.

A Poem in October

October here is not the October of my youth,

days remain warm even while nights cool,

sun invites final days of outside dining,

children catch last hours of outdoor play.

Grapes, harvested in great trucks, are pressed

and judgements made on the stamp this year's weather,

vines are cut back to trunk, ground tidied for the coming year,

all focus is now on making wine with the year's distinctive vintage.

Olives, coaxed from generations old trees, spill on the ground

to be scooped into burlap bags and quickly pressed for oil,

shared with pickers, family and friends before sale of all excess,

pruned branches burn in fields and scent the air with turf- like smells.

Octobers of my youth were things of color,

an extravaganza of New England fall colors,

New England at its best, a lavish 

showiness of reds, yellows, oranges, fuchsia,

the abandonment of Pilgrim reserve to flaunt a ruckus of color,

whole mountainsides wild with flamboyant spectacle,

the boisterous rave of hills doubled in reflective lakes,

even small ponds mirrored the elaborate abundance of color

to dazzle us before the bare thickets of winter appeared,

fallen leaves filled yards, got pressed to preserve color

against the black and white of winter,

were fingered while lingering in front of winter fires.


Posted for Open Link Monday with Magaly at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and prompted by Kerry's earlier encouragement to read Dylan Thomas's  Poem in October. 
I took the photo in New Hampshire.

A Bag in the Road

At first she thought the lump in the road

was discarded corn casings,

the fine silk of corn tassel,

the curve of bag from stripped husks

left fom corn pickers, maize huskers,

the cobs were sent to cribs, shelled and ground for pone

or left for seed at the chandler

(seed corn must not be ground),

the botany of maize bran, of grain foraged 

from fields now bare. A world she knew.

But there was movement, slight, not from 

wind breeze or road heaves or passing cars.

She saw it, felt her heart beat faster,  

a wretch start in her stomach, she walked

on heavy feet that didn't want to carry her

to or away from that curved bag with the gold tassels.

For Margaret's Play it Again Toads over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. I picked Hallow's Edge by Ella that had us take a line from a ghost poem. I used "at fist she thought the lump in the road..." from Red String by Minnie Bruce Pratt.

Ritual Disguised

A grain of red where my heart used to be,

the smallest of wounds barely visible,

portal to trick things out and in, free

but with unknown dangers able

to bring me to my knees. A grain of prayer

offered in sacrifice to bring healing balm

and let escape the tigers who bare

their teeth like shards to slaughter calm.

A grain of peace planted deep

within, may it flourish in dark soil,

spread its roots in the tangle that keeps

all in place while veiled in its roil 

is well- churned moil swirling grains

of smokey doubt harbored in the red 

wound as steady beat entrains

strict rhythym in place of easy tread.


Offered for Grapeling's Get Listed Ghost Stories over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Out of his October words I used: portal, trick, sacrifice, slaughter, veil, smoke and in the title: ritual, disguise. Original inspiration, however, came from Kerry's Sunday Mini-challenge: In Other Words- A grain of __.

Gnawin' On It - Happy 41st Anniversary!

"They say it's hard to keep it going

When you're together for so long

They say combustion's for the youngsters

We should be glad we get along

But they don't know nothin' 'bout it

The way you love me it's a shame

'Cause there ain't nobody better

Blowin' embers to a flame."

Let's just keep gnawin' on it, Honey, ain't nobody better!

Harvest

Here in this land

where harvests really happen,

a long way from home,

this land where I now stand

and watch the gathering of grapes,

the press of olives just picked,

the harvest of gourds

that wear withering leaves like capes.

Strange that something so foreign

to my coordinates throws me back 

to where I began,

from harvest years to dawn.

A city child steeped

in one country's history

with hair and skin of another,

people in search of a land to dream deep.

And how those city ways

shaped me, formed the curve of my spine,

gave me the resolve needed for what I faced,

left me with enough for all my days.

Keep it Slow and Savor

In love, start, then keep it slow and savor.
Just kiss at first stretched out full side by side,
focus on each sensation and flavor,
keep it slow and savor.

Speak quiet words to your belov'd, confide
how love is a cherished gift, a laver,
bathed and refreshed in the ebb flow of tide

this season and next, each act a paver
building the whole for days and years 'till wide
and high is love's monument and favor.
Keep it slow and savor.


A too late Roundel for Margaret's Play it Again over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads writing for Ella's (second) Chakra prompt, so posted for Fireblossom's Open Link Monday at The Garden and (also too late) for the dVerse Poet's Pub.

Where I'm From

I'm from paved over cow paths 

leading to a central common

where modern stands side by side with

historic and holds the pride of hub to the rest.

My people came here from elsewhere

and left the map of those lands on my face

so I never quite fit, didn't look like most others.

My wandering ancestors

came from other places searching

for what they thought more important

than home, willing to make a new home

rather than live without, or who were driven

out by those who wanted what they had.

It all left its mark, so I call one place home

but search ancestral homelands to find

those left pieces of me to make me whole.

Meanwhile, my displaced people displaced others

to claim what they had, as if one could have

what another had by the wish or the taking.

My heritage is immigrant and for how long homeless?

For Poets United with the theme of Heritage Day. I took the photo in Boston during a visit in August.

This Morning

                                                                                 image by Brooke Shaden

I watched you

pulled from sleep

into the shadowland

between wake and sleep

you murmered

something indistinct

eyes still closed

against the dawn

half remembered dreams

played on your face

before today's task

list takeover

you stretched your limbs

back arched just so

when you opened your eyes

I'm the one you saw

gathering you in.


Inspired by the photography of Brooke Shaden as presented by Grace (aka Heaven) over at dVerse Poets Pub. Brooke talked about finding what you're passionate about and, after 41 years with my Honey, it was an easy answer for me.

Heavy Arms

The babe was sick when he left

but only slightly as babies do.

He was their first, a strapping boy,

thier farm was large and far from town.

He needed to fish with his neighbors 

to salt the cod and lay in stores for winter,

their open dory powered by rowing in turn

while the rest fished open seas far from shore.

When it was the young father's turn to row

his arms felt far too heavy for this task.

He knew it was a sign to direct him

and told the others to take him back.

He knew something was wrong, his wife 

had need of him. He returned to find 

his small son dead in his wife's arms.

Let me take him, May, he's gone.

He built the casket  

from the wood of his land and lay the babe inside

then carried him down the aisle 

of their church to ask final blessings. 

As he sat next to his young wife

he told her that the heft of the casket in his arms

was the same he felt in the boat,

the sign sent to bring him home.

There were no shortage of such stories in our Irish/Scottish family growing up. This is a true story of my grandparents in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia when they lost their first baby in 1914. My mother was born the following year. The photo is of my grandmother with my mother and uncle. 

For Kerry at The Garden who asked us to write about Superstition or Science. This story, like many, falls somewhere in between.

To Travel Well

If you want to travel well

you must be prepared to lose things

to lose the certitude of best ways to do things

or right ways or that anyone can know such treachery

to lose the sense of one place as the center 

holding answers for all the world

or that one language can best capture thought

so all others should wrap their tongues around right words

to lose the belief that one religion outranks others

that other beliefs are strange, misguided, unenlightened

or that one culture reigns supreme, the final answer

with keys to unlock all mysteries

if you want to travel well 

you must be prepared to gain things

to gain certitude of best as cumulative

that right energy can be forged collaboratively

to gain ardor that our world is vast and central

and needs protection so answers can be discovered in alliance

that each language builds in a unique world view

not to be neglected even if we choose a common language

to gain the belief that religion's role is to point toward the holy

and that we're all holy within a holy world superceding dogma

that each culture takes its place in the scheme of things as one piece

of the whole which together can shed light on all mysteries

to travel well one must be prepared to be ambushed

by the beauty that awaits day after day

to grow tender toward the children of each place

as they play and meet strangers and live in sometimes unimaginable 

circumstances and call it home yet stay open to travelers

ready to lose separateness and gain oneness and be our teachers in this 

it takes a fearlessness, this traveling, an open heartedness

that stands ready to call sister, to call brother, to say yes.


In response to Poetics: Travel Poetry prompt by Gabriella at dVerse Poets Pub although I missed the deadline and for Grapeling's Get Listed- September with words from "The Art of War" over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads. I used capture, neglected, ardor, energy, alliance, treachery and scheme.

Light from Darkness

I thought of something funny today and went to call you.

Since you're so newly gone, abruptly gone, I forgot

for one gift of a minute, the way I can't in night's long hours.

It's new to me since you're the first of us to go. Dad, at 98, says 

you learn to handle it after more and more deaths of loved ones, but 

I haven't mastered that detachment that doesn't succumb to

grief, doesn't get squeezed by grief's tight band,

doesn't wish for one more chance to say what I worry 

you didn't know: that I love you and miss you. Just that. Instead, 
I must trust you have peace, that you've gone from the formless dark

of death to the light described by poets and saints.


For Open Link Monday at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads.

Fare Thee Well Love

 My brother's remains were laid to rest on Saturday, August 16, 2014 at a beach on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. The beach was a lovely, secluded spot near where our mother was born. She often talked of their family farm that ran from the mountains to the sea and this beautiful beach fit that description perfectly. When I saw it and remembered Don's desire to visit Mom's birth place, I knew it was the best place to release his ashes. As my Honey, our daughter and two grandchildren drove to the beach we were listening to a new CD, These Are The Moments by the Rankin Family, and the song below started to play as we crested the hill: "Fare Thee Well Love". It made me cry. It was written by Jimmy Rankin from nearby Mabou, Cape Breton and expressed my feelings well. 

 This trip started out to be a retracing of my roots with John, Kelly and the kids in Prince Edward Island, Cape Breton Island and Boston. Having Don's remains added a dimension to the agenda in an unexpected but meaningful way. It was like having him with me to find his final resting place. We found a good one. Nearby was a cemetery filled with familiar Scottish names of our childhood, including many graves with our mother's maiden name, in this the place where my mother, grandfather and his father were born. So Don is back where his namesake, our greatgrandfather, is buried. 

 The day was cloudy in that almost raining kind of way and the sea had small but strong waves to receive and scatter the urn. I like that the urn had footprints on it, the footprints we leave behind as markers of our presence, and was built to dissolve in the arms of the sea. The Atlantic recieved his ashes and blended them with the elements of all other life in this ancient place from which we came. He's home. May he rest in peace. 

Fare thee well love by Jimmy Rankin is on this video on YouTube:
 http://youtu.be/X6-mo4jS8VI

I feel honored to have had this hard task.

On the Road Again...

I'm heading to the US for vacation time with family and friends. I'll have five weeks with my daughter and the grands and take time in Florida, Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island on a maternal heritage tour. It will be quite a journey and I'm excited. I'll check in as able.

May the rest of your summer be filled with fun activities.

My Other Self- A Video from Rugged Grace

Fireblossom's Friday challenge at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads to write to my other self got me thinking; who would I be in an alternate world? It's been hard to put in words but when I saw this video from Rugged Grace I got excited. My other self is an athlete with a strong, athletic body that I love and find beautiful. So this is a visual poem from tumblr on the members of the Harvard Women's Rugby team who wrote on each other's bodies what they appreciated about their teammates. The video connects to further photos and the article in the Harvard Political Review that inspired it: 'An Exercise in Body Image'. It's a beautiful 5 minutes.
I think I'll take this ultimate self-affirming political step with her- make our bodies strong and love them as they are.

Video: http://ruggedgrace.tumblr.com/post/89333559900

A Long Road

The road is long,

and not the way

we planned. Is it wrong

to want? We played

the ones who trust,

in what, or whom,

the world, the busts

of saints? What's true

my love? Predict.

You know of roads,

of faith, of strict

response that holds

a hope aloft

when up is how

the road and croft

seems bent. We bow,

exist to serve,

belong with traits

of skill and verve,

but still, we wait.


For Susie's Bits of Inspiration- The Yellow Brick Road over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads.
I took the photo in Trinidad.

Awaiting Return

Swallows swoop the sky at sunset,

ride currents on curved wings, slice the firmament.

Do they await return, like me, or, because of my amazement,

write sky script meassages with hidden meanings,

that mark how far apart we are? Me, an earth-bound being unable to fly 

or follow instincts toward home, they who own the sky.

My wait has been long.



Written for Grace's prompt yesterday which introduced the poetry of Claribel Alegria to the Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads. One of Grace's suggestions was to take a line of her poetry and use it in our own poem. I took two lines: "because of my amazement" from her poem Rain and "My wait has been long." from Sorrow (after reading Kerry's comment). I'm a little slower so I post it today for open link Monday on their third anniversary. 
I took the photo in a garden in Ireland.

Though I am Old With Wandering...

I've traveled in my life,

found fresh vistas for hungry eyes,

moved forward toward the novel and

exchanged the customary close to my heart

to defy convention and shake loose moorings

that constrain even while they comfort. 

Something entirely new can then burst forth,

a friendship forged across boundaries of age and culture.

This place of connection against all odds

is the magic I've found and the highest degree of accuracy. 

We are one, this bench mark mapped,

the landmark of depth, formlines of home

set in our true coordinates.

This is written in response to two prompts at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads: the first from Helen to write of the travels in our life and the magic of what we've found and use map terms (used- degree of accuracy, bench mark, depth, landmark, coordinates, formlines) and the second prompt from Grapeling to use words from the July word list (used- fresh, burst, defy, forward, customary). Mario, in the photo with me, is 84 and from Montalcino, Italy.

Interview with the Grands

Both of my grands live in the rain forest of Trinidad and are schooled at home using an approach called Unschooling, an interest based (rather than curriculum based) learning. I thought it would be fun to ask them about their lives to see how this approach is working for them. I was impressed at how thoughtfully they answered my questions.


Kahlil, age 11

G. Kahlil, tell me about this photo- why are you dressed up?
K. My mother had a leveling- up party for me when I reached level 55 in Heroes of Order and Chaos, an online game. I was happy to get to that level (now I'm at 63) but sad I only have 7 levels left in the game. This is the outfit I wore for the party. I like the fedora and the purple shirt and tie and think I look awesome in them.

G. You're schooled at home, how do you like that?
K. I like it, especially getting to do the things I'm interested in and enjoy doing rather than what someone else thinks I should be doing.

G. What interests you most these days?
K. Online gaming. My favorite right now is Heroes of Order and Chaos Online. I like it because it's a strategy game and is played with other players all over the world. I get to choose my character and the type of characteristics it has. It lets me do anything, like riding a horse or swordplay. When I'm in a game, lots of types of characters are needed to work cooperatively to achieve levels. I have many friends and I like playing with them. Someday I'd like to design and test games.

G. Tell me about your new business.
K. I'm a Business Manager and represent two businesses so far. My sister has a baking business called Smiles Bakery and my friend has a tie dye business called Color Splash. It's still in the development phase so I've set up a Facebook Page to describe the two businesses and will then develop a website for both of them. I'll help them with the business end of things, like ordering, supplies and money in and out. I'll get a percentage of what they make but we haven't decided how much.

G. What makes you proud of yourself?
K. 1. What I've accomplished in games, the levels I've reached, the characters I've chosen, the friends I've made and the fun I've had.
     2. Helping my sister and my friend in their new businesses.
     3. That I play well with little kids. I like them and they're fun.
     4. That my friends where I live like to come to my house to play.

G. Any last words to my readers?
K. I like to play online games and I know other kids do, too. Tell them to find me and I'll play with them.



Kamala, age 8

G. What do you enjoy doing these days?
K. My favorites things are baking and painting. I like baking because I can try out different things and create things, like when I made a cream cheese and orange frosting for chocolate cupcakes it came out more like a glaze or when I didn't have chocolate chips for cookies, I used cacao nibs in my cookies and people liked them better. I go to You Tube to find new things to make and how to make them.
I like painting because I can do anything and it looks good.

G. Any other interests?
K. Yes, fashion and design. I like to find clothes that look good on me. I look for reasonable prices and something a little extra, like the long necklace that came on my new dress. I also design clothes myself on paper with stencils and colored pencils.

G. What do you like about being schooled at home?
K. I like having lots of free time to do the things I like. I use some work books to learn things but I also Skype you and my friends and do all the other things I'm interested in.

G. Tell me about your new business.
K. It's called Smiles Bakery and I make cupcakes and cookies that people order. I've already had two orders. I made a business card that has a photo of one of my cupcakes and the way to contact me. Mommy got them printed for me but they were my idea.
I like that people can enjoy what I make and that I make money. I'm saving to buy a yogurt machine. I'm thinking about setting up a store front and putting up a sign to sell cupcakes and cookies to hikers and friends.

G. What makes you proud of yourself?
K. Being here right now. Having friends and family to talk to and tell them how I feel. Owning my own business. And my talents, like singing, baking, painting and writing. I'm learning how to write cursive and to spell.

G. Anything else you'd like to say to my readers?
K. I live in nature but I can still pull off a cupcake!

A Meditation: The Song Of Wandering Aengus - Christy Moore

Here's another thing I admire about the Irish; not only do they love their poets but they put their poems to song. This meditative piece is Christy Moore singing The Song of Wandering Aengus, by W.B. Yeats. Such a gorgeous poem/ song. Just listen and enjoy.

Here are the words:

The Song of Wandering Aengus

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

Shared under the Fair Use Guidelines, no copyright infringement intended.

How to Have a Happy Summer

Befriend the young;

they're fun to hang out with,

see it all fresh and have unfettered hearts.

Befriend other women;

they walk our path,

mirror our souls and lend their comfort.

Befriend other couples;

they are mentors,

supporters and cheerleaders.

Play games;

they keep you sharp and happy

and give you a way to connect with the young.

Go out for coffee;

find a cafe that writes happy messages to you

and serves little sweet extras to start your day right.

Hope your summer is a happy one. Better yet, make it happy! What would that look like for you?

Simple Joys

My Honey and I took a stroll through our town with friends. Summer weather, sunny and dry, is here to enjoy. We sat for awhile on a bench in a new square just built and planted. I love the old wall next to the newly painted one and the sculpture in the center. We have sculptures all over town. We ate gelato and admired the flowers. That's all. Seems like I've absorbed some of the Italian lifestyle.

It was our first gelato of the season from one of our cafes. I sat on the bench next to the profusion of flowers in the photo. Such lovely colors.

When we returned home my Honey made baked stuffed zucchini and salad with orange and fennel, served with a local white wine. Delicious. La dolce vita.

Wishing you summer's abundance and simple pleasures.