If at the end of the day
If there was a magical way,
That clouds could suck up the fear,
All pain, bloodshed, the tears,
Angry words people say
And carry it on red wings of wind
Beyond the abyss of time
Never to return again
We would celebrate cloudy days.
Photo:Evening Sky~©️Val Letkeman
I make things complicated for myself and chaotic, so I feel unsettled, and then the challenge is to make something structured and complete emerge from that.
I am packing for a trip. A short jaunt. But packing unsettles me. Do I really need 3 pairs of shoes? What if it rains? Where are my sunglasses?….and the beat goes on, la dee dah. Experience has shown that I overpack. If I’m not careful I will let my joy get stolen. And the ransom may be more than I want to pay.
So I’ve taken a breather. My packing will be complete. It always does. I am writing a poem to celebrate my freedom from packing blues, spilling chaotic thoughts, into a summer night wind that’s reflecting summer’s heat. ❤️
As the wind
my mind is wafting
in and out
of conscious thought
whirling in a sea
Stirring up what
they aught not
old barriers worn
o’r what really matters
Unsettled as the wind. vcl©️
“The Louvre is a good book to consult, but it must only be an intermediary. The real and immense study that must be taken up is the manifold picture of nature.” – Paul Cezanne
I was perusing old photos today and amongst the pile, this one kinda stood out. There is an old saying by Osho that sums up my thoughts.. He says….
“If you love a flower, don’t pick it up. Because if you pick it up it dies and it ceases to be what you love.
So if you love a flower, let it be. Love is not about possession. Love is about appreciation.”
I was mindful. I didn’t pick it up with my hands. I did snap a picture though and take it home with me. I now can pick up this flower whenever I choose and it still gives me joy. The same joy that I felt when I first saw it. See the lush tones? The pinks and greens, each petal and flower a masterpiece? The open invitation to smell its nectar? If only it was scratch and sniff…if only to share with you dear reader…for my memory can conjure its perfume even now. 🎶I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart …where? …down in my heart to stay. 🎶
I know that everything essential and great originated from the fact that the human being had a homeland and was rooted in tradition.” Martin Heidegger
This past week I received a call from one of my daughters asking if I would like a jar of her first batch of crabapple jelly. I was so excited to be picked as a taste tester! It was her first try at canning and her excitement was catchable, as she had not shown an interest in this ancient art, although I had done a lot of it in her growing up years.
Canning brings back so many memories of my childhood. I remember my mother carefully washing jars, lids, and rings. While they air dried, I can remember her washing the cucumbers and making the brine for the dill pickles. Then taking the jars and filling them with either sliced cucumbers or whole small cucumbers.
She’d pour the brine into the jars and lower them into the canner. After they boiled for a time, she’d carefully lift them out, line them in neat little rows, and cover them. We’d all anxiously wait for that loud “pop” that let us know that the jars were sealed properly. Oh the memories!!!
Each newly harvested fruit and veggie had its own place in the canning que. One year I counted 82 quarts of strawberries. They were all gone by New Years 😳
Well, needless to say, the crabapple jelly is delicious, especially on Cobb’s bread transformed into French Toast that was to die for…..❤️ There’s the picture to prove it😍
Next we tackle dills…but canning is so much easier today because after you fill your jars and close them, you just stick them in the dishwasher and after a complete cycle…voila …Done! Except we still wait for the “pop”. It’s just tradition.
We celebrated our 45th Wedding Anniversary yesterday.
With ice cream. Hot fudge brownie sundaes. Two of them.
We joke as usual, we aren’t ready to share, yet.
But we bought the same flavour. Perhaps that’s the secret of 45 years and beyond.
“All that is not eternal is eternally out of date.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
I thank God for ice cream ❤️
I vowed to live simply.
My internet crashed.
I learned that I could not live
As simply as that.
I am redefining simply.
Poetry is my first love. I remember arguing with my various English teachers about the poetry assignments. How could we truly know the meaning of a poem if the poet wasn’t alive to tell us? How could my interpretation be wrong if that was how I read it? Who really understands a poet’s heart except one who feels the same angst, awe or joy from the outpourings of the individual heart? Why did l feel such joy in perusing the pencilled words, black against the crisp white page? (Always pencil- revise, revise)😬
The internet has opened up such a banquet table from which to feast (and occasionally gorge ) on an innumerable array of poetic offerings. I enjoy various styles, but find great delight in the Tanka (Gogyoshi style ) promoted by Japanese mentor Taro Aizu. You can catch more of our work on Facebook * World Five-Line Poems.
This page requests submissions of 5 line poetry only. Other examples of 5 lines are limericks, Tanka, Cinquain and so on. Perhaps I’ll see you there?
Well July is the month of new birth and lovely summer lollygagging.
It is also the season of butterflies.
One of the disasters of growing old in the city is the lack of natural life. When I was young I had the gift of field and brook, beavers building dams, lovely lily of the valley, and Canterbury snow bells. Did I mention Bleeding Hearts and the rare Lynx sitting in the back yard licking its paws at dawn? Then there was the moose that ran past the window on its way to the river….but I digress.
Butterflies~I must confess, fill me with awe. I had the joy of visiting the Butterfly House in Victoria BC awhile back. It was a lovely experience, all stages of butterfly life in one spot.
I remember well the butterflies of my childhood, as they danced and flitted, fluttered and kissed the flowers as they swayed in the sunshine. I lay in the un-mowed grasses wishing one would land on my nose…and if it did I promised myself I would lay so still, with no breath at all…to see if the butterfly would smile back at me or kiss the tip before it moved on.
So July for me, is still the season of butterflies. We have planted the flowers and of course I lay in the tall grasses. But now my grandchildren worry that I need help getting up. I want them to experience the wonder, the ecstasy, the fluttering of Butterflies. I want to tell them and you dear reader that we are all butterflies.
“What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.”
Leaning in, washing,
soaping away the day,
I broodingly eye the sudsy water …
coil and swirl down the drain,
taking the grime of life with it.
Is that weariness I see clinging to the
basin edges? I wipe it clean, loosening it’s grip
before it finds me again, re-settling.
There is no such thing as an old sunset.
Each brilliant stroke paints new opportunity,
reflecting hope for another day,
another chance to make things better.
24 hours to make a difference.
Behold all things new.
I have discovered Eunoia.
Perhaps it has discovered me.
A beautiful well-minded word,
It’s hard to tell but, it makes it’s Amazing Effort Involving Offering Understanding,
And sometimes in love it Yields.
*Every selected text blends when expressed excellently. (Example)
Book:Eunoia ~Canadian Author: Christian Bok