Posts Tagged With: poetry

TO MISSING FAMILY MEMBERS.

Thanksgiving day, we will be missing several family members. Some years are like that. But, Doug, my son building my house in Oregon, though within driving  range, and a famous cookie baker, is missing and we will sorely miss him. So, this old Edgar Guest poem seemed a proper tribute. He will join folks at the grange and help them cook. Another of his talents.

THE COOKIE JAR   by Edgar Guest

You can rig up a house with all manner of things,
The prayer rugs of sultans and princes and kings;
You can hang on its wall the old tapestries rare
Which some dead Egyptian once treasured with care;
But though costly and gorgeous its furnishings are,
It must have, to be homelike, an old cookie jar.

There are just a few things that a home must possess,
Besides all your money and all your success—
A few good old books which some loved one has read,
Some trinkets of those whose sweet spirits have fled,
And then in the pantry, not shoved back too far
For the hungry to get to, that old cookie jar.

Let the house be a mansion, I care not at all!
Let the finest of pictures be hung on each wall,
Let the carpets be made of the richest velour,
And the chairs only those which great wealth
can procure,
I’d still want to keep for the joy of my flock
That homey, old fashioned, well-filled cookie crock.

Like the love of the Mother it shines through our years;
It has soothed all our hurts and dried away tears;
It has paid us for toiling; in sorrow or joy,
It has always shown kindness to each girl and boy;
And I’m sorry for people, whoever they are,
Who live in a house where there’s no cookie jar.

Cedric is the chief pie baker and he, along with daughter Virginia, who prepares a pear tart every year,  and grandsons Owen and Theo, who supply lots of  noise and fun,  are in Australia. We will miss you so much.

Daughter-in-law Laurie has stepped into the gap, and is preparing the pies.

Kristanne and Austin and Mason, will also be absent. It feels downright cruel to be missing so many at this family time of year. When it comes to the clatter round the table, the dogs and yak and fun;  the card games and a bit of wine. we’ll try, but without Kristanne,  and Austin and Mason to banter, we feel a loss for those missing three.

This poem FAMILY, by Suzanne Comer Bell describes it perfectly.

Inside a house they reassemble—
food an operation on the table,
dogs sealed against the back steps
waiting for the blessed day’s remains,
and a world of neighbors knows
to leave their gifts and wishes at the door—
then they eat and eat, clear, clean the table,
move to the kitchen and rumble family tales
til the ancestors sound, drown the silver clatter—
no bounds here to joyful noise because it’s family—
then disappear, each wandering off
to a silent, private nest, where
inside the cocoon of sleep will grow
the shapes and skills of being in this family.
One by one they’ll wake to a new world,
take ball, gun, racquet, cards—some
instrument of fun to play with another—
and the skills of this family bloom, reborn
in their memory, in the movement of hands, voices, feet,
the presence of children coming of age or an aunt
who carries the same genes of natural talent,
some newly awakening, some reawakening,
recognizing themselves in the mirror
of each other’s faces. Then they’ll line their shoes
by the door, warm up the leftovers—
do it all over again.

© Suzanne Comer Bell.

 

While I complain about being bereft of family, I know how very lucky we are and we will be giving thanks and  counting our blessings for our cups runneth over.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE.

 

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NO REST FOR THE WICKED.

My mother and her sisters, my aunts, always left little quotes at the bottom of their letters and cards. It was always fun to read them. And, my mother was full of homey homilies like, No rest for the wicked, or Itchy palm? You’re going to get some money; Cold feet, warm heart; Itchy nose? You are going to meet a stranger; Always eat a little sour with your sweet; Waste not want not.

Her sayings came so automatic, kind of a mixture of advice, superstition, moral admonitions. Who knows where they came from>  It was just a part of her personality. I miss her so much.

I chose the title because I’m so busy, super busy, I feel like the fox chasing his tail.

I’ll be absent these pages, off and on while I take a trip into the Bay Area working on a fundraiser for the archive. And, another trip to Oregon for a walk through on the house my son is building for me that will be wheelchair assessable. Then it is time to get ready for Thanksgiving that I’m hosting at my house.  So…

MY FEET

My Feet they haul me Round the House,
They Hoist me up the Stairs;
I only have to Steer them, and
They take me Everywheres!

This little ditty is by Gelett Burgess and I can think of a half-dozen verses to add to it to describe my life right now, but I’ll let it go at that.  Maybe some of you can add some verses if you are so inclined. This one is in the public domain and does not require permission.

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SPRING IS CALLING

DSC03685 (Copy)

It is spring, seemingly everlasting at this point. My own yard has a forsythia, not nearly as beautiful as this one I snapped in Sonora.  In fact, the blossoms I have are puny this year, from lilacs to fruit trees. It doesn’t bode well for the fruit. But, I found a delightful old poem about spring that I really enjoyed. Hope you do too. It was written by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Jim and I leave early this morning for his eye appointment in Livermore.  Ciao

Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south! 
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth. 

In the dreamy vale of beeches
Fair and faint is woven mist, 
And the river’s orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst. 

Every limpid brook is singing
Of the lure of April days; 
Every piney glen is ringing
With the maddest roundelays. 

Come and let us seek together
Springtime lore of daffodils, 
Giving to the golden weather
Greeting on the sun-warm hills. 

Ours shall be the moonrise stealing
Through the birches ivory-white; 
Ours shall be the mystic healing
Of the velvet-footed night. 

Ours shall be the gypsy winding
Of the path with violets blue, 
Ours at last the wizard finding
Of the land where dreams come true.


This poem is in the public domain.

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A POEM A DAY.

In October, my friend Monica Rose emailed she had a poem  accepted by http://www.yourdaily poem. I subscribed and now I get a poem in my mailbox every day. Most are copyrighted and not for republishing. I like copying those I find exceptional into a document file to read over for my own pleasure. Sometimes one will be in the public domain like this one by D.H. Lawrence:

DECEMBER NIGHT

Take off your cloak and your hat
And your shoes, and draw up at my hearth
Where never woman sat.

I have made the fire up bright;
Let us leave the rest in the dark
And sit by firelight.

The wine is warm in the hearth;
The flickers come and go.
I will warm your feet with kisses

Until they glow.
I didn’t know much about D.H. Lawrence. The site had a short biography I found interesting as well:
David Herbert Richards Lawrence (1885 – 1930) was an English novelist, poet, essayist, critic, playwright, and painter. The son of a miner and a school teacher, Bert (as he was called) grew up in extreme poverty and suffered from poor health. Although he loved to read, he was not a particularly good student. He did, however, manage to win a high school scholarship and became a teacher before success as a writer allowed him to pursue that career fulltime. Accused more than once of spying for the Germans, Bert eventually left his home country to travel the world with his wife. The Lawrences intended to settle in America, but problems with his health forced them to return to Europe; Lawrence died in France at the age of 45. A prolific writer who produced work in multiple genres, Lawrence is best known as a novelist, although he wrote more than 800 poems and was considered an extremely gifted travel writer. Public opinion during his lifetime and even till today paints him as either utterly profane and depraved or as a brilliant and creative genius.
YOU DECIDE
I am hoping to get some Christmas cards out today.
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POETRY-YOU DECIDE.

I have more paperwork, unfinished from yesterday. It is always more complicated than we think.

I subscribe to a poem a day. If you like poetry, it is a nice way to start the day.  Some, like the one below, are in the public domain. Others not. Poetry soothes the soul. For me, anyway. You decide.  The link:

http://www.yourdailypoem.com/

HOW BEAUTIFUL IS THE NIGHT

How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven;
In full-orb’d glory, yonder moon divine

Rolls through the dark blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night!

By Robert Southey

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POETRY AND TAXES

April has been designated National Poetry Month. Don’t know why. I know I love poetry and I’m still mired in tax paperwork so this poem will have to do:

Tax his land,
Tax his bed,
Tax the table,
At which he’s fed.

Tax his tractor,
Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes
Are the rule.

Tax his work,
Tax his pay,
He works for
peanuts anyway!

Tax his cow,
Tax his goat,
Tax his pants,
Tax his coat.

Tax his ties,
Tax his shirt,
Tax his work,
Tax his dirt.

Tax his tobacco,
Tax his drink,
Tax him if he
Tries to think.

Tax his cigars,
Tax his beers,
If he cries
Tax his tears.

Tax his car,
Tax his gas,
Find other ways
To tax his ass.

Tax all he has
Then let him know
That you won’t be done
Till he has no dough.

When he screams and hollers;
Then tax him some more,
Tax him till
He’s good and sore.

Then tax his coffin,
Tax his grave,
Tax the sod in
Which he’s laid…

Put these words
Upon his tomb,
‘Taxes drove me
to my doom…’

When he’s gone,
Do not relax,
Its time to apply
The inheritance tax.

I don’t know the author of this fun poem but it made me chuckle. I may be frustrated with the process, but unlike Pierpont Morgan, I don’t believe we can run a country without taxes.  I love my National and State Parks, my bridges, my roads, airports, trains and universities. I love my clean water, clean air, museums, vast wilderness, clean beaches and…I could go on and on. I once had a friend retired from the IRS. I used to tease him that he must have a hard time making friends. “Not in America,” he said.  For all the complaining I do about current political shenanigans, this is yet a great country.  The yet implies it may be getting worse,  worse than taxes.  Amen.

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