Sunday, November 21, 2010

My Thanksgiving list so far...

things I'm thankful for at this moment...

473. National Dress Up Day! (Also called Halloween) I love that there is a day when everyone pulls their imaginations out and just has fun with costumes! and I love that a daughter of mine renamed it this fun name, National Dress Up Day.

474. being waited on by Donald Duck

475. People in costume everywhere

476. apple butter, spread thick on good bread

477. turquoise

478. going to a fun concert

479. overnight road trip with daughter

480. meeting the artist and his manager

481. getting my new cd autographed

482. coming home

483. days when my hair turns out

484. misty air that replenishes moisture I've lost to the season's dryness. The mist looks dull and gray in the air, but it feels so good!

485. planning family holiday gatherings, and looking forward to their warmth

486. being together with family, with people I love who love me back.

487. the simple word, "hi", and the power it has to connect people. tiny but powerful!

Friday, November 12, 2010

hot tea and apple butter

I'm sitting here this morning with a cup of hot, sweet tea...

I love a good cup of tea.

And toast.

With apple butter.

Oh, my!

The water came to a screaming boil, and was promptly moved by offspring who can't stand screaming.

This is very hot water.

Tazo. Awake. Good tea.

A good healthy dash of agave nectar....

A touch of milk...

And two ice cubes. While I make the toast.

Gluten free, rice flour, never tried this before, but it's good! It's delicious!

With apple butter. Oh, I love apple butter!

Apple butter makes me think of my grandfather, PeePop.

PeePop, because the oldest cousin couldn't pronounce PopPop when she was a tiny girl.

PeePop knew how to enjoy apple butter, and he taught us:

A half inch thick on the bread.

Half inch, got it?

Well, who are we to argue with the grandpa?

And so this morning, I savour tea, like my British aunt (on my mother's side) used to enjoy, and with it I eat toast and apple butter, like my father's father used to enjoy.

And my solitary moment is a reflection of my heritage.


Good stuff.

(linked to LL Barkat's "On, In, and Around Mondays" )

Friday, November 5, 2010

Noone Knew

Noone Knew

Noone knew.

When my heart had broken into shards,

When my heart was aching so very hard

That I could hardly stand it,

And I hurt from the hair down.

Noone knew.

Because I could still walk,

And I could talk,

And I could say, “Fine” when anyone asked.

But they didn't know me well enough to see what was behind my eyes,

So noone knew.

But you knew.

And you cared about me, I could see that in your eyes.

You didn't invade my privacy with questions

Or unnecessary words,

But I bet you prayed for me,

Because you knew.

And you cared for me

As a good friend would do.

You knew.

And you were a good friend.

So I'm telling you now...

Thank you.


© 2002

(This is not a new poem, but it is a real poem. I wrote it years ago. I am sharing it here, responding to L.L. Barkat at . We are looking at a specific poetic tool, called the catalog technique. Honestly, I am not sure if this is a good example of this. This repetition is something I use a lot, almost automatically sometimes. I use repetition here not only in the repetition of the main phrase throughout the poem, but also with parts of lines repeated in the first two sections. I remember my dad talking this way sometimes, when he was serious and really wanted me to hear what he was telling me. It reminded me of a preacher, this repeating of a part of a phrase, not in poetry, but in speaking. Maybe his using it with me makes this repetition for emphasis or contrast come naturally to me. But I never knew it had a name, and I'm not sure if what I am doing here is exactly what the catalogue technique is about. Regardless, I write to unload my heart, and the styles and techniques just work themselves out, for better or worse. Please hear my heart when you read this. )

the smell of winter

The last Sunday morning in October, I sat in the pew and noticed that the air smelled dry, and dusty, like winter. Like Winter, when the furnace blows and the air dries up, and things are dead and brown, and dusty, and scarce on life. That was the last Sunday in October.

The very next day was November, and later in the week brought the first flurries flying in the almost freezing, under an absent-minded sky that scowled, ever so slightly, like it wasn't sure what it was supposed to do.

November is for gray skies. For sunless days that string together like dirty pearls. We all forget what we are supposed to do. We forget who we were, back in the summer. Life ebbs.

Two different people asked me today, as the flurries flew outside, what did I think of the snow? And I said I didn't know yet. I'm not sure what I am supposed to think. I haven't decided. Some people seem surprised by the snow. Others counter with, "What did you expect, it's November!"

I know the snow will pile deep, and then it will shine. It will soften the lines of the landscape and reflect the moon's blue glow. It will sparkle on sunny days and become dotted with sledders on the hills. It will be beautiful. I will love it then. But it will be cold, so cold, and life will ebb some more. Energy fades in the winter. Smiles fade under the colorless skies, and souls need the sun to shine.

But it will be beautiful.

So I don't know what to think, how I feel about the snow that came today. I'm not getting giddy out of a sense of obligation, that's what I'm not. But I'm not hating it, either. Little kids love it, drivers don't. I have no opinion. It's just flurries. It isn't staying yet. Like the smell of winter, it portends, that's all.

(I was challenged by Emily at to write something to join her and a bunch of her friends for "imperfect prose on Thursdays" over at her place. I wasn't sure if I had anything, but I guess I did after all.)

Monday, November 1, 2010


456. bright sun shining full on my face like happy kisses

457. getting lost in a big, smooth, steamy vanilla latte, whipped cream on top. Comfort food.

458. potato chips, delicate crunchiness all salty good

459. Kalamata olives

460. the smell of fresh coffee filling a place

461. waiting for the foam to settle down so I can top off my Vernor's

462. shouting for joy, really LOUD! at the top of my lungs! (in the car where I won't scare anyone!)

463. honest sadness.

464. good clean anger. not the ugly kind, but the kind that heals.

465. clouds that shine bright at the edges

466. pretending, when I can, just for the fun of it. It's good to play sometimes.

467. being real and honest, transparent. Within right boundaries, it seems healthy and freeing.

(I don't mean to "be transparent" with other people's stories, even when they overlap mine. I mean to tell the truth when possible about where I am. Still working this out.)

468. really big tortoiseshell sunglasses. I wanted some, in fact, but they told me my prescription wouldn't work in those. So now I just enjoy them on other people.

469. exercise balls

470. lots of suds on top of fresh, just-hot-enough dishwater

471. starting a new week, with new possibilities

472. getting a new cd for my own listening