- Photo TiffanyCreek
There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.
There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.
Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.
And I ask myself:
“Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
and back to you again
As though to her?”
Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand:
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
Author: TiffanyCreek
Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t…
…pick a daisy in the grass
by the creek at the dam
chasing butterflies.
Homework assigned!
Capture the crickets
and their friend
the grasshopper,
a problem, this was not.
But to stick a pin in the thorax, well…
it seemed barbaric at the time!
Spinning dreams in the sunshine
with the breeze at my neck,
running fast
my feet would carry me,
seemed more sublime!
The civilized ruled
an F was divine.
As mother told me:
“It doesn’t matter!
That grade is not of thine
but of those who seek a feather
to put in their scholastic hat,
and say:
‘The best collection was done by a student of mine!'”
And so I got an A for living,
for freedom,
to inhale fresh air,
while others worried about growing up,
I thought, “I never will!”
And better yet,
the horse I ride
out to pasture to dine,
where it dawns on me that having the right answer
is a mistake…
and wish it not to be mine!
One Human Tear
Photo courtesy Dave Dreimiller
Oh, if there is one human tear
By mortal man in sorrow shed,
As pure and as Angel’s dear,
Tis that which falls for kindred dead.
O.S
G. Ville Jan.y 20th 1833
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before the Storms
Dreams and Reality
Dreaming is essential to living, yet, can a dream ever be fully realized, or fulfilled? Once it hits the threshold of reality, isn’t it no longer a dream? How long can one sustain living in a dreamland, a world of fantasy, without hitting rock bottom? Aren’t we only setting ourselves up for disappointment with too much hoping and wishing? Mustn’t we all face reality at some point in time? By the same token, looking back, things are never as bad as they seemed. Reality can be good, if one just works at it. But then…
GRB
At Jacob’s Cemetery
Sad News
Bob Simon, at 73 years of age, died as the result of a collision, in New York City. He was a passenger in the car.
An anchorman for 60 Minutes, Bob joined CBS as a correspondent in 1967. From the Bronx, he graduated from Brandeis University as a history major and worked in the foreign service before joining CBS.
It is obvious that Bob witnessed the passing of crucial events in our world, and worked faithfully to bring the truth to all people. An admirable journalist, chronicler of life, Bob will be missed.
Protected: Sounds of the War
There is no solitude like that of the heart.
There is no solitude like that of the heart when it looks round and sees in the vast concourse of human being, not one to whom it can put forth its sorrows or receive the answering sigh of sympathy.
Elizabeth Y Garrett New Lisbon Feb. 8th 1829
To tell a tale
If we could tell a tale.
Steph.
Rays.
Fenton.
If we could tell a tale, in the glimmer of the ice,
what tale would we tell?
What story would suffice?
Would it be a story, of love, or of war?
Would it be a sad soldier, knocking at the door?
Or a fine maiden, all aglow with delight,
to see that her loved one, made it home
without strife.
Love would endure, in this tale in the ice,
and heal the wounds, in the heart of the knight. GRB
