Strange morning of dreaming, in which I remained in bed, wandering through the places I'd just been, trying to gather important bits before the cleaning lady arrived.
Tiny White Flowers
Friday, July 30, 2010
Friday After the Dream
Strange morning of dreaming, in which I remained in bed, wandering through the places I'd just been, trying to gather important bits before the cleaning lady arrived.
Friday Poem
From Poets.org:
Completely Friday
by Luis García Montero
translated by Katie King
By the detergents and dish soap
by the orderly books and broom on the floor,
by the clean windows, by the table
without papers, notebooks or pens,
by the easy chairs without newspapers,
whoever approaches my house
will find a day
that is completely Friday.
That is how I find it
when I go out into the streets
and the cathedral has been
taken over by the world of the living
and in the supermarket
June becomes a bottle of gin,
sausages and dessert,
fan of light in the kiosk
of the flower shop,
city that undresses completely Friday.
As does my body
which recalls the memory of your body
and foretells your presence
in the restlessness of all it touches,
in the remote control for the music,
in the paper of the magazine,
in the ice melted away
just as the morning melts away
completely Friday.
When the front door opens
the icebox divines what my body knew
and suggests other titles for this poem:
completely you,
morning of the return, good love,
good company.
Completely Friday
by Luis García Montero
translated by Katie King
By the detergents and dish soap
by the orderly books and broom on the floor,
by the clean windows, by the table
without papers, notebooks or pens,
by the easy chairs without newspapers,
whoever approaches my house
will find a day
that is completely Friday.
That is how I find it
when I go out into the streets
and the cathedral has been
taken over by the world of the living
and in the supermarket
June becomes a bottle of gin,
sausages and dessert,
fan of light in the kiosk
of the flower shop,
city that undresses completely Friday.
As does my body
which recalls the memory of your body
and foretells your presence
in the restlessness of all it touches,
in the remote control for the music,
in the paper of the magazine,
in the ice melted away
just as the morning melts away
completely Friday.
When the front door opens
the icebox divines what my body knew
and suggests other titles for this poem:
completely you,
morning of the return, good love,
good company.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Dimitar Sasselov: How we found hundreds of potential Earth-like planets | Video on TED.com
Dimitar Sasselov: How we found hundreds of potential Earth-like planets | Video on TED.com
I found this link on a friend's Facebook page. Food for thought, and definitely of interest for me. I was always intrigued as a child about space and life out there other than our lonely existence. One of my favorite pass-times was to imagine what holds us, to understand in my ten-year-old body what holds purse of the Universe. I'm no scientist, just a of lover of personal conundrums.
I found this link on a friend's Facebook page. Food for thought, and definitely of interest for me. I was always intrigued as a child about space and life out there other than our lonely existence. One of my favorite pass-times was to imagine what holds us, to understand in my ten-year-old body what holds purse of the Universe. I'm no scientist, just a of lover of personal conundrums.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Spiral Staircase, Union Station Concourse
We had a great visit to DC a couple of weeks ago. I love this photo I found.
Note:
"The Concourse has three levels. The bottom level, carved from the old baggage room of the station, is a food court. The main level has shops and access to trains. The upper level has more shops.
DC070403-44496-UnionStationConcourse"
Note:
"The Concourse has three levels. The bottom level, carved from the old baggage room of the station, is a food court. The main level has shops and access to trains. The upper level has more shops.
DC070403-44496-UnionStationConcourse"
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
A Drop fell on the Apple Tree
by Emily Dickinson
A Drop fell on the Apple Tree -
Another - on the Roof -
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves -
And made the Gables laugh -
A few went out to help the Brook
That went to help the Sea -
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls -
What Necklaces could be -
The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads -
The Birds jocoser sung -
The Sunshine threw his Hat away -
The Bushes - spangles flung -
The Breezes brought dejected Lutes -
And bathed them in the Glee -
The Orient showed a single Flag,
And signed the fête away -
A Drop fell on the Apple Tree -
Another - on the Roof -
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves -
And made the Gables laugh -
A few went out to help the Brook
That went to help the Sea -
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls -
What Necklaces could be -
The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads -
The Birds jocoser sung -
The Sunshine threw his Hat away -
The Bushes - spangles flung -
The Breezes brought dejected Lutes -
And bathed them in the Glee -
The Orient showed a single Flag,
And signed the fête away -
Friday, July 16, 2010
An Ugly Pair of Shoes
A dear family has a child experiencing brain cancer, and have been posting updates over the past couple of years. Today, there was a poem attached to the end of the update, which I wanted to share. I don't know who wrote the poem, but it's definitely worth sharing.
"An Ugly Pair of Shoes"
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step. Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes.
They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs. The
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortab
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
Ther
Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think of how much they hurt.
No woman deserves to wear these shoes.
Yet, because of the shoes, I am a stronger woman.
Thes
T
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has a child that is battling cancer.
"An Ugly Pair of Shoes"
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step. Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes.
They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs. The
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortab
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
Ther
Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think of how much they hurt.
No woman deserves to wear these shoes.
Yet, because of the shoes, I am a stronger woman.
Thes
T
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has a child that is battling cancer.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
This is just to say. . .
. . . that life is busy. I might not be checking in as often as I should, but I'm still here.
Here's a poem for today, from Poets.org:
Verses upon the Burning of our House
by Anne Bradstreet
In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I waken'd was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of "fire" and "fire,"
Let no man know is my Desire.
I starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To straighten me in my Distress
And not to leave me succourless.
Then coming out, behold a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And when I could no longer look,
I blest his grace that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so 'twas just.
It was his own; it was not mine.
Far be it that I should repine,
He might of all justly bereft
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruins oft I past
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast
And here and there the places spy
Where oft I sate and long did lie.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best,
My pleasant things in ashes lie
And them behold no more shall I.
Under the roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy Table eat a bit.
No pleasant talk shall 'ere be told
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lie.
Adieu, Adieu, All's Vanity.
Then straight I 'gin my heart to chide:
And did thy wealth on earth abide,
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the sky
That dunghill mists away may fly.
Thou hast a house on high erect
Fram'd by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished
Stands permanent, though this be fled.
It's purchased and paid for too
By him who hath enough to do.
A price so vast as is unknown,
Yet by his gift is made thine own.
There's wealth enough; I need no more.
Farewell, my pelf; farewell, my store.
The world no longer let me love;
My hope and Treasure lies above.
Here's a poem for today, from Poets.org:
Verses upon the Burning of our House
by Anne Bradstreet
In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I waken'd was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of "fire" and "fire,"
Let no man know is my Desire.
I starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To straighten me in my Distress
And not to leave me succourless.
Then coming out, behold a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And when I could no longer look,
I blest his grace that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so 'twas just.
It was his own; it was not mine.
Far be it that I should repine,
He might of all justly bereft
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruins oft I past
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast
And here and there the places spy
Where oft I sate and long did lie.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best,
My pleasant things in ashes lie
And them behold no more shall I.
Under the roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy Table eat a bit.
No pleasant talk shall 'ere be told
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lie.
Adieu, Adieu, All's Vanity.
Then straight I 'gin my heart to chide:
And did thy wealth on earth abide,
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the sky
That dunghill mists away may fly.
Thou hast a house on high erect
Fram'd by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished
Stands permanent, though this be fled.
It's purchased and paid for too
By him who hath enough to do.
A price so vast as is unknown,
Yet by his gift is made thine own.
There's wealth enough; I need no more.
Farewell, my pelf; farewell, my store.
The world no longer let me love;
My hope and Treasure lies above.
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