Images from our Trip to DC

Spiral Staircase, Union Station Concourse

Spiral Staircase, Union Station Concourse, originally uploaded by Bill in DC.

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"

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 -

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. They never talk about my shoes.  
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortab​le.  
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.
There are many pairs in the world.  
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.
These shoes have given me the strength to face anything.  
Th​ey have made me who I am.  
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has a child that ​is battling cancer.

Anatomy of a Disaster » A poem by Ronda Broatch » Linebreak

Anatomy of a Disaster » A poem by Ronda Broatch » Linebreak

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.

Tuesday Poem

From Poets.org:

Packet
by Jamie Ross   

A green light that comes
when you never saw it coming, never
heard it, felt it, but you knew it

like the woman in the sandlot
behind Abram's Grill
who's just lost her lenses,
on her hands and knees, her
hair cut short but seems as if
it's flowing, and the rush
on her throat like a rise
from birth, the music in the car

as the engine goes silent
while you fold down a seat
for the stashed beam lantern
with it's yellow plastic grip, six
Ray-O-Vacs, the
movement in the trees
beyond Lake Michigan. It's

a wave like that
when the wind gets lost
and the mail-boat from Racine, three
hours late, cracks into a tanker,
where the crew, like you, has
waited on the decks, in the hold
for two months out, to send

a message home—or to get a
certain scent, for just one instant,
of weeds, in the dirt, the both

of you groping.

Is there Art on the Moon?

Moon over Puget Sound, as seen from Eglon Beach.


Check out this link from PBS / History Detectives:

History Detectives . DIY Investigations | PBS

Saturday Poem

Summer Song
by William Carlos Williams


Wanderer moon
smiling a
faintly ironical smile
at this
brilliant, dew-moistened
summer morning,—
a detached
sleepily indifferent
smile, a
wanderer's smile,—
if I should
buy a shirt
your color and
put on a necktie
sky-blue
where would they carry me?


Again, from Poets.org

A Poem for Wednesday

From Poets.org today:


   
I Have News for You
by Tony Hoagland


There are people who do not see a broken playground swing
as a symbol of ruined childhood

and there are people who don't interpret the behavior
of a fly in a motel room as a mocking representation of their thought process.

There are people who don't walk past an empty swimming pool
and think about past pleasures unrecoverable

and then stand there blocking the sidewalk for other pedestrians.
I have read about a town somewhere in California where human beings

do not send their sinuous feeder roots
deep into the potting soil of others' emotional lives

as if they were greedy six-year-olds
sucking the last half-inch of milkshake up through a noisy straw;

and other persons in the Midwest who can kiss without
debating the imperialist baggage of heterosexuality.

Do you see that creamy, lemon-yellow moon?
There are some people, unlike me and you,

who do not yearn after fame or love or quantities of money as
                   unattainable as that moon;
thus, they do not later
                          have to waste more time
defaming the object of their former ardor.

Or consequently run and crucify themselves
in some solitary midnight Starbucks Golgotha.

I have news for you—
there are people who get up in the morning and cross a room

and open a window to let the sweet breeze in
and let it touch them all over their faces and bodies.