Archive | 2012

Let Us Vow

Let us vow. . .
that when we cannot share
our brother’s Light.
we will hold the candle
as he makes his way up.

Let us vow. . .
to embed love
within our four walls
so that our children
will be instruments of Peace.

Let us vow. . .
to love one another
so that Peace is not a promise
but a fact.

Let us vow. . .
a noble vigil
in the Names of All we hold dear.

Amen.  And Amen.

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December Confirms The June Woman

It is June and I stand poised on the landing of the half circular staircase.  I am hearing the strains of the Canon not heard in this, my lifetime.  Shocked still, caught in the shadows of half remembering and yet reluctant to confront the shaded memories,  I wait.

She is visible, the young woman gliding with joy to the music which carried her down the long hall.   She curtsies to the throngs lining the great walls.

I stand, not moving.   Her joy is mine, translating to an emptiness in my heart.  The tears scald my cheeks and the rest solidify in a mass in my throat.   I cannot swallow.   I am in danger of drowning from within and without.

II

It is now December.   I am before an ancient building in a city bearing her years gracefully.  The snow is circling my feet and the wind is freezing my eyes.  I am rooted to this spot.   The air is ringing with the sounds of holiday; lights flicker their ritualistic colors in harmony.   Yet I stand immobile.

On the second floor of the ancient building, caught in the winter  of my memories, I see the long hall stretching before me.  The strain and refrains of the Canon carry the young one still, waltzing yet.  The violins smooth the way for her memories to be built.  The red vests of the rotund violinists complement in contrast their black, slicked hair.  They bend and bow in homage.  Their music locks her destiny forever.

My eyes are again in danger, this time of freezing in their sockets with the salted tears that cannot stop.   The memory does not move,  not to one side nor the other.  My will forces my eyes to play again what can only be seen in my throbbing head.  Courted through centuries with great care to remain hidden,  I unwittingly jarred the box housing those memories.

In retrospect,  I was ready.  It was my time.   I turned away shaken and knowing

                                                           the past is still happening.

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Christmases Past

Lifetimes lived secreted
behind the wooly frames of memory.

We jog the frames
of Christmases past.

Scents of
pine boughs and holly berries,
mince pies and cranberries.

Sounds of
apple crisp snow and crackling fires,
and laughter.

And the sound of silence,
as love stretches through all dimensions
to encircle Thee and Me.

As real, as tangible,
as the star beams
on the evergreen.

A promise given and kept.

Do you hear the angels?

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Times Such As These

I lock up the room
after filing the last remnants
of words laying about unattended.

Fearful that pieces of my heart
may be found scattered among them.
And why not?

Times such as these
leave us with little salve
to heal the open wounds
which once were hearts.

For whom do we weep?
The children whose siblings
will no longer come to the table
to convey with no doubt
the events that stole their innocence?

Or the parents
whose hearts were transplanted
when word came
that these unspent stars
were already breathing the rarefied air
as heaven’s most blessed?

Look at us here.
Pleading that our children
will be safe as they try to understand
what we in our dotage
have not learned;
to resort to arms

means death in any country.

4

time’s past

crystal chimes
strike porcelain ears,
seizing time
from memories, past.

the music heard
from times’ near past,
tangles in the wind
of muted sound;

and we live again.

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Everlasting Memories

Beginning with this post,  I will be featuring  poetry I have used
over the years in hand crafted Christmas cards.   Many of my
readers might recognize a line or two from years past.   I wish to
add my voice to the season to bring  forth memories to be
refreshed for new readers and also those familiar with my work.

She tenders fingertips to a face
as lightly as a kiss of wind
and nudges memories, clad in illusion,
tentatively.

Star shaped, diamond chips,
melting snow on little faces,
Nature has painted red roses
on milk cheeks
and has buried memories
to be awakened at another time.

Everlasting memories. . .  but. . .
we carry the one face
of the one child

forever.

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Kiss The Moon Arrives!

I am pleased to do this post because today we picked up the books,
Kiss The Moon,  A Woman Speaks And Gives Grace, from the printers
and this weekend I will package and send out those that have been
ordered.   And for the readers in England who have wished for my books,
I will be happy to take your orders.    When I am at the post office,  I will
inquire about postage to the U.K. and reach an equitable rate.   I do so
wish for you to have my books.   I was so pleased to hear that my website
was to be taken as their book club’s topic.  My work was to be discussed
and I am proud of the life  I have lived that has brought forth a work of
caliber that other women wish to discuss.  It is an affirmation of a part
of my life that was woven into the main body of me and my commitments.
I can say in honesty as I live in the winter of my days that I would not
have wanted to miss a moment of it.   Still honestly say also that there
were times I wished that events were not mine to live through.   But it is
what makes our lives rich beyond description and meaningful.

These are soft cover copies of Kiss The Moon and the thrill of holding
the  first copy was as wonderful as the first hard cover many years ago.
But costs being what they are in this day,  we went with the soft cover.
The Last Bird Sings is also soft cover and the companion books will be sent
in one mailing if they are ordered at the same time.

For those who are looking at my wall quilts,  by bringing them up on
your screen and clicking on them, you will find the quilts on the left and
a description on your right.   For a clearer view, double click on the
quilt and it will be brought front and center with a white border around it.
You will then see clearly the details.  The smaller details seen on two can
be clicked on and brought forward for better views.  You can contact me
with any questions and I will be glad to discuss them.   This has been a
wondrous year for me.   Not without its challenges, but wondrous.   And
I appreciate your interest and comments in me and my work.

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My Wall Quilts For Sale

When I work with the quilted wall hangings,  I find refreshment pouring intome.  And as the hand glances on the quilting, I hope that the new owners of these quilts will find that they refresh them also; bringing forth old memories and making new ones for the young.   They ask to be touched and I hope the ones who are viewing feel that they can do this.  The quilts seem to come alive beneath the fingers.

I find my greatest peace when working with the winter scenes from the 18th and 19th centuries.  There is no line drawn for me and the scenes blend into each other.  And I hope my heart continues to beat until the last is finished. They are quilts with a soft touch to them.  They all measure near the 18-20″ width and the 25-28″ length.  The Christmas Trees quilt is 35″ x37″.   It is thelargest in this selection.   It will hang nicely over a fireplace or a far wall.  The smaller ones which I call Kiss the Morning (I have made 5 of them,  slightly different)are for me a morning greeting.  The strut of the young one is enough to make everyone get up and march.   How can anything be so grim when the sun comes up somewhere in the world every morning?  Indeed the sun wins the battle over night.  Every day.  The Christmas scenes for many of us awaken memories.  It was a time of innocence and faith in everything, from the babe in the manger to Santa coming down the chimney.

What I try to portray when doing the wall quilts is an understanding of a time no doubt that does not exist in reality, but in illusion, in dreams and perhaps another world or dimension.   Does it matter?  If it is a dream, it happened somewhere for it to be so real to me.   The word imagination comes from the root word image.   So there is a time in some dimension for this image to have stayed with me for so long.  I think this is why the quilted hangings demand to be touched.   I have watched people look at them and before they stop themselves, their hands reach out.  I know that they too have this scene in their memory bank.   I hope I have captured this for them.  In this day of hi- tech medicine we still have little knowledge of Soul and Spirit and so little of who we are.

I am pleased to say that Kiss The Moon will be available because it is at the printers and orders can be taken.   The Last Bird Sings is in stock so the companion books can be ordered at the same time.   My views and explanations are my own after a life of independent study.   Another world, another time will open me to other views.   But come with me on this trial run.  It has been an interesting  journey.

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More Nuggets

The hand laying featherlight makes the deepest impression.

Prejudices are sweet comfort food.

Where you are not is where the grass is greener.

Ambition takes on the sharpness of a double edged sword.

Words spoken at the wrong time or words not spoken
at the right time will maim as surely as an arrow straight
from the bow or a bullet from the gun.

Not all things can be anticipated.   Some things still
are sparklers.

To die with dignity and a measure of maturity is the
thinker’s final attempt.

To have a truth striking one’s core is to be on the way
but not the only way.

All addresses are forwarding addresses.

All centuries have their share of ducks.

A thought is a silent voice.

Ask and you shall receive.   Do and you will be shown how.

You can be sure that what you are reading is not what I am saying.

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A Deep Drink

As the evergreens drink deeply
in preparation for the long winter,
I, too, turn to portions of my Self
already stated and prepare.

The journey for both
is through dry country.
The oasis will not be found
except within.

I carry the water to the evergreens
as mine , too, is carried to me.
As I am to the evergreen,
my Self is to me;
water carriers both,

invisible to each.

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