A Tidings of Magpies

I am a woman of a certain age and coming up on another changing of the decades soon. What concerns me most is maintaining my health, but what comes as a very close second is "What should I wear?" Just because a person can fit into certain clothes doesn't mean they should wear them. You know what I'm saying? I don't want to look like I'm trying to be 20 years old again, but I don't want to look like a character from the Dinette Set.  Some days it's hard. I've been seeing ads for sites that send clothes for you to try on after filling out a questionnaire and giving information to a stylist and thought I would try it out. I went with Stitch Fix and got my first box last week. Expected to be disappointed, but all the pieces work with my wardrobe and what I need to wear for certain events. Now, I'm not gonna lie, a couple of pieces I disliked when I saw them and had to try on a few times. There's not one clothing item I w

From Blossoms by Li-Young Lee From blossoms comes this brown paper bag of peaches we bought from the boy at the bend in the road where we turned toward    signs painted  Peaches . From laden boughs, from hands, from sweet fellowship in the bins, comes nectar at the roadside, succulent peaches we devour, dusty skin and all, comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat. O, to take what we love inside, to carry within us an orchard, to eat not only the skin, but the shade, not only the sugar, but the days, to hold the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into    the round jubilance of peach. There are days we live as if death were nowhere in the background; from joy to joy to joy, from wing to wing, from blossom to blossom to impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom. There's a cool breeze coming in through the window. The cicadas are singing. I'm 5 minutes away from going for a morning walk to stretch out mu

by Jane Kenyon From here I see a single red cloud impaled on the Town Hall weather vane. Now the horses are back in their stalls, and the dogs are nowhere in sight that made them run and buck in the brittle morning light. You laughed only once all day-- when the cat ate cucumbers in Chekhov's story...and now you smoke and pace the long hallway downstairs. The cook is roasting meat for the evening meal, and the smell rises to all the rooms. Red-faced skiers stamp past you on their way in; their hunger is Homeric. I know you are thinking of the accident-- of picking the slivered glass from his hair. Just now a truck loaded with hay stopped at the village store to get gas. I wish you would look at the hay-- the beautiful sane and solid bales of hay.

by Jane Kenyon The grasses in the field have toppled, and in places it seems that a large, now absent, animal must have passed the night. The hay will right itself if the day turns dry. I miss you steadily, painfully. None of your blustering entrances or exits, doors swinging wildly on their hinges, or your huge unconscious sighs when you read something sad, like Henry Adams's letters from Japan, where he traveled after Clover died. Everything blooming bows down in the rain: white irises, red peonies; and the poppies with their black and secret centers lie shattered on the lawn.  (Brutus, August 2001-July 2015)

By Meredith Holmes At last I can be with you! The grinding hours since I left your side! The labor of being fully human, working my opposable thumb, talking, and walking upright. Now I have unclasped unzipped, stepped out of. Husked, soft, a be-er only, I do nothing, but point my bare feet into your clean smoothness feel your quiet strength the whole length of my body. I close my eyes, hear myself moan, so grateful to be held this way.

The things we leave behind...

Holy The sound The song  The rise  Cacophony of robin, finch  and dove song.  The rusty hinge of spring  Blackbird with redwing. Long spiteful winter has lost her bony grip  The red maples stiff upper lip  is a burgeoning Cherokee red. Mother Nature rolls out of her bed  Like me she is sleepy and tired  but so ready to lift her spirits high  above the wires where the doves  will soon align  The best view of the sunset  in this part of Highland county.  And so goes the song of spring.  Call and response And also with you and  also with you. ~Karin Bergquist April 5, 2015 Easter Morning  Porch Swing Poems Have a visit with some of my favorite musicians and poets... please note: photo from Melpo on her sand-grain.blog site

It's been a sad couple of weeks in CinCity. We've lost two of the city's finest--a firefighter trying to get residents out of a burning apartment building and a police officer T-boned on his motorcycle while leading a funeral procession. "Retired police officer" technically, but George spent a lot of years not being retired at serving and protecting the public and it was a job he loved. Daryl loved his job. His family said he chased after fire trucks as a kid; couldn't wait to be on one. I know Daryl from our Mobile Care at BigFatTeaching Hospital. That's the transport team that brings critically ill patients from one hospital to another. George had been married to a friend and fellow nurse from "back in the day" until her death not even two years ago. Both of them great guys, funny, give you the shirt off their back-, never met a stranger- kind of men. They left behind children, wives, friends, a lot of friends, broken hearts, and a city emp

By Frances Cornford The spirits of children are remote and wise, They must go free Like fishes in the sea Or starlings in the skies, Whilst you remain The shore where casually they come again. But when there falls the stalking shade of fear, You must be suddenly near, You, the unstable, must become a tree In whose unending heights of flowering green Hangs every fruit that grows, with silver bells; Where heart-distracting magic birds are seen And all the things a fairy-story tells; Though still you should possess Roots that go deep in ordinary earth, And strong consoling bark To love and to caress. Last, when at dark Safe on the pillow lies an up-gazing head And drinking holy eyes Are fixed on you, When, from behind them, questions come to birth Insistently, On all the things that you have ever said Of suns and snakes and parallelograms and flies, And whether these are true, Then for a while you'll need to be no more That sheltering shore Or le

By Louis Jenkins The time has come to say goodbye, our plates empty except for our greasy napkins. Comrades, you on my left, balding, middle-aged guy with a ponytail, and you, Lefty, there on my right, though we barely spoke I feel our kinship. You were steadfast in passing the ketchup, the salt and pepper, no man could ask for better companions. Lunch is over, the cheese- burger and fries, the Denver sandwich, the counter nearly empty. Now we must go our separate ways. Not a fond embrace, but perhaps a hearty handshake. No? Well then, farewell. It is unlikely I'll pass this way again. Unlikely we will all meet again on this earth, to sit together beneath the neon and fluorescent calmly sipping our coffee, like the sages sipping their tea underneath the willow, sitting quietly, saying nothing.  My daughter texted yesterday to tell me she and her fiance have lost a dear friend; a member of the small family of loved ones they have collected in New Orleans.

...when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.” ― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations please note: photo from the Common Gettys Collection

the hookers, the madmen and the doomed By Charles Bukowski today at the track 2 or 3 days after the death of the jock came this voice over the speaker asking us all to stand and observe a few moments of silence. well, that's a tired formula and I don't like it but I do like silence. so we all stood: the hookers and the madmen and the doomed. I was set to be dis- pleased but then I looked up at the TV screen and there standing silently in the paddock waiting to mount up stood the other jocks along with the officials and the trainers: quiet and thinking of death and the one gone, they stood in a semi-circle the brave little men in boots and silks, the legions of death appeared and vanished, the sun blinked once I thought of love with its head ripped off still trying to sing and then the announcer said, thank you and we all went on about our busi

By Jane Hirshfield In Istanbul, my ears three mornings heard the early call to prayer. At fuller light, heard birds then, water birds and tree birds, birds of migration. Like three knowledges, I heard them: incomprehension, sweetened distance, longing. When the body dies, where will they go, those migrant birds and prayer calls, as heat from sheets when taken from a dryer? With voices of the ones I loved, great loves and small loves, train wheels, crickets, clock-ticks, thunder-where will they, when in fragrant, tumbled heat they also leave?

By Amanda Strand The wedding ring I took off myself, his wife wasn’t up to it. I brought the nurse into the room in case he jumped or anything. “Can we turn his head? He looks so uncomfortable.” She looked straight at me, patiently waiting for it to sink in. The snow fell. His truck in the barn, his boots by the door, flagpoles empty. It took a long time for the taxi to come. “Where to?” he said. “My father just died,” I said. As if it were a destination.

Every year when we watch the Oscar ceremonies we see the nominations for the short films and documentaries and say out loud, "WTH??  Who gets to see these films?" And then, the next day or even by the end of the program we've forgotten the whole matter. This year after a particularly cabin-fever inducing snow fall we booted our way up to the village to check out civilization and noticed a flyer on Sitwell's Coffee Shop window with a date and a theater location to watch the Oscar Shorts. Serendipity!! The Cincinnati World Cinema has been doing it for the last 14 years and we're nothing but clueless morons to have missed it all these years. I think you can also buy it on Amazon for instant viewing on your device. But again, techno idjits are we with the attention span of a moth. So short films work well with our distracted brains. The longest film was 39 minutes I believe. The shortest, 3 minutes, give or take a minute or so. Seven films the first day, or t

From Our House to Your House By Jack Ridl It is 1959. It is the cusp of the coming revolution. We still like Ike. We are still afraid of Sputnik. We read  Life  magazine and  Sports Illustrated where the athletes grow up shooting hoops in the driveway, playing catch in the backyard. We sit on our sectional sofa. My mother loves Danish modern. Our pants have cuffs. Our hair is short. We are smiling and we mean it. I am a guard. My father is my coach. I am sitting next to him on the bench. I am ready to go in. My sister will cheer. My mother will make the pre-game meal from  The Joy of Cooking . Buster is a good dog. We are all at an angle. We are a family at an angle. Our clothes are pressed. We look into the eye of the camera. “Look ‘em in the eye,” my father teaches us. All we see ahead are wins, good grades, Christmas. We believe in being happy. We believe in mowing the lawn, a two-car garage, a freezer, and what the teacher says. There is

Sense and Sensibility By Jane Austen " The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr.

may your arrows fly straight and your aim be true." please note: my photo at Spring Grove Cemetery, March 2015

By Jane Kenyon There’s just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet having squandered a fortune far away. And how can you not forgive? You make a feast in honor of what was lost, and take from its place the finest garment, which you saved for an occasion you could not imagine, and you weep night and day to know that you were not abandoned, that happiness saved its most extreme form for you alone. No, happiness is the uncle you never knew about, who flies a single-engine plane onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes into town, and inquires at every door until he finds you asleep midafternoon. as you so often are during the unmerciful hours of your despair. It comes to the monk in his cell. It comes to the woman sweeping the street with a birch broom, to the child whose mother has passed out from drink. It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing a sock, to the pusher, to the bas

The Changing Light by Lawrence Ferlinghetti The changing light             at San Francisco     is none of your East Coast light            none of your                    pearly light of Paris The light of San Francisco              is a sea light                        an island light And the light of fog         blanketing the hills     drifting in at night            through the Golden Gate                       to lie on the city at dawn And then the halcyon late mornings     after the fog burns off       and the sun paints white houses                      with the sea light of Greece       with sharp clean shadows        making the town look like                              it had just been painted But the wind comes up at four o'clock                                     sweeping the hills And then the veil of light of early evening And then another scrim            when the new night fog                   

The Invention of Heaven                     By Dean Young The mind becomes a field of snow but then the snow melts and dandelions blink on and you can walk through them, your trousers plastered with dew. They’re all waiting for you but first here’s a booth where you can win a peacock feather for bursting a balloon, a man in huge stripes shouting about a boy who is half swan, the biggest pig in the world. Then you will pass tractors pulling other tractors, trees snagged with bright wrappers and then you will come to a river and then you will wash your face.

Dawn Revisited By Rita Dove Imagine you wake up with a second chance: The blue jay hawks his pretty wares and the oak still stands, spreading glorious shade. If you don’t look back, the future never happens. How good to rise in sunlight, in the prodigal smell of biscuits – eggs and sausage on the grill. The whole sky is yours to write on, blown open to a blank page. Come on, shake a leg! You’ll never know who’s down there, frying those eggs, if you don’t get up and see. There's nothing like the sun crystallizing off the snow piles on each side of our driveway necessitating sunglasses, don't you know, to get a girl up and moving. The exile to the grey and frozen tundra of another CinCity winter is soon at an end. My money's down on seeing someone in shorts today. Outside. A six-pack of Ale 8 on the line. I've taken a break from this blog for a while. Long story and plenty of time to tell it, but believe it's a good time to return. The world stil