Writing
I have a blog; truth be told, I have several blogs. I hang my head and admit that if it weren't for the coronavirus pandemic, I'd still be posting only rarely in my main blog. I feel guilty if I take time just to write. I love writing, but doing it is usually only for me; the blog is the one place I share my writing with others. When I blog there, though, I feel guilty for taking time away from other, possibly more important things. Things such as being a mom (this one doesn't really apply any longer), being a wife (though the husband knew when he married me that I am something of a slob compared to him), work (oh wait, I retired). Even now, as I write this, the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink call to be loaded into the dishwasher, and a small load of laundry calls to be folded now rather than as I put things away. I started this website when I became webmaster for the local quilt guild with the excuse that it would give me a place in which to practice things before I used them on the guild site. I don't need to feel guilty about that.
News Flash: I have been blogging my hermitting during the coronavirus pandemic. You can catch up or follow along at www.runswithsword.blogspot.com. I really should have confessed earlier (the post I do later today will be for the 835th day), but let's just say some news is better late than never, just as some of the posts are better not read than read.
Because I included it in the blog, here's a poem I wrote for my 65th birthday, 1 July 2021.
News Flash: I have been blogging my hermitting during the coronavirus pandemic. You can catch up or follow along at www.runswithsword.blogspot.com. I really should have confessed earlier (the post I do later today will be for the 835th day), but let's just say some news is better late than never, just as some of the posts are better not read than read.
Because I included it in the blog, here's a poem I wrote for my 65th birthday, 1 July 2021.
When I Was a Child
When I was a child
big brothers picked on little sisters
saying they were no bigger
than a piece of dirt.
Bullying? It wasn't called that then.
Now I am older.
Big brothers share with little sisters
and dirt is never mentioned
except in contexts such as gardening.
Not bullying but brothering.
When I was a child
we hid under our desks or in the cloakroom
not really sure just what it was
our parents were afraid of
as they talked in muffled voices.
Now I am older.
We no longer duck and cover
against some unknown enemy.
We are our own worst enemy
destroying our world on our own.
When I was a child
smallpox was real as was polio.
One Saturday morning we left cartoons
to get vaccines
one of which came in a sugar cube.
Now I am older
and have outlived smallpox
but not polio by decades.
There are scary new ailments
with vaccines for those willing to get them.
When I was a child
grown-up children moved home
to a place called a hometown
to plant seeds of their own children
as they themselves ripened.
Now I am older
mother to kids with a hometown
even if but one still lives in it.
Those kids call our house their home-place
something that pleases me.
When I was a child
sixty-five meant grey hair and wrinkles
men retiring to go home
and prepare to die
unless they puttered.
Now I am sixty-five.
Some wrinkles but no grey hair.
Old looks different these days.
It may feel different, too.
I'll let you know when I find out.
When
When I was a child
big brothers picked on little sisters
saying they were no bigger
than a piece of dirt.
Bullying? It wasn't called that then.
Now I am older.
Big brothers share with little sisters
and dirt is never mentioned
except in contexts such as gardening.
Not bullying but brothering.
When I was a child
we hid under our desks or in the cloakroom
not really sure just what it was
our parents were afraid of
as they talked in muffled voices.
Now I am older.
We no longer duck and cover
against some unknown enemy.
We are our own worst enemy
destroying our world on our own.
When I was a child
smallpox was real as was polio.
One Saturday morning we left cartoons
to get vaccines
one of which came in a sugar cube.
Now I am older
and have outlived smallpox
but not polio by decades.
There are scary new ailments
with vaccines for those willing to get them.
When I was a child
grown-up children moved home
to a place called a hometown
to plant seeds of their own children
as they themselves ripened.
Now I am older
mother to kids with a hometown
even if but one still lives in it.
Those kids call our house their home-place
something that pleases me.
When I was a child
sixty-five meant grey hair and wrinkles
men retiring to go home
and prepare to die
unless they puttered.
Now I am sixty-five.
Some wrinkles but no grey hair.
Old looks different these days.
It may feel different, too.
I'll let you know when I find out.
When
Going through some old papers, I found some poems I wrote decades ago. I'm willing to share these three with the warning that I was barely out of teenage angst when I wrote them.
Bicentennial Weekend, U.S.A.
Small-town America gathers to celebrate
the birth of a nation.
The man, smiling proudly,
Polaroid poised,
forces his daughter to pose in the street
the better to show her colonial garb.
The girl, seeing the parade approach,
only cries.
The woman, curls bouncing,
under her bonnet,
watches her son pass in review,
a surrogate Uncle Sam in a convertible.
The boy, unsmiling behind a white paper beard,
only waves.
The cynic, thinking wryly,
"I should have stayed home,"
turns to leave
as the first tacky float passes by.
Sunday, they gather,
Small-town America,
pausing to thank
their god in heaven
for what man alone has created.
Sunday, the cynic stayed home.
(4 July 1976)
Untitled I
Cars speeding by on the boulevard
while an ensemble of dogs serenades
the darkness of another night
as a roach glides silently down the wall
I learned why buses keep lights on inside at night--
so the lonely people can see
into each other's souls.
(September 1977)
Untitled II
There you go
You're walking slow
As if I can not see
You'll never know
'Cause I'll never show
How much you mean to me
I'll say good-bye
Then I'll cry
As you go on your way
Don't ask why
You tell me with a sigh
But we'll meet again someday
And the wind calls my name
I ask is love a game
That I never learned to play
And the wind in reply
Tells me by and by
What I will learn someday
I will learn how to be
Not what you expect of me
But what I can live with too
I will learn how to care
I will learn how to share
Your love with others too
I will learn how to run
When you beckon me to come
And not let my heart stray
I will learn how to give
Perhaps then how to live
And love in a better way
And the wind calls my name
I ask ain't it a shame
That I never learned before
And the wind in reply
Tells me by and by
You're walking out the door
Please don't go
I need you so
Or at least I think I may
But if I've learned how to love
I've learned to rise above
And you don't need to stay
So go on down the road
I know now to be bold
We're better both this way
Don't ask why
You tell me with a sigh
But we'll meet again someday
And the wind calls my name
And says I learned the game
I pray I don't forget
And the wind in reply
Tells me by and by
You haven't left me yet
(25 November 1977)
Small-town America gathers to celebrate
the birth of a nation.
The man, smiling proudly,
Polaroid poised,
forces his daughter to pose in the street
the better to show her colonial garb.
The girl, seeing the parade approach,
only cries.
The woman, curls bouncing,
under her bonnet,
watches her son pass in review,
a surrogate Uncle Sam in a convertible.
The boy, unsmiling behind a white paper beard,
only waves.
The cynic, thinking wryly,
"I should have stayed home,"
turns to leave
as the first tacky float passes by.
Sunday, they gather,
Small-town America,
pausing to thank
their god in heaven
for what man alone has created.
Sunday, the cynic stayed home.
(4 July 1976)
Untitled I
Cars speeding by on the boulevard
while an ensemble of dogs serenades
the darkness of another night
as a roach glides silently down the wall
I learned why buses keep lights on inside at night--
so the lonely people can see
into each other's souls.
(September 1977)
Untitled II
There you go
You're walking slow
As if I can not see
You'll never know
'Cause I'll never show
How much you mean to me
I'll say good-bye
Then I'll cry
As you go on your way
Don't ask why
You tell me with a sigh
But we'll meet again someday
And the wind calls my name
I ask is love a game
That I never learned to play
And the wind in reply
Tells me by and by
What I will learn someday
I will learn how to be
Not what you expect of me
But what I can live with too
I will learn how to care
I will learn how to share
Your love with others too
I will learn how to run
When you beckon me to come
And not let my heart stray
I will learn how to give
Perhaps then how to live
And love in a better way
And the wind calls my name
I ask ain't it a shame
That I never learned before
And the wind in reply
Tells me by and by
You're walking out the door
Please don't go
I need you so
Or at least I think I may
But if I've learned how to love
I've learned to rise above
And you don't need to stay
So go on down the road
I know now to be bold
We're better both this way
Don't ask why
You tell me with a sigh
But we'll meet again someday
And the wind calls my name
And says I learned the game
I pray I don't forget
And the wind in reply
Tells me by and by
You haven't left me yet
(25 November 1977)