I am a collector

...of the traditional, such as: rocks, shells and stamps.  I am also a collector of the intangible, such as stories and memories, like this one, posted today in honor of my mother: an amazing person who continues to inspire me; and, one half of the symphony that has guided me and for which I lack the words to express my gratitude.

Memories

One quietly hums while the other softly sings

Creating a symphony

That jars me out of my reverie

Into the present,

Where I am suddenly aware

I have been given a gift.

A memory to tuck away

To be treasured at a later time.

For at this moment

I am kneeling

In a pew

With my father on my left and my mother on my right

Feeling so blessed

To be sharing this moment

With them.

They are unaware of each other’s contribution to this symphony

Or the effect this moment is having on me.

Light streams through stained glass windows

Creating patterns which today we observe but do not see.

We are together yet in our own places

Inside ourselves among our thoughts

With music and light filling the spaces in between.


Mother
Her
The
Home

Women: mothers, sisters, aunts, spouses, friends, thinkers, creators, innovators, listeners.....

Strong, Resilient, Amazing....

'nuf said.....

Still I Rise
~~Maya Angelou

Watch Maya Angelou read this poem. 

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt   

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?   

’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells   

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,   

Just like hopes springing high,   

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?   

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,   

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard

’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines   

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds   

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,   

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,   

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.   

I rise

I rise   

I rise.

Find this poem at the Poetry Foundation site.

Women

~~Langston Hughes

They were women then

My mam's generation

Husky of voice - Stout of

Step

With fists as well as Hands

How they battered down

Doors

And ironed 

Starched white

Shirts

How they led

Armies

Headragged Generals

Across mined

Fields

Booby-trapped

Dirches

To discover

books

Desks

A place for us

How they knew what we 

Must know

Without knowing a page

Of it

Themselves.

"Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York; "

Shakespeare's often misunderstood opening line from Richard III tells the reader that the winter of discontent has now been made glorious by the ascension to the throne of a son of the Duke of  York.  Poor winter.  All the seasons have baggage, but winter's is a heavier load to bear, at least for those of us in the colder climates, colder shorter days with little variation in the landscape.  So before we move into our glorious days, a look back to winter.

"I sit alone in this winter clarity which clouds my mind"  

~~ Thistles and Weeds, Mumford and Sons

I know, it is spring, but listening to this song on this dark and rainy day reminded me of a poem I had written and many more I had read regarding the supposed clarity of wintertime.  I think these lyrics are beautiful and obviously open to myriad interpretations.  I am going for the metaphorical winter as well as the literal winter.

Clarity

~~jkreed

Burnt umber leaves

Shriveling on this branch

Symbolize all that is lost

All that has gone undone

A valiant attempt now past.

The first leaf wafting to the ground before me

Bears away my last hopes of summer

Preparing me for the road ahead

A baron landscape

Through which my thoughts move freely

Unencumbered by frilliness.

Winter Trees
~~William Carlos Williams

All the complicated details

of the attiring and

the disattiring are completed!

A liquid moon

moves gently among

the long branches.

Thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold. 

 

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174773

Lines for Winter

Lines for Winter

~~Mark Strand

Tell yourself

as it gets cold and gray falls from the air

that you will go on

walking, hearing

the same tune no matter where

you find yourself—

inside the dome of dark

or under the cracking white

of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.

Tonight as it gets cold

tell yourself

what you know which is nothing

but the tune your bones play

as you keep going. And you will be able

for once to lie down under the small fire

of winter stars.

And if it happens that you cannot

go on or turn back

and you find yourself

where you will be at the end,

tell yourself

in that final flowing of cold through your limbs

that you love what you are.