POST CARDS FROM PARIS

 

BEL ‘ OCCHIO   …   the beautiful eye

POST CARDS FROM PARIS

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She reached up and tore a piece  from the sky.

“so I’ll remember”

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She opened the linen bag

and filled it with the sound of her footsteps.

“so I’ll remember”

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She drew the gray silk shawl of mist

around her shoulders.

“so I’ll remember”

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She adorned her wrists with the ringing bells.

“so I”ll remember”

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She filled her soul with all she had gathered.

“so I’ll remember Paris”

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SPRING AND EVERYONE’S IN LOVE

 

 

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 BEL’OCCHIO   …   the beautiful eye

who knows if the moon’s
a balloon, coming out of a keen city
in the sky-filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it, if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited, where

always,
it’s
Spring) and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves

 

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(e.e. cummings 18914 – 1962.  This American poet wrote 2,900 poems.  He is remembered as an eminent voice of the 20th Century.)

THE TELEPHONE … Robert Frost

 

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When I was just as far as I could walk

From here today,

There was an hour

All still

When leaning with my head against a flower / I heard you talk.

Don’t say I didn’t,  for I heard you say –

You spoke from that flower on the windowsill –

Do you remember what you said?

First tell me what it was you thought you heard.

Having found the flower and driven a bee away,

I leaned my head,

And holding by the stalk,

I listened and I thought I caught the word –

What was it?  Did you call my name?

Or did you say –

Someone said, “Come” – I heard it as I bowed.

I may have thought as much, but not aloud.

Well, so I came.  – Robert Frost

(The Telephone is from  THE POETRY OF ROBERT FROST, edited by Edward Connery Lathem, 1969, Henry Holt and Company, New York.

 

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Taking this moment to recall sweet memories of those we have loved  and lost.

To cherish and hold forever

the golden, happy days together.

CORN HARVEST

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This land.

This growing of things.

It grabs your heart and clutches your soul.

 

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Slender greens spiral up.

Up,  up,  reaching the top of the sky.

 

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That tower high

and  whisper and sing the summer songs.

 

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Then bow to a greater force.

Become the harvest that feeds the body.

 

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The cycle ends.

 

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Autumn mists lovingly caress

the resting fields.

 

WORDS OF LOVE

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ROXANNE September 25th,  l958 – 2010

I watched you run across the lawn

in faded jeans and dirty sneakers.

The sun has kissed you often.

Your strong face is freckled with its’ love.

Now you’re playing games,

running faster

jumping higher,

yelling louder.

Lunchtime.

You sprawl exhausted at my feet,

still for a while.

Then, sandwich in hand

you leap away towards another day.

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The sun has only just begun

to dry the dew.

A gust of wind staggers under an almost

too earthy burden of garden fragrances.

I come here often

in the early morning hours.

Perhaps, because here in this garden

we planned together

I feel a special closeness to you.

I picked a rose, still wet with dew,

to lay on your pillow.

I meant to write you words of love

instead

I bring you the first rose that bloomed this morning.

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I hold a calendar of memories

and leaf back through the weeks

and years

to a day when we built sand castles on a happy beach.

To a Thursday

encircled in red.

An ordinary day

until you made it special with your first step.

The years have passed as quickly

as these pages I so casually turn.

In my hand I hold all the birthdays,

the first of July picnics,

the first days of school.

All the yesterdays

and todays.

Now you’ve grown-up

and the tomorrows

these belong to you.

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(These words are excerpts from a script I wrote for a musical production by the “Sweet Adelines”  performed at The Saskatchewan Centre of the Arts in l972.  It was the story of a young girl growing up on the prairies, told in song and words.  Roxanne played the role of the girl.   The words were for her.)

THERE IS A SILVER COUNTRY …

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Between the time of remembering ,

And the moment of forgetting,

There is a silver country.

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Where we gather treasured moments into a silver bowl.

Then pick through the fragments.

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Each fragment takes us on a journey.

Brushes our minds

Sweeps out the cobwebs.

Makes clean our day.

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Shimmers on the treasures rediscovered.

Land marks of our bye gone days.

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Between the time of remembering.,

And the moments of forgetting,

There is a silver country.

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THE BLESSED SUN TELLING OF HALCYON DAYS BEGUN

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Simplest of blossoms, to mine eye

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Though bringest the summer’s painted sky;

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The maythorn greening in the nook;

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The minnows sporting in the brook;

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The bleat of flocks;

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The breath of flowers;

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The song of birds amid the bowers;

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The crystal of the azure seas;

The music of the southern breeze;

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And, over all, the blessed sun;

Tell of halcyon days begun.

This beautiful poem describes summer so perfectly.  (The Harebell – David Macbeth Moir)  The floral photographs were taken early this morning July 15th in the front garden.  The ocean photograph is The Good Husband enjoying a beach a short drive from where we live.  Summertime, oh how we love the halcyon days of summer.

ALL’S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD

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The year’s at the spring,

And day’s at the morn;

Morning’s at seven;

The hill-side’s dew-pearled;   

The lark’s on the wing; 

The snail’s on the thorn;

God’s in His heaven –  

All’s right with the world.

 

 Poetry  by Robert Browning.    (1812-1889).  Flowers by Amy.

We don’t have a door bell.  Instead a big bell hangs gracefully beside the front door.  Visitors love pulling on the leather strap.  They ring the bell vigorously.  Announcing their arrival.   Some ring several times then wait, then ring again simply for the sheer delight of being able to make a joyful sound.  My friend Amy has her own ring.  She rings until I open the door.  The bouquet of roses enter and behind the magnificent flowers – Amy.