Hunter's widow

His Mistress

He slips quietly from my warm bed

To meet her crisp lips

His eyes wide with anticipation

Every sense heightened when he’s with her

“It’s only on Saturdays,” he tells me

“I give you the rest of my week,” he tells me, on Wednesday afternoon

He brings her gifts, clothes, new and shiny gems

He walks to meet her, sometimes for miles

And when he returns, he’s tired, too tired for me

And cold, he must rush to the shower, to cleanse himself

But I can still smell her

I keep thinking, “so soon this will be over,”

But I know full well – hunting season will resume next year.

Draft November 2010

You ladies are so clever!  What a great prompt Barbara, I love the idea of I Am From... and will respond to it later this weekend when I'm not dealing with the mess of four newly installed windows in my living room (still under XXX), shopping for T-Day, cooking and cleaning up the mess from XXX.  In spite of all I am thankful that I am here and able to cook and host dinner for my family this year.  

I would like to say how much I enjoyed everyone's workshop on Saturday and the yummy food. We are a cohesive group and I hope that we can stay connected in some way, perhaps this blog would be a good place to start.  I am looking forward to the rest of the presentations on the 6th.

Happiness to all as you share the precious holidays with family and friends.  

Linda

Gratitude

I am grateful for the ability to read and write. Truthfully, I sometimes take this for granted. This opportunity is a ticket for many freedoms and privileges. The other day one of my First Graders wrote a piece filled with wonderful images. It was the moment that he realized he was a writer. The image of this exchange is emblazoned in my memory, yet it is difficult to capture the intensity of this moment. Broad smile, eyes filled with anticipation just doesn't do it, but suffice it to say...he understands the power of words.

I am Love

I am from love.

I am out til the streetlights come on,

Barefeet, bike riding, skinned knees summer.

I am Green Lake Big Dock, big jump.

Oldest of three sisters,

we

expect

more from you.

Score more hoops, A+ only, captain of the… and president, too.

I am from big mall hair, Madonna and Michael.

I am Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, and Hail Mary around the block.

Love.

Oreos, ice cream and chips, vegetarian.

Store bought cakes on your birthday, or the day after.

I am from love,

And divorce.

I am a Princess married to her Prince,

Blessed with the two

Most precious girls.

Angela McLaughlin (draft)

Where I Am From

I am from sand between painted red toes,
Talented toes.
I am from the smell of lobster bait and seaweed, corn on the cob for supper,
And the drip of just-picked strawberries,
Sun-warmed and juicy.
I am from mailman and secretary,
Harry and Betty.
I am from big band brass,
The slide trombone.
I am from Garside's peppermint stick ice cream
sticky and melty,
Catholic
Protestant,
Physical lives separated, divided by beliefs.
Black and white.
Happy or sad.
I am from Red Sox Nation and the Celtic Green,
I am from culinary, the well-read, the traveled,
The opinionated and the privately weak.
The strong, the proud,
The silent, the grateful,
The loved and cherished.
That's where I am from.

Barbara Keene (2010) Draft

George Ella Lyon's Poem

Georgia graciously sent me the author of this poem....fast response, huh?

Where I'm From

I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.

I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I'm from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.

I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger,
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments--
snapped before I budded --
leaf-fall from the family tree.

Here is the link:
http://www.georgeellalyon.com/where.html

I recall that Georgia Heard used this as a reference to write our own poem: Where I Am From
Why don't we give it a whirl?!

The Power of Journaling

How great is it to find an old journal written several decades ago?! The following is an excerpt from my journal dated August 25, 1993 in reference to my children: Somehow 'wonderful' is not a strong enough word to capture the joyous wonder of their existence. On another note another entry began Anger is my partner. And still, speaking of my father and grandfather's anxiety and worry, "A fire hazard," my father declared. His father before him was ultra safety conscious too. It is a wonder that they were able to get out of bed without worrying themselves into some tragedy strangling themselves in the bed sheets upon rising. Presently I believe I am a bit more compassionate for those struggling with anxiety. I am a worrier. In this new-age of technology, I have long de-friended anger replacing this beast with joy, contentment and acceptance. And thank goodness, I still love and treasure my children! Without the permanence of my journal entries my thoughts, my feelings connected with that time would have been lost.