Oniomania by Peter Pereira

Not so much the desire
for owning things
as the inability to choose
between hunter or emerald
green, to buy
just roses, when there are birds
of paradise, dahlias,
delphinium, and baby's breath.
At center an emptiness
large as a half-off sale table.
What could be so wrong
with a little indulgence?
To wander the aisles of fresh
new good things knowing
any of them could be hers?
With a closet full of shoes
unworn back home,
she's looking for love
but it's not for sale —
so she grabs three of
the next best thing.

Two Poems by William Butler Yeats

When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Very Pretty, by John L. Stanizzi

Point O' Woods, South Lyme, August, 1999

So early in the morning,
and yet too hot for her to walk
even a step or two.

We sit her in a plastic lawn chair,
secure her with a bed sheet
huge and cool around her frail body,

and Ma, elegant and 70 pounds,
waits with apprehension
to be lifted to the top
of forty-seven steep and crooked steps

to the landing that overlooks
the cottage roof where a gull sleeps,
and below that
a sail on jeweled green water.

At the top,
with the sun impatient for 97,
we stand with her a moment
as she looks out on the bay.

Very pretty, she says, very pretty.

And I think of those words
as sweetest memory
the very moment
she is speaking them.

for Katherine Conkling

If the shoe fits...throw it?

A couple of items in the news relate to my earlier rant on civility, or more specifically, the lack of it!

1st example: An Iraqi reporter throws his shoes at President Bush.
2nd example: Governor Palin's church in Wasilla set on fire (with people inside) by an arsonist.

Investigators are still looking into the fire, so nothing conclusive has been reported, though many speculate that the fire was set in protest of the church's stance on gay marriage. Whatever the reason--no matter how severe the disagreement with the church: whether it be gay marriage, abortion, or a conflict between people within the congregation--arson? Seriously, ARSON???!!!

Back to the shoe-throwing incident. As I watched the KBOI670 talk radio TV broadcast this morning, I was dismayed to hear several callers condoning the reporter who assaulted the President of the United States. The thing is: they have every right to speak dishonorably of him. And ironically, thanks to President Bush, people in Iraq are now free to disagree with their leaders (and ours) without risking their lives. While it is our constitutional right to disagree, it does not grant anyone the privilege of using violence in any shape or form.

Christmas 1963, by Joseph Enzweiler

Because we wanted much that year
and had little. Because the winter phone
for days stayed silent that would call
our father back to work, and he
kept silent too with our mother,
fearfully proud before us.

Because I was young that morning
in gray light untouched on the rug
and our gifts were so few, propped
along the furniture, for a second
my heart fell, then saw how large
they made the spaces between them

to take the place of less. Because
the curtained sun rose brightly
on our discarded paper and the things
themselves, these forty years,
have grown too small to see, the emptiness
measured out remains the gift,

fills the whole room now, that whole year
out across the snowy lawn. Because
a drop of shame burned quietly
in the province of love. Because
we had little that year
and were given much.

Am I a pinhead?

I think I just got slammed by Bill O'Reilly!

Has anyone else seen the "Charlie bit my finger!" video on youtube? It's been around for quite some time. My sister showed it to me, and I've shown it to friends. Charlie's brother has the cutest British accent, and I think that's the reason it has become so popular. Plus, those of us with kids just gotta love the brotherly interaction shown here!

Bill O'Reilly, however, does not agree. Apparently, I condoned violence by seeking out this home video. To be honest, I am more embarrassed to be admitting that I have spent as much time as I have surfing youtube!

Sorry, Charlie!

time to reconsider?

I have been pretty critical of all things "Twilight"--the books, the movie, the premise behind the stories. As others have admitted themselves, I'm probably just jealous.

However, I am prepared to start liking even Bella if I continue to read more articles like this one. If Stephanie Meyer's weak writing style leads teenagers to evaluate the meaning of healthy relationships, and consider abstinence as the best way to express true love--hey, I'll join her fan club!

Every year something like this happens...

A school in Great Britain (I believe--the article comes from Telegraph.co.uk, and names the school as Greenwood Junior School) is getting attention for its hapless decision-making procedures which resulted in the school's Christmas program being bumped to accommodate concurrent Muslim festivities.

I'm reminded of the controversy surrounding a Salt Lake City High School Choir and a Jewish girl's father who objected to their performance of Christmas songs several years ago. It also brings to mind a personal experience putting together a Holiday program as a music teacher.

The principle instructed me in very clear terms that the December program I was putting together could not be referred to as a Christmas program, but only a Holiday program. No Christmas songs could be sung. I searched through a music teachers' catalog for an appropriate songbook, and found one which was described to meet all of the criteria. It contained songs about snow, sledding, eating lots of food, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa.

Does that surprise anyone? It probably isn't shocking to anyone at all that a "Holiday" program may feature songs celebrating Hanukkah and Kwanzaa, but not Christmas. To be honest, it doesn't bother me that much. I like music from many cultures, and I can sing my traditional Christmas favorites at home with my kids. But the dichotomy bothers me just enough to blog about it.

A gifted lady

I'd love to hear a recording of this concert myself.

November 30

Writer's Almanac, November 30

A nice poem, and the birthday of two of my favorite authors: Mark Twain, and Lucy Maud Montgomery. When I was a little girl, and read Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and the Anne of Green Gables books, I wanted to be an author when I grew up.

November 30th also brings back another memory, a terrible one. It was the day my friend, Kori Stover, age 13, was killed. Every year on this day, I remember turning on the news to learn the truth of her death, and how I gave a recital later that night, all the while hoping that there had been a huge mistake--that the news had got it wrong, and that I'd come home from the recital to find out she was alive after all. While I had wanted to be an author, Kori wanted to be a dancer, and a wife and mother. Hardly any of us become what we dream of as children, but most of us at least we get to grow up and find out. Miss you, Kori.

Can he do it?

Headlines tell us that President-Elect Obama has revealed his budget plan, and even more notably that he wants to downsize the federal budget. See WSJ and Fox articles.

I applaud him for this much--and I hope that his Democratic "supporters" in the House and the Senate will not stifle his ability to cut spending. At the same time, I don't see how effective this can be if Obama proceeds with his own plans to increase spending on his pet projects, and continues to support spiraling TARP/bailout costs.

I'm being lazy

With a baby who has gone from sleeping through the night to waking up every three hours, my mental capacity to organize my own thoughts has been greatly diminished--and it's not like there was a huge margin of error to start with--hence the copying of articles from reliable news sources.

However, I like articles like the two below--I appreciate it when things (like health care reform in this instance) are made just a little clearer to me.

Bobby Jindal's creative ideas for Louisiana

What we DON'T know about the Uninsured

I would love to see Mitt Romney and Bobby Jindal get together and solve health care in 2012--of course, I'd like to see it right now, but I think it'll be a cold day in July before we see Obama tap into the genius of either of those two.

Translation of My Life, by Elizabeth Spires

I remember the past.
Before there were poems.
I was eight. The world
simple as a primer.
I lived in a small town
far from the ocean.
Home, then school,
then home again,
back and forth
on my blue bicycle.
In the summer, a blue pool,
white clouds sailing over,
and a song playing
on the jukebox.
Always the same song.
Then fall, with its burning
leaves. Thanksgiving.
Christmas. Over and over.
There are photographs,
yellow and crumbling,
to prove what I say.

Imagine: a town
in the same universe as this one,
with the same physical laws,
but no poets, no poetry.
No scribbling hands up late
at night writing words
they believed would save them.
No noisy fluttering pages
to disturb the peace
of the dreaming populace.
Understand, I was only a girl
living the days as they came.
I did not know then I would leave.
Though I had a secret
I did not tell and will not ever,
I did not know I would leave.