Father Time

Time is what keeps everything from happening at once.
~Ray Cummings

Time is a little wibbly-wobbly today, as I share Art Thursday on Wednesday...

Hope you can look back on 2014 with fondness and forward to 2015 with pleasure. My New Year's resolution is to train our puppy, who has thus far shown little interest in it, so I am looking ahead with eagerness and trepidation.

Closing the Book
John T. McCutcheon

Father Time
photo by Christopher Brown

Pointing
photo by Ron Adams

New Year's Postcard, 1910

Sign Here, Please
German lithograph postcard, 1910

Vintage New Year's Card
photo by Dave

Janus, Waltham Abbey parish church
photo by Steve Day

Anchor Down

Am I posting more than ever now that I'm "resting" or what? I swear, I'm not posting for the rest of the week, but I had to share this because my Vandy girl is so excited about the Melodores winning the Sing-Off. She knows one of these guys and has sung in a chorus with others:

Sincerely thankful

A while back, I saw a young man chasing a woman with a object that he was trying to get close enough to hit her with (a stick? a tire iron? I couldn't tell), but she got on the other side of a car and was able to keep out of reach. I called 911 and police officers arrived before he caught her. It was such a relief that she was safe. If I hadn't been able to contact the police, I would have felt obliged to intervene myself, and who knows how that would have gone. I am so thankful for our public servants who are willing to place themselves in dangerous situations every day and I hope we can help them have emotionally-healthy, well-supported departments.

That is all.

An old post: Police Poets

Rest

Reflections On a Scottish Christmas
by Johnny Cunningham

The dark of winter wraps around us tight.
The lamps are fired, and flickering light
beats time to the fiddle as notes float
softly down, like the years' first snow.
While outside the window
a blast of late December wind
whistles harmony to the drone of the pipes.
We push the old year back against the wall
so we can dance a jig for Christmas
and welcome in the new.

I discovered a peril of herbal medicine recently. My husband was somewhat sick and I kept giving him stuff to make him feel better and then he would go to work. Where he wouldn't get any rest, and we would start again the next day, with him a bit more exhausted. So maybe helping him feel well enough to go was not doing him a favor. Trying to get him to take a day off is somewhere between "tough" and "nearly impossible," but people just need to get their rest, you know?

Speaking of rest, I could use a break (literally and figuratively) myself. Ever since the PTA Reflections arts competition deadline moved from after Christmas to before Christmas, my holidays have been more rushed. I love the Reflections program, but when I turned in this year's entries, I danced a jig in my heart that I am not going to be doing it next year. I've been coordinating the program for eight years and as many as three schools at a time. It's a lot of work at a busy time of year.

So we've had Reflections, illnesses, wisdom tooth surgery, pet minding, present shopping & making going on ... yesterday when I found myself grumbling to the Christmas tree about the fact that it keeps wanting to be watered, I realized that I should cut myself some slack somewhere. I gave myself permission not to post this week. I had to get up a million times while I was writing this (to attend to a cat, a dog, and a sick child) so I figure that was the right choice. Happy holidays, all!

Some old winter and holiday posts.

Time to Ponder and Listen

This time of the year is spent in good cheer,
And neighbors together do meet
To sit by the fire, with friendly desire,
Each other in love to greet;
Old grudges forgot are put in the pot,
All sorrows aside they lay;
The old and the young doth carol this song
To drive the cold winter away.
~Traditional

My friend Joyce Ray made my day with the thoughtful parcel she sent for the Winter Poetry Swap. Here's her elegant pantoum:

The Language of Trees
by Joyce Ray

Twigs, sap stilled by cold,
etch brush-stroked Kanji
over gray skies and hold
a promise of spring through winter’s story.

Brush-stroked Kanji etch
tree poems in stick season.
Limbs promise spring and stretch
toward orbs of light to illume and open

the tree poems of stick season
because now is the time to ponder and listen
as light orbs illume and open
Kilmer’s analogy of trees to poems.

Let poets listen. Let poets ponder.
Do trees beckon to hear poems,
stripped of Kilmer’s summer wear,
in winter’s language, plain-spoken?

Perhaps they beckon to hear our prayer
and like twigs, sap stilled by cold,
we’ll pray in the stripped language of winter
against gray skies we must hold.

Joyce also sent chocolates, candles, and a custom ornament
(not pictured because it is already on the tree)

The Poetry Friday round-up is at Buffy's Blog.

It Was Terribly Cold

Have you ever heard Hans Christian Andersen's story of The Little Match Girl? It's a sad tale about a little girl who is sent into the cold to sell matches, but when no one buys any, she winds up using them to warm herself. In their light, she sees happy visions of food, comfort, and her loving grandmother. She freezes during the night and is found in the morning by people who passed her by the night before. It's not a story that I have a sentimental attachment to from my childhood or anything, but last year I shared a bit of David Lang's the little match girl passion. This year I have some art:

Remember the little match girl (Please donate to your local food bank)
photo by Justin Ennis

The little match girl of tucia
photo by 黑本

The Little Match Girl dreaming of Christmas trees (The Hans Christian Andersen museum, Copenhagen)
photo by kurozukin

The fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen
by Helen Stratton

Little Match Girl
photo by Scott Moore

The Little Match Girl
by Shigeru Hatsuyama

The Little Match Girl loses her shoes, Fairy tales and stories, 1900
illustration by Hans Tegner

The Bloggess is running a "give what you can, take what you need" post that you might want to look at if you are interested in direct ways to help people out. I would scroll down quite a bit to get to messages that have been seen fewer times.

I'll Paint You A Picture

I am a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves.
I keep my lamp lit, to warn the sailors on their way.

This Music Monday, Nickel Creek :-)

How I Was

A poem today by Ukrainian poet Oksana Lutsyshyna.

The Cat
by Oksana Lutsyshyna

father asked: write a poem about me
how I was young, how I was, period
played the guitar, chased a soccer ball in the field,
bouncing it with my head high into the sky

how I returned home
to our apartment
that smelled of oatmeal and Saturday laundry
with a tapestry hanging on the wall

(on the tapestry
a man and a woman
woven in red
ride a pair of black horses)

no, father, I kept saying, I can’t...

read the rest here.

Poets in Ukraine celebrated like stars
Dave Bakke: Ukrainian war sparks poetry protest
An article about Ukrainian poet Serhiy Zhadan

These Four Corners is the Poetry Friday round-up host.

Visitors

The means by which migratory animals navigate from place to place are as diverse as the journeys themselves. Some species follow an invisible road map created by the earth’s magnetic field, which they perceive through tiny magnets in their bodies. Others rely on landmarks such as mountain ranges and coastlines, the alignment of the stars in the night sky, or olfactory cues to determine where they’re going.
~David S. Wilcove

Male hooded merganser photo by Ken Billington

We live near a pond that is populated by a blue heron, green herons, dozens of Canada geese, mallard ducks, and (at the moment) hooded mergansers. The hooded mergansers are only here for a little while, on their way to warmer climes. I love to hear the hummingbird-esque noise their wings make when they fly. In honor of those beauties, we have a migration theme today.

Gathering Wings
photo by Steve Wall

Morning Migration
photo by Nathan Johansen

Tundra (Whistling) Swans resting after the long migration flight
photo by Dave Rooke

Zebra migration
photo by Francesco Veronesi

Wildebeest migration
photo by Francesco Veronesi

Birds storm!
photo by Riccardo Palazzani

Monarch Migration
photo by Nicole Hanusek

Operation Migration
photo by Virginia Piekarski

Soundings

In Soundings, Emily Hancock has created an elegant, lovingly-made work of art. Emily crafted the poems, carved linoleum prints, set the letterpress, and hand-bound the book. Thank you to Emily for allowing me to share these poems and thank you to my daughters for taking these photos!

after snow, warm wind
and from each eave
the steady
heartbeat of ice

sundown in pine woods ~
on and on it burns
an ember in a grate

when the tide
comes in,
no argument
is strong enough

ash petals tumble,
turn to dust
against stone ~
fire's brief flowers

You can read more about Soundings at St Brigid Press.

The Poetry Friday round-up is at BookTalking.

At the Loom

We sleep, but the loom of life never stops, and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up in the morning.
~Henry Ward Beecher

Spotlighting woven art will have to wait for another day because this time, the focus is weavers:

"Weaving" from Fil and Filippa: Story of Child Life in the Philippines by John Stuart Thomson
illustrated by Maud and Miska Petersham

Stamp of Dahomey, 1961
The "Artisans" series

"Hataori" (Weaving) woodcut print
Shigenobu Yanagawa

The shuttle flies, rushes the machine
John Schiess (1799-1844)

Penelope and the Suitors
by John William Waterhouse

Man Weaving Cane
photo by Anja Disseldorp

Weaver busy making the cloth strips used to manufacture bogolans
Village Songho - Dogon Country - Mali

Rehabilitation of British Soldiers From Normandy
Leading Aircraftman Cheshire, who was admitted with a broken wrist and elbow, weaves a rug at the Robert Jones and Dame Agnes Hunt Orthopaedic Hospital
Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer, Smith Norman

Spider
photo by Toshihiro Gamo

Weaving the Morning by João Cabral de Melo Neto

Upons

If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week.
~Charles Darwin

photo by bookchen

Upon Being Asked What I Believe In
by Christine Rhein
after Dean Young

I say, for starters, the word in,
the way it dumps quicksand before
love and trouble, or after belief
and jump right! I say the days I'm sunk
in up to my waist, improvising
with ingredients at hand. I say the sizzle
of bacon, onions, the wooden spoon
meandering through thick lentil soup
with basil. I say all the herbs in my garden,
pushing roots into earth. I say the Zen
of weeding, aches that follow. And how,
in Japan, they seat a guest facing away
from the most beautiful part of the room,
remember the person later as what's missing
from the art.

Read the rest here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What to Say Upon Being Asked to Be Friends
By Julian Talamantez Brolaski

Why speak of hate, when I do bleed for love?
Not hate, my love, but Love doth bite my tongue
Till I taste stuff that makes my rhyming rough
So flatter I my fever for the one
For whom I inly mourn, though seem to shun.
A rose is arrows is eros, so what
If I confuse the shade that I’ve become
With winedark substance in a lover’s cup?

Read the rest here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is at Carol's Corner.

Unreal

Thanksgiving is the holiday that encompasses all others. All of them, from Martin Luther King Day to Arbor Day to Christmas to Valentine's Day, are in one way or another about being thankful.
~Jonathan Safran Foer

No reason for sharing abstract art today, except that I am not usually thankful enough for it.

Lichen Art
by Jeremy Atkinson

Abstract Pop-Up Toaster
by Wayne Wilkinson

Ink in Water
by Leonardo Aguiar

Fellow Traveller
by Mr. Art

Splattered Rock
by Jean Delage

Lessons from an Alchemist
by Humberto Antonio Muñiz

Written Words
by Angel A. Alfonso Castillo

Here's To You, My Little Loves

For people like us
In places like this
We need all the hope
That we can get
~The Call, I Still Believe

The Call -- still a rousing way to start a morning!




LET THE DAY BEGIN

Here's to the babies in a brand new world
Here's to the beauty of the stars
Here's to the travellers on the open road
Here's to the dreamers in the bars

Here's to the teachers in the crowded rooms
Here's to the workers in the fields
Here's to the preachers of the sacred words
Here's to the drivers at the wheel

Here's to you my little loves
With blessings from above
Now let the day begin
Here's to you my little loves
With blessings from above
Now let the day begin, let the day begin

Here's to the winners of the human race
Here's to the losers in the game
Here's to the soldiers of the bitter war
Here's to the wall that bears their name

Chorus

Here's to the doctors and their healing work
Here's to the loved ones in their care
Here's to the strangers on the street tonight
Here's to the lonely everywhere

Here's to the wisdom from the mouths of babes
Here's to the lions in the cage
Here's to the struggles of the silent poor
Here's to the closing of the age

Here's to you my little loves
With blessings from above
Now let the day begin

A Thousand Elements Conspiring

Sharing poems from The Last Girl by Rose Solari today.

Tree House of the Dream Child
by Rose Solari

It has been here forever. Who
built it, nobody knows. Time itself

might have pressed these boards
into rows, hammered home

the nails. Nobody plays here.
Neighborhood boys once hung

their pennants from its windows,
while girls slipped hand over hand

up the rope ladder. How high
the grass grows — no one lives

around here anymore. Come
with me as I walk the perimeter

of this field, and don’t be afraid.
Though the earth is wild, nothing

can hurt us here. And if we’re lucky,
if the light is good and a thousand

other elements conspire, we might see,
moving inside the one high room

of the tree house, the dream child. Hear
the floorboards singing her step, see

her old, new face. Safe in those walls,
plying her solitary art, she is a word

for keeping and losing, a talisman
against this sky, which is red-black,

now, and terrible, and our own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You Can't Take the Sky from Me by Eric

The Last Girl
by Rose Solari

In the summer dusk, we came out like fireflies,
the neighborhood children, swarming the best
backyards. At the Sedlacks’, a long grassy span
for football. At the O’Briens’, a forest of shrubs
for hide and seek. It felt like freedom, like a taste
of being adult, running those blocks in the almost
dark, at home in the space between homes.

All last spring, the next door neighbor’s yard
was loud with backhoes and workers, building
a basketball court for the youngest. Her mother says
she wants to go pro. At maybe thirteen, she has
long straight hair and serious legs, almost never
smiles. She’s out there every day, and always alone.

And I think, what if children running the streets
are like frogs or salmon? What if their disappearance
means we’ve wrecked the world past repair? What if
she — I don’t know her name — becomes the last girl
left on earth who will play outside? At night, I hear
the shake and swing of the metal basket chains.
Two points, then three. Two points, then three.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Printed with permission from Alan Squire Publishing. Copyright © 2014 Rose Solari. Available for purchase at bookstores and e-tailers everywhere.

The Poetry Friday round-up is at Tapestry of Words.