I shall be Autumn this Halloween, with leaf draped skirt, and folds of boysenberry velvet wine flowing to the ground. Brown stained face, eyes rimmed in gold, nails dripping sunset, a crown of twigs to cover my head. You may gather from me the spring of my youth, my summer of maturity, and hold onto with me, the solace of these days of remembering before the frost. ~Judith A. Lawrence, Autumn Offering~

When you and I

are old and grey...

I'll have a belly,

a hound dog named Shakespeare

and a pickup truck.

You will have

a pretty cotton dress

and glaucoma,

which will steal your sight.

And you'll stand on our porch in the morning

with your face to the sky,

and I'll come outside 

with the birdseed or something, going:

"Whoa, whoa, baby--don't stare

right into the sun like that!"

And you'll say:

"Oh, you old poop!

I may be blind, but I am not a dope...

I'm a heliotrope.

That's a fancy word for sunflower,

if you don't remember!"

And I'll go:

"Awwwww--I known heliotrope, hell...

I invented it!"

And then I'll whisper: "Hey.

The yonder is just as wild and blue

as people say it is today.

And you can't see, but...

I haven't done yard work for weeks.

The crabgrass is practically piggyback

on the buttercups, Buttercup,

but I love you.  I love you.

And I'm gonna keep you mine

like a crow loved to hold

an old telephone line, remember those?"

And you'll say:

"What, crows?"

And I'll go:

"Nahhh--telephone lines.

Remember? Back in the days

when the bedding was yours 

but the bed was mine.

You remember that, Sunshine?"

And then I'll shuffle back indoors,

bent but still feisty,

and I'll do what I always do.

I'll lie on the floor

with a scrap, and a pen,

I'll write a poem for you,

describe the rest of the day for you

you blind, old...

~rives, glaucoma~

Please watch the video below in which Rives recites his poem "Glaucoma."  He's a brilliant wordsmith, has fantastic delivery and is one of my favorite poets!

And the woman said, the serpent

beguiled me, and I did eat.

-- Genesis 3:13

Beguiled, my ass. I said no such thing.

You say I lost the gift of Paradise.

I couldn't lose what I never had.

You say the serpent tempted me to eat.

You omit that he entered the Garden

on two legs and walked like a man.

And here's what your story always ignores:

I had pure gold, rare perfume, precious stones,

but Adam hadn't touched me all those years.

Perfection in the Garden didn't mean that way.

Not having it and not wanting it

was God's idea of perfection, not mine.

So when that serpent strolled up to the tree,

all upright and fine, he threw off the balance,

and I began to pray, Oh, let him be mine.

When he held out the apple, so round and lush,

when he stroked it to a keen red glow,

I didn't fall to temptation -- I rose to it.

I ate that apple because I was hungry.

I wanted what lay outside of Paradise,

a world without the burden of perfection.

Now you call all sinful women my sisters.

I say, let them claim their own damn sins.

The apple may not be perfect, but it's mine.

~Diane Lockward, Eve argues against perfection~

Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--

And there isn't any use for you to doubt it:

For he will do

As he do do

And there's no doing anything about it!

~T.S. Elliott, The Rum Tum Tugger (excerpt)~

Dedicated to Luka (09/09/09)...one troublesome, imp of a cat!  Hope you're knocking picture frames off the wall in heaven! ;-)

in a time of secret wooing

today prepares tomorrow's ruin

left knows not what right is doing

my heart is torn asunder.

in a time of furtive sighs

sweet hellos and sad goodbyes

half-truths told and entire lies

my conscience echoes thunder.

in a time when kingdoms come

joy is brief as summer's fun

happiness its race has run

then pain stalks in to plunder.

~maya angelou, in a time~

two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

and sorry i could not travel both

and be one traveler, long i stood

and looked down one as far as i could

to where it bent in the undergrowth;

then took the other, as just as fair,

and having perhaps the better claim

because it was grassy and wanted wear,

though as for that the passing there

had worn them really about the same,

and both that morning equally lay

in leaves no step had trodden black.

oh, i marked the first for another day!

yet knowing how way leads on to way

i doubted if I should ever come back.

i shall be telling this with a sigh

somewhere ages and ages hence:

two roads diverged in a wood, and i,

i took the one less traveled by,

and that has made all the difference. 

~robert frost, the road not taken~

One of our little adventures this Labor Day included a 2-hour "off-roading" lesson through The Land Rover Experience Driving School associated with The Equinox Resort in Manchester, VT.  They have an 80-acre course where they teach drivers how to navigate off-road, including techniques for ascents, descents, side tilts and rocky terrains.

It was an amazing two hour class filled with many "oh, holy crap" and "you aren't serious - we aren't really going to go down that hill?  over those mounds?" etc. moments.  What a fun and unique experience in a truly awesome SUV.  We were the first group to have the honor of driving their new 2011 Range Rover too!!   

The lesson pretty much doubles as a not-so-subtle sales pitch for Land Rover and I can't help but wonder how many people wind up wishing they could afford such a sweet ride but at $94,000, the price tag was very nearly as steep as some of the terrain on the driving course!!  Impressive car though....  Maybe someday when I win the lottery, I can afford to buy one of these toys to share with my husband!

why should my sleepy heart be taught

to whistle mocking-bird replies?

this is another bird you've caught,

soft-feathered, with a falcon's eyes.

the bird imagination,

that flies so far, that dies so soon;

her wings are colored like the sun,

her breast is colored like the moon.

weave her a chain of silver twist,

and a little hood of scarlet wool,

and let her perch upon your wrist,

and tell her she is beautiful.

~elinor wylie, the falcon~

My husband and I recently spent a lovely long weekend in Vermont at The Equinox Resort & Spa (http://www.equinoxresort.com/).  

One of the absolute thrills of the weekend was our two visits to The British School of Falconry where we had some fun hands on time with their Harris hawks.  We learned about the esteemed sport of hunting with trained birds of prey and even had the opportunity to take them out into the field and into the woods and see them in action.  We only caught a little tree frog, but the majesty of the birds was truly something to behold.  What an amazing experience.

it is possible...

it is possible at least sometimes...

it is possible especially now

to ride a horse

inside a prison cell

and run away...

it is possible for prison walls

to disappear,

for the cell to become a distant land

without frontiers:

what did you do with the walls?

i gave them back to the rocks.

and what did you do with the ceiling?

i turned it into a saddle.

and your chain?

i turned it into a pencil.

the prison guard got angry.

he put an end to the dialogue.

he said he didn't care for poetry,

and bolted the door of my cell.

he came back to see me

in the morning.

he shouted at me:

where did all this water come from?

i brought it from the Nile.

and the trees?

from the orchards of Damascus.

and the music?

from my heartbeat.

the prison guard got mad.

he put an end to my dialogue.

he said he didn't like my poetry,

and bolted the door of my cell.

but he returned in the evening:

where did this moon come from?

from the nights of Baghdad.

and the wine?

from the vineyards of Algiers.

and this freedom?

from the chain you tied me with last night.

the prison guard grew so sad...

he begged me to give him back

his freedom.

~mahmoud darwish, the prison cell (translated by ben bennani)~

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

~e.e. cummings, i am a little church~

once i spoke the language of the flowers,

once i understood each word the caterpillar said,

once i smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,

and shared a conversation with the housefly

in my bed.

once i heard and answered all the questions

of the crickets,

and joined the crying of each falling dying

flake of snow,

once i spoke the language of the flowers. . . .

how did it go?

how did it go?

~shel silverstein, forgotten language~

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

~e.e. cummings, somewhere i have never traveled~

in the night we shall go in

to steal

a flowering branch.

we shall climb over the wall

in the darkness of the alien garden,

two shadows in the shadow.

winter is not yet gone,

and the apple tree appears

suddenly changed

into a cascade of fragrant stars.

in the night we shall go in

up to its trembling firmament,

and your little hands and mine

will steal the stars.

and silently,

to our house,

in the night and the shadow,

with your steps will enter

perfume’s silent step

and with starry feet

the clear body of spring.

~pablo neruda, the stolen branch~