From 2013, written the summer after Tim died and I had moved back home, to Dodge. Dodge as in get outa? Tis the way ol’Dodgers, such as myself, refer to our beloved village. As for the getting out part, most do, some don’t, others won’t. This has sat in my drafts all this time, it […]More
There was a time when I could wile away many an hour in idle, digital, chitchatter. For close to 15 years I hunted out like-minded souls who craved the need to express their not so humble opinion about everything from local newsworthy tidbits, to environmental or international concerns. Thing is, I am a news addict. […]More
When my sister was around 5 years old, a girlfriend of mine was calling her Aunt, before she could complete the call my sister asked her “is your Aunt black like you?.” My Girlfriends answer was priceless, she said, “no, she is green with purple polk-a-dots”. We grew up surrounded by people who looked like […]More
As a teenager I gobbed on the warpaint just like all the other ’80’s girls. Big kohl rings around the eyes, piss holes in the snow is how my Mom referred to this look. Over the years, as the lines around my eyes appeared, and the deep crease that defines my cheeks grew more pronounced, […]More
Todays Daily Prompt was too good to ignore. Instantly, I POOF... was transported to the other day, when I wrote that poem. This song takes me back to those years at the lake. When I hear that song, from one of Tim's favourite singers, I am always moved. Mentally I am back, by a campfire, comfortably situated, with cozy pillows, in lawn chairs. Crackling fire at our feet, and the Newfie Neighbour on the deck next door playing his squeeze box. On the aire, the strains of "Girl with the black velvet band", or "When Irish Eyes are Smilin'". Yet this song, this song is none of those. This song, by VAN MORRISON, is Into The Mystic. Every single time I hear it, the same scenes come to mind, the smile breaks out, and a tear glides down one cheek. Happy tears, joyful tears, tears now of peace and thankfulness. As the old cliché goes, "better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all". On this night, after most of the neighbours have gone to bed, and there is a mere handful left, the moon breaks out from the thick cedars. As it lights up the lake, there is this magical moment, when the glint hits, and way in the distance you begin to hear the coyote howls. Tis magic, truly, truly magic. Out of all the places Tim had ever been, it twas in that spot, right that night, that he was finally free. We were born before the wind Also younger than the sun Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic Hark, now hear the sailors cry Smell the sea and feel the sky Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home And when the fog horn blows I want to hear it I don't have to fear it And I want to rock your gypsy soul Just like way back in the days of old And magnificently we will flow into the mystic When that fog horn blows you know I will be coming home And when that fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it I don't have to fear it And I want to rock your gypsy soul Just like way back in the days of old And together we will flow into the mystic Come on girl... Too late to stop now... ... AND SO I WRITE.
I’m not one to set down some concrete statement that defines my actions. Therefore, ultimatums are not often part of my “Modus Operandi“. I recognize the futility in these ultimate statements of intent. However, there are always exceptions, as my teeter-totter mindset is abundant with dichotomy. More than once I have succumbed to the attractive ideal of […]More