Wild Flower….

Are you in the mood for something whimsical today? I came across this poem several days ago and thought you readers might enjoy it as much as I did.
Thanks M-R for allowing me to Reblog your lovely poem.

Montana Rose Photography

dsc_4113I often wonder what it’s like
To be a little wild flower
Lost amongst the others
Out in a big ole field
Bending in the wind
Basking in the sun
Soaking up the rain
It’s the same old story
A little bit cliché really
Still…it doesn’t stop me
From wishing it was so
To be a little wild flower
Dancing in a field of snow

Or maybe something like that. I don’t know really.  Just words rumbling around in my head.  This picture was taken on my trip last year.  I stopped a little place in Wisconsin. No idea what it was called. I remember being disappointed with the actual destination in that area, but I got a few good shots.

This obviously isn’t the original picture. I mean, in a sense.  I played around with it. I like it better this way. I hope that you do too.


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Of Empty Wallets and Washing Gifts

While I’m on the subject of haiku this morning, Mark Redfearn’s haiku about after-Christmas window-shopping gave me a chuckle.

And today I must tackle Mount Wash-more, as the FlyLady calls it, which brings to mind another after-Christmas scenario:
New year’s laundry
my red towel gift set
pinks hubby’s pjs

If you enjoy haiku, Mark consistently posts some of the best verses I’ve ever read. Another haikuist, Charlotte Digregorio, posts a collection and often showcases other writers on her blog. Who doesn’t love the rush and whistle of a train? Here’s a verse she’s posted that I really like, written by UK haiku poet Alan Summers.

I also follow poets Bill Bisgood at The Write Idea — here’s one of his verses I enjoyed and you will, too — and Ron Evans at Haiku Odyssey. Here’s one of his haiku. Ron moved this fall, so his site has been inactive for awhile. (Hope all went well with that, Ron?)

Though I haven’t written many this year, I’ve posted all my haiku at Treetop Haiku.

I think everyone should try their hand at haiku — or short verses of that kind. It takes mind-power to get a whole thought condensed into a few syllables without sounding thrill-less. Like:
I went for a walk
saw footprints in the snow
someone else has been here

Haiku is not just a line of words strung together. It takes skill to compose a verse with a twist, something that makes a reader think or imagine without giving them the answer. For example, here’s mine about a scarecrow – which in Japanese haiku symbolism represents an old man or old person.

Too telling, IMO:
this sorry scarecrow
grown stiff in autumn frosts
wishes for summer days

My final version:
this sorry scarecrow
grown stiff in autumn frosts
sighs for the tasseling corn

Which one do you prefer?

The Art of Discovery


by Edgar Guest

A skylark of a by-gone day
mounted the sky
singing its long familiar lay–
and passing by
went men and women up and down
with hearts unstirred.
Theirs was the business of the town–
but Shelley heard.

The air had borne those liquid notes
for ages long;
from countless million golden throats
had poured that song,
and still the people sold and bought
and toiled for fame.
’Tis but a bird that sings, they thought
’Til Shelley came.

Enraptured by that lovely thing
and touched with pain,
with every nerve set quivering
like leaves in rain,
he stood the while the twilight rang
with chords divine,
and caught the song the skylark sang
in deathless line.

Who knows what beauty and what grace
are hidden still
buried among the commonplace
of mart and mill,
waiting with patience through the years,
as did the lark,
until the genius appears
their charms to mark?

From the book, The Friendly Way
© 1931 by the Reilly & Lee Co.

Daily Prompt Word: Pleasure

Everyday Things

Monday Morning — Early but not so Bright

I woke up at 5am and was tempted to roll over. But I know from past experience that once I’ve awakened, chances are that, instead of getting more restful sleep, my mind will just bounce through lot of disturbing or silly dreams. In that sense I envy my husband: he claims he rarely dreams and/or seldom remembers a dream once he’s awake.

So I decided there’s lots to do today, I might as well get up. Even though I do laundry any time of the week, I still prefer the old-fashioned Monday morning wash day. And my laundry hamper is overflowing right now.

Looking out my kitchen window I see that dawn is truly “cracking” this morning. A low-lying ridge of dark clouds in the east doesn’t quite reach the horizon, so a brilliant stripe of yellow-orange is peeking through on the horizon. Actually the sky is full of gray clouds, not solid but like an ocean above us rippled with layers of waves. Not so warm today: only 1̊ C at 7am; predicted high is 10̊ (50 F).

We visited a book sale in the city on Saturday; I picked up half a dozen poem books including one by Edna Jacques, published the year I was born. And three by Saskatoon poet Glen Sorestad. I really enjoy his poems — mainly because I can understand them and because he writes about familiar things in my world, Saskatchewan and the prairies.

Sunday school and church services yesterday were inspiring and we had a relaxing Sunday afternoon at home. I did write a story in response to the Word Press prompt and posted it on my fiction blog. If you’re interested, you’ll find “You Can’t Borrow Love” here.

While relaxing after dinner, I finished the book I was reading: Message In A Bottle by Nicholas Sparks. This is the third book of his that I’ve read and I enjoyed the first two for the most part. His writing tends to be heavy on angst and melancholy so I was prepared, but this tale I found just too blue and rather pointless. I did a lot of skimming. (Will post a proper book report later on Christine Composes.com)

Spoiler alert!
I like to feel, when I’ve closed the cover, that I’ve gained something from reading the story. Some positive takeaway point or at least a warm fuzzy feeling. Nada here. But if you enjoy a story that starts out on a melancholy note, involves two people who want to but can’t work it out, with successive heartaches and a tragic ending, this is the perfect book for you.

I see the Word Press prompt word for today is whisper. I’d have to write something fiction, since there’s no whispering going on around here these days. A huge flock of blackbirds settled in last week, filling our ears with anything but whispers. Sometimes they’re all up in the trees, sometimes foraging in the field beside us. There must be at least a hundred; they make quite a cloud ascending or descending. Sometimes I’ll look out and see them fluttering through the air like huge black leaves swept along in a wind gust.

And then there are the robins, filling our trees with song. We’ve had some warm days when windows could stay open and we could hear the cacophony coming from the woods beside us. Yesterday I watched a pretty little warbler, blue-grey with yellow patches under its wings — I’m guessing a magnolia warbler — hopping along a fence rail.

I’ve been working on this for an hour, sipping my morning coffee all the while, but now it’s time to get on with my projects of the day. As well as the laundry, I have a sewing project ready to work on. I’m so glad to feel more ambition these days and want to take advantage of it. A week from today I get my next treatment.

The Perfect Dinner Table

We’ve a dull morning but the temp has stayed fairly mild — 12 c yesterday and no sign of frost last night. Our cats are wanting to spend quite a bit of time outside these days. When I got up at 7 am they were eager to go out, so I opened the door — and heard a LOT of geese. They mush have been shouting encouragements to their leaders. (A practice we humans might copy more.)

I watched this huge flock coming up in several waves from the south; again they passed right over our acreage. This could be mostly the same ones I saw a couple of days ago, but definitely joined by others. I estimated today’s group at over three hundred birds — much as one can tell. Snow geese do fly in vee formations, but they band together in such large numbers their vees look like long trailing white streamers, often weaving in and out among each other as they go. I’ve never seen Canada geese flying in disorderly waves like that.

Last night I found this poem and typed it into the computer, thinking to post it sometime. Seems it suits quite well for today’s Word Press prompt.

The Perfect Dinner Table

by Edgar Guest

A tablecloth that’s slightly soiled
where greasy little hands have toiled;
the napkins kept in silver rings,
and only ordinary things
from which to eat a simple fare
and just the wife and kiddies there.
And while I serve, the clatter glad
of little girl and little lad
who have so very much to say
about the happenings of the day

Four big round eyes that dance with glee,
forever flashing joys at me;
two little tongues that race and run
to tell of troubles and of fun;
the mother with a patient smile
who knows that she must wait awhile
before she’ll get a chance to say
what she’s discovered through the day.
She steps aside for girl and lad
who have so much to tell their dad.

Our manners may not be the best;
perhaps our elbows often rest
upon the table, and at times
that very worst of dinner crimes,
of speaking ere you’ve downed your food;
so fast the little voices run.
Yet why should table manners stay
those tongues that have so much to say?

At many a table I have been
where wealth and luxury were seen
and I have dined in halls of pride
where all the guests were dignified.
But when it comes to pleasure rare

the perfect dinner table’s where
no stranger’s face is ever known;
the dinner hour we spend alone
when little girl and little lad
run riot telling things to dad.

From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest
© 1934 by The Reilly & Lee Company

A few thoughts on this poem:

Mr Guest seems to be trying in his own way to counteract the unnecessary stiffness in the old adage so common in his day: “Children should be seen and not heard.” In a number of poems he rejects the rigid, austere role fathers were expected to portray.

I feel children shouldn’t be encouraged to see themselves as the center of the universe, free to voice any and all opinions without restraint. They shouldn’t expect that everyone must be quiet and listen to them. In that sense Mr Guest maybe stretched his point here, but overall he sought to promote love of home and family, open communication between parents and children, respect for God and country, and common courtesy to all.

The Sorry Hostess

by Edgar A. Guest

She said she was sorry the weather was bad
the night that she asked us to dine
and she really appeared inexpressibly sad
because she had hoped ‘twould be fine.

She was sorry to hear that my wife had a cold
and she almost shed tears over that,
and how sorry she was, she most feelingly told,
that the heat wasn’t on in the flat.

She was sorry she hadn’t asked others to come;
she might just as well have had eight.
She said she was downcast and terribly glum
because her dear husband was late.

She apologized then for the home she was in,
for the state of the rugs and the chairs,
for the children who made such a horrible din,
and then for the squeak in the stairs.

When the dinner began she apologized twice
for the olives, because they were small;
she was certain the celery, too, wasn’t nice,
and the soup didn’t suit her at all.

She was sorry she couldn’t get whitefish instead
of the trout that the fishmonger sent,
but she hoped that we’d manage somehow to be fed,
though her dinner was not what she meant.

She spoke her regret for the salad, and then
explained she was really much hurt
and begged both our pardons again and again
for serving a skimpy dessert.

She was sorry for this and sorry for that,
though there really was nothing to blame,
but I thought to myself as I put on my hat,
Perhaps she is sorry we came.

From his book Plain Folks
© 1917 by the Reilly & Britton Co.