The night Research went on a joy ride

In my Thursday Thirteen I'd mentioned working on a poem. It may not stay exactly in this form. April is poetry month--write or read a poem.

The night Research went on a joy ride
by Norma Bruce
March 31, 2007

Surprise and his best friend Serendipity
picked up the good-looking Research.
As they left the house that night
her mother, Discipline, was nagging and
her dad, Questioning, looking for a fight.

So they sent along her younger brothers
Assumption, Guess and Hunch
who rode along in the back seat
to throw spit balls in the stacks
and trip Librarians they would meet.

Along the way they picked up
Strategy and Documentation
who kept them from caution tossing
to the wind as the lovers parked
on Mount Concept Glossing.

When they stopped to refuel they hailed
Curiosity and Argument waiting for a ride,
noticing Challenges and Debates smoking
language and meaning in the dark
where Inquiry and Paradox were groping.

It was a wild ride that night,
with passionate struggles and heavy breathing.
And now poor Research is pregnant.
Will she birth a fat Report, short Novel
or just a Sweet Little Memory segment?Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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Poetry Thursday #13


This week's challenge is ekphrasis, "a literary description of or commentary on a visual work of art." The painting I have chosen for this week’s completely optional idea is "The Marriage License," painted for the June 11, 1955 Saturday Evening Post by Norman Rockwell, who did 322 covers and died in 1978. No one mastered in art the American life, events and values better than he. Now if you are an artist purist and don't think Rockwell be one, check out this painting of a bride by Domenico Ghirlandaio (15th century) and you'll see the same attention to fabrics, hair, position of the faces, locale and eyes gazing into the past.

There is nothing in this painting that isn’t absolutely authentic or essential, from the dangling light bulb repeating the shape of the upper window needed for heat or light, to the rumpled forgotten flag or bunting possibly from WWII that lays unceremoniously atop the book shelves filled with dusty legal volumes, to the bride and groom who knew this was a special occasion requiring the very best clothes. The items in the painting that are completely out-of-step with the 50s, like the stove and spittoon, are critical elements in the story it tells. We all know the hopes and dreams of that couple, because they are us in another time and place, so I've chosen to write about the civil servant slumped in his chair.

At the County Courthouse
by Norma Bruce
March 28, 2007

Dreaming of fishing again, aren't you, old man?
Your rumpled coat and hat hang near by,
just waiting for your escape.

The red geranium blooms in the open window alone,
scrawny but surviving the weather whims,
seeking light and warmth.

Now that the wife has died, the stray kitten
eyeing the cigarette litter on the floor
is your only source of joy.

Your arthritic fingers interlace, worn elbows rest
on the arms of the old wooden chair,
your bones beating the cushion down.

Ah, those weary bones, you squirm and shift,
oh, so tired. Slumped, you're forgetting
the stories, oh, the stories.

Who are these eager people, in sunny yellow cotton
and Sunday suit with hat, signing on for years
of windows, weather, and weariness?

Like the bride on tip toes and her tender groom,
we want their hope and love, so we turn away
from the old man's defeat and pessimism.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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Poetry Thursday #12


Today's challenge is: "Write a poem motivated by an image — preferably one that is in the form of a photo you can post with your poem. If you don’t have a picture of it, that’s okay. Tell us about the image in the backstory, which you can post before your poem. Or, if you’re really daring, grab your camera and get out there and capture an image and use it as motivation for a poem."

This was written some time ago. I've enjoyed pulling it out and rereading it, and didn't change a word. It was inspired by a very real yellow rose in a real garden on a July day so hot it was breathless, but with a slight breeze. The rose's participation with the two not-meant-to-be lovers, including its dried and desicated end, is all imagination. Or maybe it's a memory--like the rose, I've forgotten. Lamentations might have been a better book in which to place such a flower, but it had too many syllables. It has fabulous phrases and images of bitter tears if you ever need that for a poem. However, isn't the book of Job closer to the symbol of all that can go wrong, will?
















The last rose
by Norma Bruce
July 1997

Yellow rose in the garden
Blushed peach by her cheeks,
Splashed pale with his white passion.

Yellow rose in the sunlight
Fragrant in their hands,
Waving good-byes to July.

Yellow rose in the clippers
Snipped between kisses,
Pricking her finger crimson.

Yellow rose in the crystal
Filled with his hot tears,
Shedding thorns against the glass.

Yellow rose in the Bible
Faded summer joy,
Pressed between pages of Job.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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3608
March 21 poetry selection
from my daily book of poems has one I could not resist, but I've changed "Father William" to "Lady Blogger," and made it a bit more edgy and updated.

The Lady Blogger's Comforts
being lifted from Robert Southey's "The Old Man's Comforts"

You are old, Lady Blogger, the young man cried,
The brown locks which are left should be grey;
You are hale, Lady Blogger, a hearty old gal,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In my twenties thirties, Lady Blogger replied,
I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Lady Blogger, the young twit cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away;
And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In my forties fifties, Lady Blogger replied,
I remember'd those days could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Lady Blogger, the rude kid cried,
And life must be hastening away;
You are cheerful, and love to write about it all,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

I am cheerful, young man, Lady Blogger replied,
Let the cause your attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God
And he has not forgotten my age.

The notes say that Southey wrote "Old Man's Comfort" in 1799 at the age of 24. He died when he was 70.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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3599
Happy Spring
It doesn't feel like it and I have on wool slacks today, but it is Spring. I've been using A Poem a Day edited by Karen McCosker and Nicholas Albery (Steerforth Press, 1999) and today's selection "Spring" is by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889) and was written in 1877. Many poems of the 19th c. are quite predictable, but this one has some irregularities that I found quite charming, as the poet juxtaposes the freshness of spring with Eden before the fall. And don't we often have that same sense when walking out doors on a glorious day. In the notes it says that when Hopkins showed it to another, known poet he got a discouraging analysis because he used "several entirely novel and simultaneous experiments in versification and construction. . . and unprecedented system of aliteration and compound words. . ." I can't make my lowly blogger word processing component space appropriately, but I think I have the puncuation and lines recorded correctly.

Nothing is so beautiful as spring -
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. - Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worth the winning.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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Poetry Thursday #11


Today's totally optional challenge is to find a word we don't know in the dictionary and write a poem using it without looking up the meaning. I think this is called the "dictionary game." I didn't choose the topic, but did use a dictionary.

Here are some e-words that can cause problems for writers. An elegy is a song of mourning or lament; a eulogy is an oration of praise; an epitaph is a phrase that appears on a grave stone; an epigraph is an engraved inscription or a quotation at the beginning of a literary work; a epithet is a disparaging word or phrase; an epilogue is the conclusion or the final chapter; an epistrophe is the repetition of a word or expression at the end of successive phrases or verses; an epode has a long verse followed by a short one; an epopee is a long poem. I checked several sources for the proper poetic form for an elegy, and the phrase "Here lies. . ." seems to be what they have in common.

I told what little I know about this baby, Alma Fay, in my Monday Memories. She was the daughter of my great grandparents born after they left Tennessee and moved to Illinois and is buried in Plain View Cemetery.

This elegy is for anyone who has lost a baby through miscarriage, abortion, adoption, or death. Maybe you have a grave to visit, maybe not. Perhaps all you have is a dim memory. But someday. . . the graves will open for the Resurrection. Reassembling dust, molecules and DNA, no matter how scattered, is no problem for the designer and creator of the universe.

Elegy for little Alma Fay, August 26, 1908 - October 3, 1908
by Norma Bruce
March 12, 2007


Here lies quietly, baby Alma Fay
with no one to remember
save one sister old and gray,
her name engraved on heart shaped stone,
among the grass and clay.

Here lies peacefully, auntie Alma Fay
with nephews, nieces, cousins,
who lived well and had their say,
a harbinger of the good life
in land so far away.

Here lies listening, precious Alma Fay,
with none left to grieve for her,
these one hundred years or pray,
but God, the Three in One, will call
on Resurrection Day.

Here rises victorious Alma Fay--
the graves are emptied at Plain View.
Praise God! she's flown away.

Poetry Thursday, elegies, Mt. Morris Illinois, gravestonesSource URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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Poetry Thursday #10


This week’s (completely and totally optional) idea is simply: Red.

I was really stumped. It's not a favorite color. The word makes me think Communist, blood, anger, flag and . . . walls. The walls of our condo when we bought it. High-end, very expensive, Architectural Digest walls. Orange dining room, brown living room and red family room--each with multiple faux glazes, each with matching ceilings. So here's some silliness; just some fun about seeing red.



Decorator Red
by Norma Bruce
March 5, 2007

"Do the walls have to be so red?"
she said.

Decorators, a team,
had a bad color scheme
a bit off the beam,
'twas sometime before
we opened the door.

They’d toned it down with faux,
a touch of gold, just so.
"Why didn’t they know
it reflected pink
in the bathroom sink?"

"The floral drapes are mauve and peach,"
she’d screech.

"Carpet is green and thick,
hearth is a reddish brick.
I just might get sick--
clashes so with red
now hurting my head."

"These walls drive me wacky,"
he mumbled, "By cracky,
Let's paint them khaki."
"Good-bye to the red,"
she agreed and said.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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3563 Kwitcherbitchin

"I would like to be doing a Judy Dench career. But I'm a black American living in the United States so that's not terribly realistic." WSJ story, March 6, 2007, D6.


Oh, please! Ms. Carroll. You've got a "ring with a piece of ice large enough for a skating rink," four ex-husbands, affairs with David Frost and Sidney Poitier, beautiful grandchildren, a face so classic, plastic and fantastic there's not a wrinkle or line to be seen, you've done broadway, TV and movies, and done it your way, and you grew up in a loving nuclear family with a mom and dad who adored you and supported your career.

Come rain
or come shine,
some folks gotta whine.
No one's too hot
to give librarians a shot,
mega-stars we're not.
It's never enough,
oh, life's so tough,
sure got things rough.
Diahann Carroll,
here's a quarter,
from those in the carrel.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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The minutes of our lives

This is the title of a WSJ feature on blogging. I saw it advertised but haven't seen it yet--not sure if it's due Friday or for the week-end edition. Based on the advert:

The Minutes of our Lives
by Norma Bruce
March 2, 2007

No experience is
too personal is
too sacred
not to be shared
immediately.

Chronicling
milestones, meetings,
weddings, births,
divorces and dinners.
Displaying
libraries, bodies,
vacations, toilets,
knowhow and knitters.

Blog and snog
MyFace, MySpace,
MyMoBlo or YouTube,
let's all vlog.

Download, edit,
scan or IM-it;
text-it, phone-it,
block, chop and drop it,
record, tag and
upload your snippet.

No experience is
too personal is
too boring
not to be shared
immediately.

Watching me,
Watching you.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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Poetry Thursday #9


This week for Poetry Thursday, we are invited to write about something beautiful without using its name. This feels like it is still in draft stage--changing right up through Wednesday night.


In my unformed thoughts,
in my wildest dreams,
when this mattered
(and it doesn't so much now),
I never expected we’d meet.

You were so distant and aloof,
a prisoner of your past,
corrupt and sinful
(yet charming and alluring),
Did I even want us to meet?

Now that I’ve seen you,
heard your velvet voice,
minor and sad
(but dark eyed and lovely),
I know I’ll never forget us.

Are we allowed to leave a hint? (Очи страстные и прекрасные)Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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3549 A common error

Today I was reading a book I keep in the bathroom for just such occasions and came across the sentence, "By applying the techniques we've discussed in this book, I was able to enjoy this bell-weather year." Huh? Does she mean bellwether as in a leading indicator of a future trend, or is she thinking "belle" as in beautiful or pretty. A wether is a castrated male sheep, and a bell was tied around his neck and he led the sheep. So a bellwether is a leader.

This leads me to my favorite (next to the words "snogging" and "Oreo Cowkies") bit of trivia from the Veterinary libary. There are about 55 English words for sheep--not breeds, but words for the ages, sex and use of the animal itself. (Yes, I know I told you this about a month ago.) I can't seem to track down a list but the ones I remember are buck, dam, ewe, ram, wether, hogg, hoggett, lamb and shearling. I'm not sure poll and jumbuck were part of the list although I've seen those words in sheep descriptions. Anyone from Australia or New Zealand out there who can help me out with directions to a list? I know the list was in the U.S. Dept. of Agriculture Yearbook, and I've checked the ones on-line, but didn't find it.

Update: Sort of poetic, isn't it?
Buck, dam,
Ewe, ram,
Wether, hogg,
Hoggett, lamb--
Waltz Matilda, waltz!Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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3528 Browsing in libraries

When I visit a city, I try to make a stop at the public library. Often I can't get inside because I get up too early and am on my way to or from the coffee shop! But today, you can visit some of the most fabulous libraries on line. I keep a link at the left to the New York Public Library. In the early days of my career in the mid-1960s, when libraries were just beginning to figure out how computers could help store and access information, the card catalog of the NYPL had been photocopied and bound into huge volumes. It was a good source for slavic material, as I recall, so I would often take my handful of slips and cards into the huge reference room of the University of Illinois Library (I used to get very light-headed and thought it was excitement but later learned I had atrial fibrillation), write out the transliteration, and search the many possibilities of the authors' names. This was called doing an "authority search," and if you found the author, you made a little check mark. NYPL was considered a reputable authority and we trusted the toiling, underpaid librarians who had worked the decades before us.

February in the United States is called Black History month, and I'm awfully tired of the same old PSAs I've been hearing on the radio. Someone has not put much thought into the historical riches, particularly poetry, literature and music, that are available on-line. ("Hello! There are topics other than slavery and misery to show accomplishments!" she says to the radio.) I went to the NYPL home page and typed in "poet" in the search window, and received a huge number of photographs of African-American and Afro-other literary figures. I looked through the photos and selected this woman, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, from the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture:

I then went to Google and looked up her biography and some of her poetry. She had a very interesting life (born to free parents in 1825 and raised by a relative) and received an education far better than most white women of her time. I really enjoyed her poem about Moses, which you can find and read, but she also wrote several novels and this essay was included in a Unitarian sermon source, still worthy of being read today:

True and False Politeness [by F.E.W. Harper]

False politeness can cast a glamour over fashionable follies and popular vices and shrink from uttering unpalatable truths, when truth is needed more than flattery.

True politeness, tender as love and faithful as truth, values intrinsic worth more than artificial surroundings. It will stem the current of the world's disfavor, rather than float ignobly on the tide of popular favor, with the implied disrespect to our common human nature, that it is a flaccid thing to be won by sophistry, and satisfied with shams.

False politeness is an outgrowth from the surface of life. True politeness is the fair outflowing of a kind and thoughtful life, the sweet ripe fruit of a religion which gives to life its best expression and to humanity its crowning glory.

True politeness is broadly inclusive; false politeness narrowly exclusive. …

True politeness has no scornful epithets for classes or races, who, if not organically inferior, have been born under, or environed by inferior conditions. Humanity is God's child, and to fail in true kindness and respect to the least of His "little ones" is to fail in allegiance to Him.

Contemptuous injustice to man is treason to God, and one of the worst forms of infidelity is to praise Christ with our lips and trample on the least of His brethren with our feet,-to talk sweetly of His love, and embitter the lives of others by cold contempt, and cruel scorn.

Beyond the narrow limitations of social lines are humanity's broader interests…

If today you believe that your faith is simple and vision clearer than that of other forms of belief, should not the clasp of your hand be warmer, the earnestness of your soul greater, and the throbbings of your heart quicker to clasp the world in your arms and bring it nearer to the great heart of God and His Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ? Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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The terrible, sad marriage of Annie and Frank

You never know the tales you'll find when browsing a digitized, obscure record in the New York Public Library! I found Annie's photo in Cabinet Card Portraits in the Collection of Radical Publisher Benjamin R. Tucker. Tucker was publisher of The Radical Review from 1877 to 1878, and the anarchist magazine Liberty from 1881 to 1908. His magazine was the first to publish George Bernard Shaw in the U.S., and to translate Pierre Joseph Proudhon. Tucker also published other works considered radical at the time, such as Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, Tolstoy's Kreutzer Sonata, and Oscar Wilde's Ballad of Reading Gaol. [notes from the catalog record at NYPL]

The Besants
by Norma Bruce
February 23, 2007

Frankie and Annie were married,
Oh Lordy, how they could fight.
Clergy was he, a writer she,
taking her fees was his right.

Frankie preached long dull sermons,
Short stories Annie would write.
Divorce for them was unthinkable--
society and God would smite.

Annie helped farmers to unionize,
Frank to the landlords leaned.
The couple was split by politics,
you’ve probably already gleaned.

"You read too many damn books,"
Frank was known to tell his wife.
He got custody of their children,
And she kept his name for life.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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Poetry Thursday #8

This week's (completely and totally optional) idea for Poetry Thursday is this phrase: "the body knows." I'm submitting here a poem I wrote in January. One of the ways (other than aches and pains) that our bodies speak to us is discreetly via a mirror--maybe it's in the bathroom or a department store cubicle, or the quick glance in the rear view mirror as we travel to work, sipping the latte, skipping through and humming along with the radio.


Mirror, mirror on the wall
January 26, 2007
by Norma Bruce

You used to be my friend.
We’d hang out together
for hours of girly talk,
share secrets, giggle over
girdles and bobbi pins,
lipstick, powder and mascara.

You used to wait for me.
Chat in the dressing room,
whispering gossip
at the counter where
we’d go to order
double chocolate cherry cokes.

When did you change?
Sometimes I feel you’ve joined
the witness protection program,
embarrassed to see me.
Now you’re pious and prim--
no longer zealous for my best.

Oh, how I miss you, dear heart!
Your face isn’t clear when I squint,
your motives are obscured.
What did I do to offend?
Can’t we go back to the old days,
make silly faces and stay out late?



Here are two others I wrote this week; if you've got a moment. . .:
The vows
When you're falling in loveSource URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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My indiscretions

While my husband was in Haiti, I committed a few acts of random wildness. The first Sunday, I walked right into Talbot's and bought a pair of size 8 fashion jeans on sale that started out near $100 last fall and I got them for $18. All sorts of shiny beads, bangles and appliqued leaves and stuff. Then on Monday, while shopping at Meijer's for groceries, I picked up a package of mini-Tater Tots! I enjoyed them four nights for dinner, while eating alone--twice with steak. On Thursday I stopped at a book sale and blew $2.00 on a frayed copy of That Printer of Udell's, by Harold Bell Wright--rumored to be President Reagan's favorite book. The following Sunday I just skipped church altogether! Then on Monday I bought two chartreuse pillows for the couch, because I'd sat by myself through an entire show on HGTV about decorating a living room for $5,000 copying one that cost $50,000. The room was monochromatic with splashes of color, the two chartreuse pillows on a tan couch particularly caught my eye. So here's my poem about my new pillows.

The Vows

Polyester pillow chartreuse chamois,
in accordance with the law
Federal RN# 57893
[or is it Reg. No UT 1417 (MO)],
I will not cut off your precious tag
until we are one,
or bleach you
or place you on the furniture
or on the floor
while you are wet.

And you in turn vow that you
are 100% polyester,
certified by your manufacturer,
that the materials of which you are made
are described in accordance with law,
exclusive of ornamentation,
and that you are 19-21284CSE,
Key 67, $9.99, bar code 0 86268 05831 1
and that you were made in China
and are bilingual in Spanish.

Snip. Snip. Snip.


Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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3498 A poem about love and marriage

Today I read a story in our paper about a couple married in 1943 when he was still in uniform, who were both living in a nursing home at the end--she from Alzheimer’s and he from a fall. They died at the same time on Valentine’s Day this week.

When you’re falling in love
Feb. 18, 2007
by Norma Bruce

When you’re falling in love
you probably don’t think about
pre-nups and the rug color
that you’ll argue about some day.

When you’re falling in love
you might think about
romantic dinners for two
and not KFC in front of the TV.

When you’re falling in love
you probably don’t think about
why her mother is obese
or his dad is such a gossip.

When you’re falling in love
you might think about
an Hawaiian cruise and moonlight
and not the small lake when he fishes.

When you’re falling in love
you probably don’t think about
her toddler who will be a teen someday
or that he’s changed jobs so often.

When you’re falling in love
you might think about
a cute house with a picket fence
and not missing where you grew up.

When you’re falling in love
you probably don’t think about
when he is old and deaf
and when she’s forgotten your name.

These are the building blocks of love
you probably should think about,
you might want to think about
when you’re falling in love today.


Technorati: poems, love, marriageSource URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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3471 A Spat of Apostles in the Epistles

This morning I was supposed to go to a women's Bible study (Beth Moore), but at the coffee shop I got started on writing a poem, was interrupted by the guy who is learning Russian and talks non-stop, so after rushing home to eat some breakfast, I just stayed and finished the poem and the blog that goes with it.

When Paul told Peter to live by faith, not the law (Galatians 2)

Concerning the Jews in Jerusalem
Peter and Paul had a big spat
"You’re putting them under the law, old friend."
Paul told Peter, "Don't preach like that."

Not for a minute did Saint Paul give in,
Even when they were face to face.
At Antioch Paul then told Saint Peter
"Your gospel is such a disgrace."

"We know by law we are not justified
Although by birth we are both Jews,
Our faith is in Christ Jesus, Risen Lord
From whom we have heard the Good News."

For you non-Christians, the back story to this poem is that in following Jesus command to "Go, tell," Paul was to preach to Gentiles and Peter to Jews. Paul was very unhappy that Peter was living in freedom, but requiring his converts to be circumcised and to obey dietary law. Sigh. It is still going on. There's just something about the Gospel that seems too easy, so people, even pastors, try to add a little here, a little there. In 2,000 years we still haven't learned.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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3440 A proud grandma

A girlfriend (yes, we still say "girl" at our age) showed me the photos of her new grand daughter at about one hour old. She arrived 10 days early, very shortly after her mom's shower. Gorgeous, pink, and chubby with straight black hair and eyes, she is bi-racial, her father a Nigerian and her mother an Irish American. Her skin will darken some as she gets older, but right now she's a match with mom, not dad and because of the way we view people in this country by custom, culture and government edict, she will always be counted as African-American for the census, medical studies, scholarships, school diversity programs and employment opportunities. We have such an established bureaucracy dependent on keeping our citizens divided into groups, she may never in my life time be able to just be who she is.

African Americans are now the second largest minority group in the US--Hispanics are first. Many of the U.S. black population, like my friend's son-in-law, are recent arrivals--in fact 8 percent. According to the New York Times (reported at City Journal), more African immigrants have arrived voluntarily since 1990 than the number who once came as slaves. These immigrants, too, have far higher employment and education levels than native-born blacks. Barack Obama's name is out there for President. His father, although never a citizen, was born in Africa, and married an American and Barack was raised in Hawaii. Both his parents had advanced degrees. You can't say anything about his father only seeing him twice or being a Muslim or you are declared a racist, so just go read his autobiography or read a liberal blog which will tell you the same thing, but won't be called racist. Unlike some who have called him "privileged" because of private schooling, I'd say growing up without dad to help you sort through life's problems and hurts removes you from that definition.

Meanwhile, Diddy Daddy dawdles and hasn't married his "long time girlfriend," the mother of his new twin girls (and his older son) and Diddy didn't marry the mother of his oldest son. I feel a poem coming on. . . Poor Diddy's kiddies/Diddy or did he/you be one sad dad/You be P. Diddy. The failure of some highly visible and successful celebrities to become real fathers contributes to the poverty of the women and children left with Uncle Sam by young men who imitate the bling and strut of the diddy daddies of this world.

Technorati: Sean John Combs, P. Diddy, fatherhood, African AmericansSource URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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Cold, cold city, this Columbus

It's a bit nippy--23 F, wind chill 10 F. My fingers are stiff. The thermostat is a room away, and God only knows where Al Gore and his hot air bandwagon are. So the cat jumps up in my lap while I type, and for awhile I have warm thighs. . . and lots of cat hair as she settles in for a long winter's nap.


Cat hair on the keyboard
cat hair on the floor
cat hair in the vacuum
It won't hold anymore.

Cat hair on the bedspread
cat hair in the sink
cat hair on my best clothes
and not just where you'd think.

Cat hair on my shoulders
cat hair in the pears,
cat hair up the stair well
and on the dining chairs.

Cat o mine, I love you
could not do without
But keep your hair, dear heart,
and not so round about.Source URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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3295 December twenty first poem

I posted this three years ago, last year and here it is, December 21 again.


Christmas will be here in only four days.
House is festive--we found the artificial poinsettia
in the attic with other mementoes of holidays past.
A big roll of wrapping paper--blue with snowmen--and scissors
wait on the dining room table for those final exchange gifts
we’ll take to Indiana, socks for a guy, gloves for a girl.
The decorative shopping bag waits for its next assignment.

Christmas will be here in only three days.
It’s always been a pagan holiday, but now it’s more so.
The cranky ACLU is just spinning its wheels in snow
because not even Christians can make it religious these days.
Mistletoe, holly, evergreen trees, candles, and Santa Claus,
feasting, caroling, office parties, gift giving and shopping.
It’s all worldly or completely secular, therefore legal.

Christmas will be here in only two days.
The early Christians scooped up local winter festivities
in a giant snowball, soft and white, and pronounced it holy.
The godly let the Angles, Saxons and Romans keep their ways.
People do not care who they worship if they have a good time.
Our Puritan forefathers tried to stamp out the revelry.
They were the nay sayers of yesterday, spoiling the party.

Christmas will be here in only one day.
Yes, there really is a new born babe, and a sweet young mother,
and angels announcing to shepherds in the fields, Peace on Earth.
But Rachel is weeping because Herod is killing her sons.
One baby lives on only to die on a cross for my sin,
including celebrating his coming rather than going,
his birth, not his death and resurrection.

Christmas poetry
Christmas customsSource URL: https://maryelizabeth-winstead.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry
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