In the course of waiting
Seconds don’t click by,
They drag.
One small movement
Oozing after another.
When anticipating the arrival of
Family, grandchildren
On a cold winter’s day
Before Christmas
Try to think about anything else
Good luck with that.
Hurry, but safely
A healthy pour
Red, a Merlot,
Full-bodied.
I knew the first taste
Before lifting the glass
To waiting lips,
And then
One awkward,
Thoughtless move
Sent the crystal
Lurching,
Slow-motion, yet
Too fast for old
Fingers to find
Purchase,
And wine went
EVERYWHERE:
The floor
Countertop
Inside cupboards
And drawers.
All over my khakis,
The ones with elastic
At the ankles
Harem girl style,
My favorites.
And saddest of all?
There was no wine
Left in the
Bottle.
Earlier this month I shared the poem, Wild Geese, from one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver.
https://nananoyz5forme.com/2022/04/01/poetry-month-2/
The very next day I happened to hear a portion of an interview with the late poet on NPR, in which she described her traumatic childhood. A victim of sexual abuse from a very early age, Ms. Oliver turned to nature and to words to save herself. And while many of her poems are rooted in her love of the natural world, some address the abuse she survived.
Her powerful poem, Rage, deals with the hard truths of her young life.
Another poem, A Visitor, focuses on the aftermath.
I had no idea these poems existed—that this woman who wrote such beautiful words about nature also wrote soul-wrenching poetry about the dark horrors she endured as a child. I wanted to save this little girl, but she saved herself instead. I guess, in the end, we all do the same. If we’re lucky.
Peace, people.
My small collection of poetry books includes one by the incredible Billy Collins. Titled, Sailing Alone Around the Room, this book is a treasure. There are so many terrific poems in this book, but I’ll share just one this evening.
How perfectly Mr. Collins expresses my fascination with the man in the moon.
Peace, people.
That first touch, first kiss
First I love you
Still exist
Somewhere in the archives
Of my soul.
And surely that was magic
Just as the weight of a
Newborn baby in my arms
Is magic.
And sometimes I think
To myself, nobody else,
But you, I suppose
That it’d be a real shame
If all my magic has played out,
Gone to someone younger;
Someone who won’t realize what was afoot
Until wrinkles line their face and
Maybe then it’s too late.
But I tell myself, and you,
That is, those of you who understand,
Our days of magic are now
In the sunsets and warm embraces
Of a gentle love with whom
We’ve grown old.
I wrote this several Christmases ago and thought it worth sharing again. At any rate, I’m too stuffed with turkey and dressing to come up with anything original.
Wherever you are, however you celebrate, I hope this season finds you safe and healthy. Happy Holidays, friends.
https://nananoyz5forme.com/2015/12/24/christmas-letter/
Peace, people.
World peace, or at least a reasonable
Facsimile thereof.
An end to poverty and love enough to
Go around.
Hands extended in kindness, hearts warmed
In gladness.
Food and drink to nourish every single
Child on earth.
A home for every stray, a warm place to
Shelter from the cold.
Comfort and joy.
Comfort and joy.
Peace, people.
When I was writing my third novel, Wedding at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, I pictured a scene in which one of my favorite characters, Martha Murray, would recite, or have another character recite, a poem she’d written for her wedding ceremony. For several weeks I wrangled with writing a poem for Martha but nothing felt right. I was pulling my hair out and getting nowhere.
Then one afternoon my lovely friend and trusted confidant, Flora Diehl, called to visit and during the course of that call I said something like, “Maybe you could write Martha’s poem.”
I’m not sure what prompted me to say that. It wasn’t premeditated, it just popped into my head and immediately came out of my mouth. Regardless, it was one of the best things I’ve ever done.
Flo thought about it and responded several days, maybe weeks, later with the perfect poem for Martha’s wedding. I cried the first time I read her poem, “Now,” and every time I read it I get teary-eyed. Flo perfectly captured what I wanted Martha’s poem to feel and sound and even look like.
I’m not printing it here. Maybe one day I will, but I feel like the poem fits best within the context of the whole story. There are also a few gentle spoilers embedded in Flo’s contribution to my tale, and we’d hate to give anything away.
Readers can find the poem “Now” on page 302 of the paperback and again after “The End,” but before the acknowledgements. In the e-reader version it’s anyone’s guess since font size matters you know, but it’s near the end of the book.
If you haven’t yet read the first book in the series, Mayhem at Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, I suggest you do so before reading Wedding, but I think there’s enough backstory in book two that one wouldn’t necessarily have to read book one. (Although that would make me happy…)
Due to COVID, I haven’t seen Flo in person in over two years, but when I do see her again I’m going to ask her to read the poem while we enjoy a glass of wine. I’m stocking up on Kleenex for the occasion.
Peace, people!
If I tell you I saw Rembrandt this morning, his face staring up at me from my bathroom rug, of all places, would you think me insane or would you direct me to the proper authorities?
Had it been the Virgin Mary I’d seen, I’d know exactly who to contact. Alas, it’s a long-dead Dutch painter.
On second thought, it might not be Rembrandt at all, but instead the steely-eyed conquistador whose likeness graced the walls of my childhood home during one of Mom’s theme periods of decorating.
Although, the image bears a striking resemblance to a hat-wearing woman from a famous painting, the title of which escapes my mind, except the visage on my bath mat clearly has a mustache, and the lady in the painting does not.
But, wait. It’s none of the above.
The closer I get the more I realize it’s likely Sigmund Freud come to call. Oh, the irony.
Peace, people.
How strong is too strong
When one crafts a hot toddy?
I remain on my feet,
Yet my writing’s rather shoddy.
I’m light in the head
And wobbly in my body
I feel perfectly sane,
But I’m acting rather dotty.
Oh, dear, I think it’s fairly clear
I’ve too much whiskey in my toddy.
Praying for Eyebrowz 