Anna ~ Excerpts From Wartime Letters

Dora is hosting Prosery in the Pub today and provides a line from Walt Whitman's  poem "Out of the Cradle" to include in our [ prosery not poetry ]

'Out of the ninth-month midnight'

March 4, 1943 

My love, 

It seems strange writing to you from under these moonlit Kentucky skies, wondering where the bright stars might find you. I have news that fills me with joy, though it aches to tell you in writing instead of whispering it lying beside you.  We are going to have a baby! A piece of you and me. I pray you will be back in time to greet him .. or her. 

Forever yours, Anna

September 18, 1943

My love, 

It was late night when he arrived, our precious son .. out of the ninth-month .. midnight. Like a promise.  His eyes are bright like yours, his smile is contagious. I thought my heart would burst .. could not hold any more love, yet here we are. We wait for you my darling, I will keep our son safe until you return.

Forever,  Anna & Charles

Timing is Everything

Something told the wild geese it was time to fly! As the sun dipped below the

 horizon ~ the sky painted in hues of orange and purple ~ a single goose honked, a

 signal that rippled through the flock. With a rustle of feathers,  a chorus of calls,

 they took to the sky ~ wings slicing through the cool Autumn air. Below them the

 world was changing ~ leaves turning, farmers harvesting, children pulling their

 coats a little tighter. 

The geese took no notice of these things. Their minds set on the journey ahead. The

 leader of the flock knew the way ~ over great lakes, wide plains through

 mountain passes, down into lush valleys. A journey, though perilous, held the

 promise of life. The geese flew, their formation a perfect V.  Adventurers,

 travelers, survivors bound for a place they call home ~ if only for a season.




Time for Prosery in the  dVerse Poets Pub ~~ Kim shares a line from American writer, Rachel Lyman Field's poem "Something Told The Wild Geese" for inclusion in our prose.







Pondering the Solar Eclipse

 

Bend Oregon ~ Deschutes River

I stand at river's edge, silent observer as the moon slides ever so gracefully, with perfect precision, in front of the sun. Withholding my breath, I watch as it casts an eerie shadow upon the Earth, upon me. The air crackles with palpable energy, a sense of something otherworldly.

I wonder, is this a celestial event, a spiritual event, an energetic re-set? What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead? Is this a glimpse into the hidden mysteries of the Universe where boundaries between reality and the unknown blur and intertwine?

The weather takes on a life of its own. Dark clouds gather ominously, swirl in chaotic patterns, seeming to defy the laws of nature. A chill sweeps through the air. The wind changes directions sending shivers down my spine. A stern scolding for daring to venture outside?

** We got a sliver of the eclipse, I imagined the Prosery.

Monday in the dVerse Poets Pub ~~ time for Prosery [which is not poetry]  Dora provides this line from Amy Woolard's poem "Laura Palmer Graduates" for inspiration ~ and inclusion in our poems:  "What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead."

Pawsitively Hysterical

Time for Prosery in the Pub ~ Lisa offers a line from Dudley Randall's "Ballad of Birmingham" as inspiration for our prose ~ But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face.

Friday afternoon. Time for Susie to retrieve her guitar, head over to Oakview Senior Living community, sing for the residents. Perennially happy, a smile on her face ~ but that smile was the last smile to come upon her face ~ on THIS Friday!

Midway through Susie's soulful rendition of "You are My Sunshine" two mischievous canines [permission granted to attend when leashed] decided it was time to break free.

Soon the scene turned into a chaotic canine caper. The audience erupting in laughter as the adorable dogs raced toward the stage. Susie found herself with leather wrapped 'round her legs ~ dropping the guitar, tumbling to the floor, dogs dancing gleefully around her.

Residents were in stitches, staff couldn't contain their mirth, Susie scrambled to regain control. ~ Within minutes bindings unraveled, dogs reunited with giggling owners ~ singing continued ~ and a strict NO DOGS ALLOWED policy established!

Sweet Memories

At the tender age of four I wore designer dresses, though that concept eluded me. Haute couture not in my vocabulary. My frocks were fairy tale creations fashioned from feed sacks and discounted fabric remnants, designed by my mother. 

One of a kind, custom, unique. She used a simple sewing machine, and-made appliqués, smocking, ruffles, buttons and lacy trims. Nary a pattern or dress form.

At the completely grown-up age of fourteen I sketched my own designs; flat images drawn on newspaper Mother transformed as though she held a magic wand. 

Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow, it will never compare to the pride I felt each time I walked into a room wearing one of our 'joint creative efforts.' I was raised in a house of fashion, where hand made and custom designed were synonymous; the envy of my friends, forever.

Sanaa provides a line from Christina Rossetti's poem "A Daughter of Eve" to include in our Prose pieces. 

Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow.

The Crones

 

I've come of age, eight decades and into my ninth! There are days I simply ignore it, days I'm honest enough to admit I feel it in my bones ... and now, I am thrilled to proclaim I've joined the Legion of Crones: Wise Women Within Aging Bodies. 

I dress in their stories, patterned and purple as night. I delight in their memories, telling tales of our collective youth. 

We are the women who wear deep purple, and wear it well! We know how to place fresh flowers in our hair, stack rings on our fingers, dangle silver from our ears! 

Best of all, we will dispense wisdom, to those wise enough to seek it.

Prosery ~ Clouds

"but these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter against the blue cloth of the sky" ~ Merril provided this line for inclusion in our prosery. Join us in the dVerse Pub.

I could not believe he said (NOT with a grin) “you must have been a lizard in another life!” Granted we were in Tucson, and I was sunbathing .. whatever.

Clearly ‘my love’ had other things on his mind. “Come on! We’ve got to get going! We came here to hike! Mountains await!” “Please” I cajoled “another few minutes. I’ll make it up to you later tonight.”

Soon as the words left my lips, I looked up at a rapidly changing sky and thought to myself, but these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter against the blue cloth of the sky! Was it a sign ~ that we never ignore what Mother nature gifts us! 

Jumping up I exclaimed “ let’s go! We need to take advantage of this sky clearly meant for hiking – not sunbathing.” And yes .... i definitely made it up to him that night.

The Affair

'I went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head.'

Dawn in Bend ~~ Helen Dehner, Photographer

I awakened that snowy morning, memories flooded my brain, combined with an all-consuming gut-wrenching guilt. I went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head ~ inferno of my own making.

Must I tell him there is a man who knows more of me than all the rest. How we met in May when flowers bloomed and gentle breezes touched our very souls. How wine was cool, sparkled sweet, how we laughed ~ never wanted that day to end.

How we made love on a blanket, under the setting sun. Laughing, loving ~ loving ~ loving. Starved, parched, drinking each other in, we filled every pore. He will never know ~~ there is a man who knows more of me than all the rest. 

 

Time for Prosery

Linda offers this line from Mary Oliver's poem 'Spring Azures' "Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy" ~ ~ as inspiration for our prosery pieces. 

Helen Dehner, Photography

A poet once told me "you must write about what you know, that a good poem is a closed belief system" ~ which sent my thoughts wandering ~ an introspective journey. 

(1) Might poetry flow from my dreams? (2) Will my fantasies become poetic realities? (3) Do poems influenced by gossip count? (4) Must I have 'lived' my poem? (5) Am I influenced in ways I can only guess .. way below a conscious level? 

And those idle wanderings produced a swift and visceral reaction. (1) Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy. (2) I love exploring unknown territory. (3) I don't worry about getting it right, just getting it written!