The Tadpole

I'm am proud to present the first photo of my new grandbaby - currently nicknamed The Tadpole - at 12 weeks of age. I know, not much to look at yet, but I am so excited! The Tadpole is due in June 2010, and we are hoping by December 22nd - next week - we will know if it is a girl or a boy. I really don't care what sex Tadpole is, I just want him or her to be healthy.

This is a picture of Marie, The Tadpole's mommy. Soon I'll have pix of mommy and daddy both up for you to see.

Exciting News

Exciting news! One of my non-fiction essays was chosen as a finalist in The New Southerner 2009 Literary Prize Contest! My essay - "I Dream of My Past" - will appear in a future issue of the magazine and in the 2009-2010 Anthology.

"I Dream of My Past" is a piece I wrote about my grandparents farm and the experiences I had there. After the piece has been published, I will post it here for everyone to read.

Food Friday - Homemade sage dressing for the holidays: http://ping.fm/Kju97

Windsday

WINDSDAY

Oak leaves dance and twirl
like a brown whirlwind littering the air
as the unusual Windsday blows through.
Robins going from treetop to tree
teeter off course in the gusty gale.
Bags, napkins and other garbage
take flight to pollute other areas.
Flags snap to attention,
stiff in the cold air;
weak tree branches break and bow,
as young saplings dip to the ground.
Ladies over 60 protect tightly permed hair
with plastic rain caps,
while the under 40 crowd let their hair
blow wildly in the storm.
Garbage cans, Christmas decorations and all manner of yard art
have been gobbled up by the current
and deposited down the street.
Umbrellas turn inside out and no longer protect from the rain,
and doors are ripped wide open with the cold, wet blast.
Makes you kind of wonder if mistral gusts are meant to scare us away
or draft us closer together,
or maybe it is angel kisses from on high
giving us a whiff of what's to come.

How to grow holly in the Bluegrass: http://ping.fm/gExHB

We Are Mortal

We Are Mortal

Driven by fear and desperation,
the hours tick by
as faint whispers of panic become louder,
a suspected truth unable to be seen.

A brewing storm buffets the angry spirits,
coming out of a dim past to pound against the walls
demanding attention.
Thunder echoes with the whine of rising wind,
emptiness seems alive with a fright and tension
that builds on a single terrifying fact –
We are mortal.

Moment by moment, a tight coil of tension,
drawn to the breaking point,
seems like years which have halted the flow of time;
rooted in the walls of hearts and souls.

A instant of quiet,
the unending chill of terror,
as the hand of death brushes close;
then moves away, stirring the musty air
with a touch filled with overwhelming scents of
anxiety and dread.
My time has not come.

It's not too late to plant spring bulbs in the Bluegrass:
http://ping.fm/NTFnk

My Angel

My Angel

On windy days, my angel visits me
Blowing a breeze through the silver wind chimes
Reminding me to live my life freely
And not hide away from the rest of the world

On windy days, my angel visits me
Bringing me serenity with each gentle sway
Reminding to live in the present
And keep the past in the past

On windy days, my angel visits me
Whispering secrets with each little chime
Reminding me she is always near
Even though far from my sight she'll be

Food Friday - Black Walnut Bars:
http://ping.fm/grZvH

How to choose and maintain the perfect poinsettia:
http://ping.fm/dCsnf

A Sonic View

A Sonic View

Service berries, red and full,
continue clinging to bare branches;
water droplets from a drizzling rain
resemble ice tears
as they sparkle and brighten a dull day.

Majestic pine trees standing straight and tall,
like sentry guards
or some wayward big brother;
the striking green needles
adding texture to the dreariness.

Black walnuts gather on the ground
beneath the naked mother tree,
hulls fading from palest green
to ripened yellow-brown
promising yummy treats to come.

A lone red cedar towering over all the others,
watches over all with grandfatherly ease;
although no longer young and vital
the weathered branches continue to hold
a calm and peaceful quality.

Eye Spy

Eye Spy

Eye spy with my little eye,
a branch upon a tree,
and on this branch the multi colored lights
burning brightly for me.

Eye spy with my little eye,
a star up on a tree,
a special star to signal all,
so everyone can see.

Eye spy with my pale blue eyes,
an excitement all around,
from stores to homes with smiles and hugs
and special holiday sounds.

Eye spy with my grown up eyes
a hope for the next generation,
with freedom and hope and liberty galore
to bolster our fragile nation.

Drowning Shadows

Drowning Shadows

Sorrow creeps in,
a step at a time,
and eases its way into life;
robbing the soul,
tainting the aura,
changing the essence of happier days.
Worry, anticipation, anxiety and stress
replace the happy go lucky,
marring the image of pleasant memories,
drowning shadows of times gone by.
Why does it happen when you least expect it?
And when will it go away?
For sorrow is no friend,
when it drags you down
and invades your subconscious
without a sound.

Childhood Shadows

Childhood Shadows

The sun seemed to shine brighter when I was a little girl,
fresh dew covered grass would sparkle with the eastern rays
and a new day would dawn with excitement and daydreams.
Children were free to roam at will
with no fear of snatching or molestation,
and every stay-at-home mom would monitor
all the kids if they gathered in their yards.
Lunchtime would arrive with the rumble of tummies
and we’d fill up on sandwiches and sugar laden Kool-Aid.
Moms would try the old standby of “it’s naptime right now,”
but they’d only be lucky if we rested our eyes
before we dashed for the doors again.
No complaints of “I’m bored” or “there’s nothing to do,”
because children were able to imagine the possibilities of games to play
and exercise a vivid attention to detail.
Dusk would arrive with a flicker of fireflies,
floating on the nighttime air
and each child would dance through the grass
as they tried to catch the lights to fill up Mason jars for one night.
And pleasant dreams would always come as the children nodded off
to the tiny glow of lightening bugs in dreaming childhood shadows.