November 26.19

The road to here

from distant there

is mapped as

greasy thoroughfare.

‘Mid stain and splotch,

old gizzard drip,

evolution in

encrypted scrip.

Notes to self

in mishmashed order

chase themselves

around the border,

not merely scrap,

timepiece instead,

the years piled up

like cubes of bread.

From my neatnik Mom

through freeform me

the family stuffing

legacy,

preserved in splat

of butter, sage,

for, I hope,

another age.

 

There was nothing like it: the smell on Thanksgiving morning. No, not coffee and bacon. Onion and celery and butter! Smells to float on. Dad would go to Mass and some years I went with him, but usually I stayed home to help. OK, so it should be “help.” I was very good at putting things away just before they were needed, and I was very good at reminding my mother how I disliked pumpkin pie. What a model child I was!

I hope your Thanksgiving memories are good ones, dear reader, and that, amid the bleakness of our times, we can give thanks for the things and people we know to be true and good.

I thank all of you who have stopped by my blog and left an encouraging word or like. Writing is ever on the edge of not-writing, and your kindnesses have kept me going many times.

A very happy Thanksgiving to you, dear reader!

If there is travel, may you and yours come and go in safety.

 

November 23.19

The world is gauzed

at times

and will not yield

to my need

for surety.

Blurred

smeared on itself

hinting at substance

in foamy light

dissolving at the edges

into what it isn’t,

it turns me inward

to look there.

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

 

November 20.19

Make a list!

What good advice!

If I were Santa,

I’d check it twice.

But I’m me,

with list syndrome:

 I write it out,

then leave it at home.

 

I did it again the other day, dear reader; I left the list at home. It’s not my fault! I have a syndrome! But here’s the truly trying thing: I remembered ONE THING from my list, and I was so proud of myself. Light brown sugar! And surely you know what came next. Yes, they were out of it.

November 15.19

Do I crunch?

Do I snap twigs along my ways?

Do my words crackle

like tinder ablaze?

Or do I glide

on silken needle

in unctuous, sidling

whispered wheedle?

Or do I both

in mindful measure

dependent on

the pain or pleasure?

November 13.19

Stirred by ducks

the black of winter water

shimmies to silver.

Unaware

(maybe)

they paddle on

turning pond

to Rorschach.

 

November 11.19

In loft of branch,

salute

to drummed stepping,

ghosts now.

In iron root,

duty,

grief-sealed

in the clay.

In fallen leaves,

acorns.

In shade of history,

children.

 

 

The grand oak tree on the old parade grounds,

Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indianapolis, IN.

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg, CAPT, MC, USN (Ret).

I wish you a thoughtful Veterans’ Day, dear reader.

 

 

November 8.19

The colors of autumn astound me

a Beethoven’s Ninth for my eyes.

But despite all the many I’ve seen

there is ever the joy of surprise.

 

Picture the brave if arthritic photographer, dear reader, falling over the furniture trying to get a shot of this little guy without scaring him off. If he’d hold still, the camera wouldn’t focus. If the camera behaved, he flitted away. At great cost to my person and the order (such as it is) in my house, I got him! It doesn’t take much to make me feel like Clyde Beatty.

 

November 7.19

Proud bones

leftover of green life

Ozymandias

unfelled.

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

November 1.19

Apple walnut cinnamon pie,

winter oven, my, oh, my.

Syrup’d slices, cinnamon dust

rise through nose to memory’s must:

oilclothed table, rolling pin,

floured apron, floor and chin,

pigtail peelings, glowing stove,

maybe nutmeg, maybe clove.

Coming in from bitter world,

boots well stomped and scarf unfurled,

amber warmth starts deep within

like radiator through my skin.

Kitchens of the long-ago,

swathed in early evening snow,

hug me still because I spy

apple walnut cinnamon pie.

 

Huzzahs and thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,

and kudos to dessert chefs at McCormick and Schmick’s, Virginia Beach, VA.

What memoried fragrance arises from this photo!

As this hectic season hurls us into next year,

I wish you, dear reader,

some sanity from a warm and spicy kitchen.