Collage

You take from one place
And  paste pieces in another
to find a new place

Oh Me, Oh My

I’m a typical Red Sox fan. A common Boston sports fan. Today is Opening Day and Sales is letting up runs , home runs, as if they were free gifts. The Sox are batting  as if they held wiffle bats instead of wood  bats. Sales didn’t last into the fourth inning. No one on the Red Sox is hitting. They aren’t sharp on the field. The score is 2 to 7. And we, last year’s win it all team, owns the 2.

Woe is us. What kind of season will this be?
This will be a disaster.
And on and on it goes.
I am a true Boston sports fan.
Now if they can catch up I’ll smile and know that the Red Sox gods will not allow us to wallow in self-pity. We’ll know that all is well and the world is in its orbit.

Ugh! They just let up another home run. This is terrible. A summer disaster.

Book Club

We spoke of trade unions after discussing the book—

the fight for them, the riots and those who lost

their lives. With the passing of time they

lost ground and now falter with quiet voices,

hoping they can still be heard . 

We didn’t speak of other unions—between two

who love and lose love between the brambles

of living. Some dissolve and others limp. Some

last through hard times. And some sit beside beds

and watch life drip out of their beloved

and recall another time.

Expand

Just discovered a new book that fits me perfectly.

When One Religion Isn’t Enough: the Lives of Spiritually Fluid People by Duanne R. Bidsell

“  Each religious and spiritual path leads to its own mountain. Each mountain connects , no doubt, to others, perhaps offering a view of peaks more distant.”

Color Blind

I dream of the sun spiraling close
enough to warm my bones, to
toast my skin velvet color brown
Brown as milk chocolate or coffee
lightened with cream
Brown as sand wet with an ocean wave
or a color of Teak after polish
brings out a sheen
I look out my study window
and study a tree missing a limb
lopped off after a storm left it
limp. Its severed cream slice
faces a waning sun
I dream of my grandson— whose
deep brown skin speaks of African
ancestors and ships and a dark past
I imagine a melding of shades,
a palate of hues
from chalk white to ebony

I Give Up

After hours and hours I am sticking with Marginalia, The powers that be have put up the required wording and I’m good to go. Same place.

This may be the one!

Everything is screwed up. I may need to continue with this blog. Keep posted.