All has its day.

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Seasons come and go
Each a special flavor,
Marking out the times within my span,
Summer departs, the glory of sunshine,
Still water and gentle breezes dims.
Flowers fade.
Seeds disperse, ensuring the next generation.
I recall seasons long past,
Indulge nostalgia
When together we dreamed of peace.
I must not linger in summer,
But divest myself of its joys,
Put on longer sleeves,
Turn thoughts to warm heaters, hot chocolate…
Embrace each season’s splendor
Watch for the red tints (I know where they grow)
Kick the leaves,
Enjoy the new swishing songs.
Not mourn the loss of summer,
Embrace always things to come
Even so is life.

I Remember.

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(from August 2014

Song Bird Songs

50s

I remember writing laboriously with pen nibs and ink, their pattern of blotches decorating my spidery drawl and blue blotting paper limiting the damage. I remember evenings in the sitting room gathered around the piano before TVs usurped the family hearth, my mother playing as we tried to sing along.
I remember watching as my father guided their waltzing steps round the dance floor amidst a ruffle of organza petticoats, his getting up before us all to light the coal fire, and carving beautiful furniture from wooden egg boxes.
I remember helping my mother pluck chickens and shell peas, her superb baking, and how she made our clothes on the little Singer sewing machine. Life was simpler then still in touch with its roots.
Now food comes ready made in packages, entertainment is available at the touch of a button, and central heating means I can snuggle in bed while…

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Love’s Completion.

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from June 2014

Song Bird Songs

doves

Tears of a different sort welling up. This month began with a wedding, with definable rows in chapel pews and glorious reception tables. There were tears there, rejoicing in their love.
These tears are more difficult to define. They come in a circle gathered together, inclusive, the object of the tears unseen. Again I watch a life’s story as photos flash upon a screen, a tall wiry frame, large eyes and over sized smile brimming with fun, engaging, inviting, accepting of all that ventured across his path.
His bride sits alone now, remembering. I hear confided whispers of her excitement on their wedding day. She couldn’t wait to marry this tall, gangly man with the big smile. You couldn’t call him good looking. He certainly wasn’t rich or famous, but he knew how to love without conditions. Though he knew our faults his love was so big it overshadowed them.
I…

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The white stetson (from May 2014)

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stetson

(Flash fiction inspired by 70’s rock documentary)

It seemed so long ago when life was young and every dream possible, when Hendricks clave the air in wild notes that punctuated the “Stars and Stripes” with Vietnam bombs, when fields of tents orchestrated a new era of peace and love.

She’d been young too, had dared believe the dream. All had faded to ashes. Big business took over, exploited the music and milked the ideals to the last dollar. Yet the letter lay in her hand, white, pristine, unsoiled. Would he be the same she wondered? There was only one way to find out.

Boarding the greyhound bus, she looked back one last time. Was she fooling herself? It was forty years since she last saw him, a shadow in khaki lined up for slaughter. They had led separate lives, made their own concessions as dreams withered.

He’d sent no picture. She’d know him by his white cowboy hat he’d said.

“You’re crazy!” she told herself again as she disembarked clutching the bus tickets he’d sent in clammy fingers. Then she saw it – the wheelchair! Her stomach churned, heart melted at the hat hanging from the back, the white Stetson. Its owner looked up and smiled, waving her over.

“Are you the missy looking for a guy in a cowboy hat?” She nodded.

“He’s helping get my bags…. said I should look out for you.”

She raised her eyes to meet the sparkling ones approaching. Time may fly blowing much away, but some things never changed…

Old Friends.

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old folks

(Of far flung friends I seldom see – photo from bing).

It’s oh so good to see them when parted oh so long,
The hugs and friendly greetings that lend the heart a song.
The smile that bares a tremble, the tear that dims the eye,
The subtle, soft, remembrance of days that have gone by.

It seems too much to soak it in when love floats all around,
Another, yet another, of times voices coming round.
The smiles now bare more wrinkles than when you knew them first,
But time and tide can not erase; the spirit from them bursts.

And all are in remembrance of sweet times so long gone by
The times when we were young and free and we had fun, oh my!
I hear now in the echoes of vintages grown old
The hearts refined in times harsh hand have turned at last to gold.

Childhood Magic.

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chr can 2

I look back and remember. Come and peek into my world,
When candles softly glowed, the angel’s wings unfurled.
With childhoods eyes I waited for the feast on Christmas Eve,
Not food, or presents waiting but what little eyes perceive.
When dad would light the candles upon the Christmas tree
With my sister I would huddle and glorious beauty see.
It lasted a few moments (the flames could not be left)
And so this time of magic would leave us soon bereft.
But in our souls would linger the beauty of the sight
And in our hearts remember Christ was given on this night.

My memory stretches back to the early 50s, Christmas Eves. It was cold before the days of central heating and double glazing. The heat from the roaring coal fire in the living room did not extend to the hallway where the tree stood and my sister and I huddled together in our flannelette nighties and tightly bound dressing gowns. Furry slippers and wool socks guarded our feet from the drafts that slipped past the door stop, but we didn’t notice the cold, our eyes were glued to the metal clip on candle holders we’d helped arrange (being careful of nearby branches the candles might ignite.)
Dad, still dressed in his work clothes, struck a match to the box and the magic began. Tiny flames appeared reflecting their gleaming warmth off the baubles and tinsel as we stood in awe at its beauty respectfully keeping our distance (only dad was permitted this task). Mum came behind to hug us and for a few moments time stopped as we admired the tiny lights gleaming in the darkness. Then all too soon they began to die and dad blew them out making sure his family slept safe.
In the morning there would be presents to unwrap, hot chocolate, carols at the old piano, mum’s home made cake, mince pies and Christmas pudding to devour, but as a child The most special thing about Christmas was when dad lit the lights.
Childlike, I was sure that must have been the time Jesus was born, amidst the magic.

lighting candles