More Bits That Dribble Out Of My Head

I don't know why it is so, but waiting for news in a hospital is horribly exhausting. 

The weather is most definitely changing.  Every joint in my body that might possibly be arthritic is achy and/or sore to the touch.

The wind out there tonight is roaring and whining,  and playing all manner of tunes on our wind chimes. The weather is having quite a jam session...

 Making birthday cards seems to take forever.  I enjoy it, but I never find a good time to do it, and I feel like I'm shortchanging my friends by not being painstaking enough over it.

Poetry will sneak up on you, smack you over the head, and sometimes reduce you to tears,
all AFTER it has forced you to sit down and write.

Poems you read will also catch you unaware.
That delicious, comforting knowledge
That you aren't the only one
Who feels that way...

After a very out of sorts week last week, this week still feels
wrong and out of order.

The order of the liturgy always puts my mind in order, and helps me focus my thoughts on things spiritual.


I keep thinking about one line from a song written by a local newscaster about the bombing of the Murrah Building.  "That's the way with April, warm and then so cold..."
It's true, in many places, but especially here that year.  The day it happened was such a beautiful warm Spring morning, and the very next day was cool and cloudy and gloomy.
All these years later, and thoughts of that day can still make me cry.  The day I became an Oklahoman.  The day that broke so many hearts, but showed a whole community reaching out in love to one another to heal the hurts.


Dog behavior is directly related to the way the owners treat them. You can always tell a happy, well loved dog.  He'll be the friendly one. If he's older, he may be a bit cranky, but still. His overall demeanor will be positive. 

Those trees that produce the winged seeds ought to be outlawed! We have a positive  plague of those God-awful seeds this year. They clog up gutters and ruin your downspouts.

Poetry some days just pours out of me.  Sometimes (usually) it's pretty much drivel, but sometimes, oh, sometimes, I hit a streak of getting a lot of good poems out one right after the other.  It's so odd.  I can't control the process, I just have to go with it and see what I get.  They usually don't follow any kind of set scheme, they are as random as the mind that generates them.

  Toying with the idea of reading at the library's upcoming open mic poetry night.  Of course this quote comes to mind : "A poet who will read his verse in public may have other nasty habits. " -Heinlein

The specter of losing my memory plagues me some days.  Like this evening, trying to tell a young coworker about the arias I have sung, when suddenly the names, the melodies, the words, just all evaporated. They came back, but it was a struggle.  Frightening.

And why should it be so that my mind always waits until nearly midnight to let loose any idea worth toying with?  Why is my choice always my sanity or my health?

Just spent a few minutes enjoying a visit with a young man who has returned to town after being away for college.  I think I enjoy such visits not only because it's good to see our young people come back, but also because some of these young people remind me of the nieces and nephews I almost never get to see.