Poetry Happens

In The Dead of Winter
By C.K. Armistead
December 21, 2014

Even in the dead of winter
There is warmth
In the smile of a friend,
The hug of a loved one,
The laughter of children.

Even in the dark of despair
There is light.
Prayers heard and answered,
A kind word when needed,
A smile from a stranger.

Even on the longest night,
There is hope
Of dawn's coming
Of the return of warmth,
The return of light.

Even on the coldest day,
There is the reminder
That we are each other's warmth
We are each other's hope,
We are each other's light.



Carried On The Wind
By C.K. Armistead
December 23, 2014

Today as I was walking
The wind was strong and cold
And sounded like the talking
Of the wise ones of old.
Telling tales of mystery
Tales of wonder and joy
Tales we know of history
Of the fate of a special baby boy.
And also on that insistent wind
I heard the old songs so sweet
Sung low and soft from around the bend
Their glad tidings to repeat.
And upon the wind was borne
The scent of woodsmoke and memory
Of places and faces that make you warm
In spite of the world's harsh harmony.
Then the wind made my mouth water
With scents it carried past me
Of sugar, flour and butter
Becoming cookies and candy.
Tomorrow night the wind will bring
The sound of many bells a ringing
And my voice among thousands will sing
Songs of hope and joy fit for a King.
So today, as I was wandering
I was thankful for the wind's wild voice
That set me to pondering
The many reasons we have to rejoice.


That's about all the poetry I've got right now.  Time now to bake the pies.  Time to put some flour, sugar, butter, eggs and other good things to work becoming Christmas treats to share with friends.  May you all have a joyful and beautiful Christmas, whether you celebrate or not, you are wished a day of love and joy. 

Marvelous Miscelleaneous Monday

This morning I enjoyed some of the bread I baked (and blogged about) yesterday with my breakfast on the patio.  No sunshine outside, but lots in my heart!  So blessed to have this life. 

I noticed the other day that I have some very old pictures of the gardens, like when I first planted them. Compared with how they look today, it is hard to believe it is the same set of garden beds.  I shall illustrate:

Then

Then

 

 

Both beds now.

Then

Then

 

Both beds now.

Main herb bed then:

Main herb bed now, from the other end.

Patio pots in May

Patio pots today.

Easternmost South Garden bed in May

Today

In May

Today

May

Today

May

Today

Fleeing Time
By C.K.Armistead
July 14, 2014

Seems only yesterday
The gardens were barren, brown.
And I went out to work
And set the plantings down.

Today they explode with color,
They bloom excessively
Almost unrecognizable
As what they used to be.

Seems only yesterday
This baby I held in my arms
Cooing and staring at me
Winning her aunt's heart
with her charms.

Today that same child
Is herself a mother
And there is a new smile
Winning her great-aunt's heart
With very similar charms.

Seems only yesterday
My love and I started this journey
With songs and promises
And smiles many.

Soon we celebrate
Thirty years of this love
That seems to us infinitely sweeter
Yet still as fresh as it was.

Sunshine and shadows roll
One day into the next
Slowly it seems at the time
Around this earth's ball.

Yet when you pause
And see this life sublime,
You understand the swiftness
Of ever fleeting time.


Sorry, didn't mean to wax all sentimental and kinda gloomy, but that poem's been thrashing itself out in my head for awhile now, and it suddenly wanted out.  That's often how the process goes.  I may or may not have physical notes, but there are usually a few images playing around in my brain that suddenly may decide "Now is the time!"  

That's one reason I carry notebooks around.  The other is that I'd forget my behind if it wasn't attached.  Heck, I'm surprised I remember my own name some days lately.  Getting older isn't for sissies.  Your brain gets filled up with so many details over the years, and you find random things popping into your consciousness at odd times, and the things you really NEED to remember fleeing away across the synapses, hiding the the recesses of the ancient memory storage of your antiquated electro-chemical storage device. 

Setting oneself new challenges can keep that retrieval easy, but not always.  There will always be the day that your thoughts are so busy that you feel like a network with too much traffic and not enough bandwidth.  Response to queries is slow because there's a bottleneck in the system somewhere.  I often find that these are not necessarily age related, but multiple-responsibility related.  Many people my age have jobs, families, civic duties, church affiliations and hobbies that run them in many directions at once.  So do many younger people, but younger people, especially younger women, often sleep better than those of us dealing with 50+ year old bodies that have bum thermostats and the odd suspension/frame wear and tear problem. I wake at least once during the night burning up and breaking a sweat, and at least once because a shoulder or a hip is complaining of being in one position for too long. Never used to happen.  Only after I passed 50.  My pal Julie and I agree, once you hit 50, the warranty expires, and all bets are off.  Things start acting up.
Add to this joy the need to take antihistamine because of all the things in Oklahoma that I'm allergic to, and it's a wonder my brain functions at all.

I set myself many new challenges, especially at work.  I am doing all this blogging, and smart-phone using, and social media stuff because of a training program at work that introduced me to it, and got me hooked on it.  So, my husband can't blame my obsession with Twitter just on my intrinsic fangirl tendencies, it's also due to the need to keep up with my job and the many social factors relating to it.  (And if that ain't a grand excuse, I've never seen one! ) ;-)

A fellow Twitter-user shared this YouTube link of a song done by Jane Krakowski that talks about Twitter and the way some of us are obsessive about it.  I will share it here because it is terribly funny.  Hope I am not quite THAT bad!
Jane Krakowski "Tweet"

Here is the recipe for the sourdough starter that I keep in my refrigerator to use for making that fabulous bread:

Sourdough Starter

Basic Sourdough Starter

From The Sourdough Cookbook by Rita Davenport Published by HP Books, 1981

2 cups all-purpose flour

3 Tablespoons sugar

1 envelope active dry yeast (1 Tablespoon)

½ teaspoon salt, if desired

2 Cups warm water (105 degrees F or 40 degrees C)

In a 4 or 6 cup plastic pitcher with a trainer in the lid,, or in a large bowl, combine all ingredients.  Beat with a wooden or plastic spoon.  Fermentation wil dissolve small lumps.  Cover pitcher with lid, turning so strainer is at pouring lip.  Cover bowl with a cloth.  Set in a warm place free from drafts (85F, 30C).  Let ferment 2 to 3 days.  Stir mixture several times each day.  To use, remove starter needed for recipe.  Refrigerate remaining starter in the pitcher, or in a glass or plastic container with a very loose fitting lid. (I use a square, 1.5 liter glass canister without the plastic seal on the lid.  Works great.)  Replenish every 7 to 10 days by stirring in equal amounts of water and all-purpose flour.  After replenishing, let stand at room temperature overnight.  Return to refrigerator.  If a clear liquid forms on top, stir back into starter.  Makes 3 to 4 cups.

 

If the starter starts looking dark, or gets even a little bit pinkish, dump it out and start over.  This usually will only happen if you neglect the starter for too long.  Use and replenish regularly, and it may keep going for years.

I think that's about enough from me on this miscellaneous and over-caffeinated Monday.  Hope you enjoy!

Warning: Poetry Again

This Father's Day
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
June 15, 2014

I was his baby girl
The one he worried about
I faced a different world
Than the one in which he fought.

He pushed me
As much as he could,
To get out and see
To make a difference
In my world.

He never really told me
But I know he was proud
Of me, and my abilities
Of the life I chose to live
Not an easy one,
But the best one for me.

He left us much too soon.
An accident, and he was taken
The man I was sure had
Hung the moon.
The man whose passion for learning
Pushed me to study and read
And teach.

Mom gave me the folded flag
That had been on his coffin.
Because he was a vet.
No way she could know
How the sight of that flag
Could make my blood run cold.
Because every military wife
Dreads being given a flag to hold
When she'd much rather have
The man who served it with pride.

 Pop survived his service,
And thankfully,
So did my husband survive his.
I have a lot more than a flag
To remember Pop by.
Though still I miss him
As years go by
It gets easier to remember him
And smile
For all the good times he made sure
We had
For the love he gave his children
Will never, ever die.

Old Songs

By Carolyn Kay Armistead
June 15, 2014

Music and memory
So tied together
Melodies are haunting
Because they make you remember
Times and places
People you once knew
The way you used to be
And the things you used to do.
Some songs can make me feel
Like a teen again
Bring back those heady days
Of high school
Hanging out with my friends
So easily
With just a melody
A lyric
Remember...
Some songs bring back childhood
And watching my Mom
Try to dance
Around the house while she was cleaning
With Sinatra
Or Bing
Or the Big Bands
On the stereo.
Remember...
Old Abba songs
Bring back the magic
Of long talks
With Matthew
When we were both
So young and so in love.
Yes, I remember.
 Ah, such memories.
Such treasure
All to be found
In a song.



The Book Sorter Song
By C.K.Armistead 6/15/2014

Book comes in
Door comes down
For a while,
Nothing.
THEN
Down the belt,
Around the corner,
Into the bin
It belongs in.
Even before
It hits the bin
The next book
Has rolled in.
Starts its journey,
Finds its way,
And of course
Another
Is already waiting.
All goes well
Books moving along
As we try to keep up
Sorting onto carts
From the bins,
Listening to
The sorter's song.
Then,
It stops dead
Oh, dread.
The light
For some unknown reason
Is red.
We check, we reset,
We cross our fingers
And pray,
The computer restarts
The belts do their dance
And before long
Once again
We're humming along
Singing the sorter's song.



Elusive Words

C. K. Armistead
6/15/14

Barge around in my head
Keep me from thinking straight
Or sleeping
Or reading
Yet
Will NOT get out on the page.
You elude me.
Babbling on when I have no way
To catch you,
Put you on paper
Or on screen
Then disc
And thus keep you.
Somehow
You seek to avoid capture
As if fearing
Servitude
As if you wouldn't
 Still be words
With something to say
As if by getting you down
And in order
I wouldn't be giving you
A voice
A chance to be heard
Somewhere besides
The inside of my skull.
So please
Now that I am here
Where I can save you
Please,
Words?
Come out
And play.


All of these poems have been written this evening, over the course of an hour or two.  These are really just my way of stretching the writing muscles, of hoping to coax the words out.  I know they are not polished and completely finished.  They may never be.  But this is how poetry is sometimes.
Not very lyric, not always neat, not even always rhyming.  A lot like life.  A bit messy, but in its own way, beautiful.