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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 10/30/2009 9:32:50 PM | LADY, ANEMONE
The body burned away the parting cloth.
As though a compass hand had pointed north,
he moved!
Storms, waterfalls, and tall men
move this way -
tremendous impulse draws them,
not to stay!
Lady,
anemone,
violet-soft and kissing,
tender scabbard with a fierce blade missing...
You will awake to find a tall man gone,
his north become the morning.
Like a tear,
it trembles, hesitates, turns very clear,
illustrious morning, weather of his smile.
Who brought, enveloped in a rainbow storm,
eleven fingers wanting to be warmed,
and having warmed them -
lifted with a twist
that put you under him at least a mile~
For keepsakes leaving silver on a wrist,
gold on a finger,
bruises on your thigh...
It's only being tired that makes you cry.
...... Tennessee Williams
(wish this site would let me include the format in the book). He is amazing! | |
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 10/30/2009 11:23:09 PM | Ya, I was thinking that, too. I used to format much like that, but gave it up. My blog does the same thing. Guess software designers don't get why you might need spaces, lol! A clear look into Bill Gates mind. . . .
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 10/30/2009 11:30:04 PM | is there some irony in the fact that I like to write here or not?
sorry wooby.. just loitering
I can't write a dang word on my space. lol
all formatting
you should see my shorthanding
well, that's a picture | |
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 10/31/2009 12:26:31 AM | Hi BD! (apparently, we like to loiter in the same spaces! LOL)
Ya, the whole format thing bugs me too. The poem has so much more impact when you can see the real breaks, spacing. But that aside... thanks to you, I've discovered a new (old) poet! Thanks Ms Wooby!!!  | |
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 11/1/2009 3:58:42 PM | Life is very strange. Tonight, at another place I blog, one of the bloggers has been worried about the 6 weeks absence of another. I went looking under her blog name, and didn't find much. Was then supplied with her *real name* and city. And found too much. She died Oct 9. She'd been blogging as late as September 26 ~~ getting ready for her 50th reunion next year.
Be sure you tell everybody you love that you love them. And tell your relatives to get on your blogs and let them know. Been one hard night. . .
Sweet, peaceful, travelin' woman. I hadn't been all the worried, because she was all the time taking off for Africa or Argentina or somewhere. Shows you what I know. . .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Annilow (AKA Ann Dunn Aldrich)
November 11, 1942 - October 9, 2009
That we are family
is a given
Also given
is that despite
surface arguments
we love each other
We each bring to the potluck dinner
ourselves, our histories, our talents
our kindnesses, our caring
And the circle rounds back again
against itself
I have loved you all
and know I'm loved
Never forget that
As we weep at the empty
place at the table
Today, we remember that
soul who was so alive
and so interested
So caring
Peace, Anni, as you go with God
And traveling mercies. . . .
By puddle on Nov 1, 2009 6:34 PM EST
Posted by puddle (me) at 11/01/2009 06:35:00 PM 0 comments
another Annilow verse
If you hear of my passing
let it lead to action
passerby though you may be
none of us are in our own lives.
We all have causes.
many shared
or a weight we carry
and that is never easier alone.
Resolve to pick up
where others have left off
resolve to travel
to learn
to share, to sing
to listen for song
to carry
to care.
By Phil Specht on Nov 1, 2009 11:57 AM EST
Posted by puddle at 11/01/2009 0400 PM 0 comments
We loved you Anni
For Annilow
Annilow has died. She left without
telling us what was happening, though
there were hints. She talked of
walking pneumonia, left us photos
of crop circles, reminded us
of musical events, grumbled that
some of us hated AARP,
in all brought herself to us
and was herself our friend.
She's left us now in the way
we knew her and we have
the gifts she gave, music,
her role as a teacher, her
opinons, African travelogue and mystery.
It's not the song that's sung,
nor the singer, but the singing
the divine now, the presence,
and though we'll never know
beginnings and ends, we witness
them and bring our own songs
singing what and whom we love.
By Pat in Colorado on Nov 1, 2009 10:48 AM EST | |
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 11/1/2009 4:12:58 PM | awww Woobs, now you know why I write if you seem as if you're gone too long...
I've been online for quite a long time now, like you. I've lost friends before and it's always so stunning. If the family isn't aware of your blog places, many times your online friends don't know until months or weeks later that you've passed... | |
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 11/1/2009 10:01:54 PM | | Wooby I'm sorry too that you have lost a friend. It has passed my mind before about someone disappearing and not knowing why. I'm glad that you did find out the truth though. | |
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 11/5/2009 10:16:34 PM |  Hi Woobs!
To Autumn
John Keats (1820)
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Happy Fall! :) xo | |
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 11/7/2009 1:12:58 PM | Regrets
One, watching you
taking yourself to someplace
dark and smokey
running from those who
hurt your heart
watched over by dark men
flickering with bits of gold
here and there on their persons
Born a brass band girl myself
swaddled in love of kind hearts
waiting for blue skies and bright sun
and larks
I could not follow
Perhaps
next time
jjl
7 November 2009 | |
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 11/7/2009 1:36:36 PM | Regrets
One, watching you
taking yourself to someplace
dark and smokey
running from those who
hurt your heart
watched over by dark men
flickering with bits of gold
here and there on their persons
Born a brass band girl myself
swaddled in love of kind hearts
waiting for blue skies and bright sun
and larks
I could not follow
Perhaps
next time
jjl
7 November 2009 | |
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| The Great Virtue Sitting Parlor and Greasy Spoon
Posted: 11/13/2009 2:56:38 PM | When You Are Old
by William Butler Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. | |
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