Yesterday was cold and dreary, drizzly now and then. We woke this morning to heavy, wet snow! An inch or more accumulating on the picnic table and the grass; weighing down the branches and blossoms on lilac bushes, apple and plum trees; filling in the spaces between jonquils, tulips and grape hyacinths. A brief surprise of winter intrudes itself into advancing spring. Knowing it will not survive but still winter persists in a slow departure. 

So it is with memories. There is a sense that our lives, as long as we are alive, demonstrate repetitions. There is always a reminder of incompleteness, of knowing there is yet more ahead, knowing that some things from the past resurrect, returning and offering us a chance for deepening our understanding. And for appreciation. 

A melancholy day, today is. With the day and the silence of falling snow, images and words arise, arrange themselves in some form on paper, meanings to open more fully as the days ahead unfold. 

the answer
 
 
why this demand
repeated
repeated
over decades now
become command
 
walk in foreign places
sing in foreign tongues
melodies
you have been entrusted
songs without words
but full with meanings
you do not understand
but know
 
when you faced eastward
and asked, you were told,
and clear, through the fog,
the answer came
specific, with authority,
as was your response
 
the time is now
repeated
 
 
 *   *   *   *   *   *   *
 
 
 revealing
 
 
they will fade and recede
but never are they non-existent
those old loves, incomplete
always revealing
their meanings
missed
misunderstood
couched in disfavor and confusion
more clearly displaying
now
as a many faceted diamond
in an antique setting
retrieved from
the depths of the well
 
 
#  pab  ©17 april 2016  #

          Speaking in our own voice is a choice offered to each of us every moment of every day.  

This morning I was reading a collection of poems my friend has recently written.  My responses were immediate and genuine. Yet, he doubted the worth of his work and his own creative voice. As poets, we are susceptible to imagining we are frauds and soon will be found out!

Maybe poets aren't the only ones who think they are frauds. ​I believe all of us often question our own worth. We couch our words in politeness and diplomacy hoping to keep everybody happy. We dare to speak truthfully only when we are very confident that we will not be rejected. As the number of days alloted to me grows smaller, I'm risking more, speaking words that seem important to me while I have the chance. Some honest reflection on the reasons for my speaking and the truth of my perception is required. And I notice that a funny thing happens when I speak what is my truth. Others do, too! 
                                                    Here's a poem on this theme:

​​freedom
 
 
in those days the poet
imagined himself to be
the hermit
cloistered away
in a monastery
in far off mountains
an ascetic
trying not to be
somebody else or
perhaps to be every one else
to be unknown
to live nowhere and everywhere
to think in original words
in the language on loan
to him alone
creating itself;
to fast and to be
nourished
on breath and visions
inside his being
until god found him
or he discovered god
in all ways and places
and people
but then it is his own knowing
and now he could speak
or not
   
 - pab © april 2016 -

       
     Last night I watched the movie, “How to Make an American Quilt,” recommended by a woman from my Friday morning group, Fiber Friends. For the past eight years, this group has met for two hours, once a week to create. Sometimes only 3 or 4 women can be there. Last Friday, there were fourteen! They brought their works in fiber – knitting, crocheting, weaving, spinning, yarn hooking, embroidery, quilting. Some of the women are ranch wives who live alone now, raising llamas and sheep, shearing them, cleaning and spinning and dyeing the wool; making mittens and socks and sweaters. Others carry on the crafts they have learned from their mothers and grandmothers, even resurrecting quilt tops started long ago by their grandmothers, partly finished needlework their mothers set aside. Some of us are relearning the work we had little time for when our children were small. All of us have stories. We have shared tragedies, joys, frustrations, travel, new goals, new grandchildren, fears, recipes, photographs. We help unravel mistakes, learn a new craft, start over again. Always the stories and our works connect us.
​
And that is the story of “How to Make an American Quilt.” And the story behind my poem, “saved for company.”

saved for company
 
 
carefully folded in white tissue paper
all the good linens laid with care
in the bottom bureau drawer
saved for company
 
after grandma died I took out all
the good linens, still pristine white,
embroidery in crisp contrast,
as perfect on the backside as on the front,
days of the week on dish towels
kittens, puppies and bunnies on tea towels
butterflies and flower garlands on pillow cases
all waiting for company
 
my daughters dried the dishes on Monday, Tuesday,
and Wednesday towels, wrapped baby dolls in
Thursday and Friday, spread Saturday and Sunday
on the grass for picnics, daintily wiped their fingertips
around puppies, kittens and bunnies, napped
among the butterflies and flowers
my grandma, their great-grandma, would smile
 
dusting the top of grandma’s bureau,
noting many scratches on its walnut surface,
water rings from potted plants,
I shake the dust out into the sunshine,
thin places and holes around the kittens and puppies
holding memories as enduring as grandma’s handiwork
saved for the company of great-granddaughters
 
 
 ++++ © 2 april 2016 pab ++++