Fall

recently attended our local writers' group and the prompt was "fall:"  verb, noun season, whatever.
We had 20 minutes - and being the consummate cradle Catholic:

Falling from grace, again.  No number of confessions, aloud or to an unknown god or goddess seemed to purge my soul.  How many times can you be sorry, seek absolution - to reach redemption?  And how many times will you utter "Never again?"  Well, one more, I suppposed, as I pulled the wool knit watch cap lower on my brown  The raw November wind was blowing out of the east, a sure sign of a storm brewing.  A light mist freshened and I turned my face to it, relishing its cleansing touch.  Baptism, I thought, idly.  Maybe that works full spectrum.  Once as an innocent, then rinse and repeat  as needed.  I looked out over the dark creek: not a ripple, even where I'd tossed my burden, my nemesis.  I almost wished I could feel more remorse, see some rent in the smooth surface, some outward sign, a stigmata of sorts.  Not that I didn't have my regrets.  I always did, now, didn't I?  This is the last time, I vowed.  The last time I look into the darkness and recall my latest transgression.  I'd really let things too far this time.  Further than ever, and further than I could afford.  What price, really, had I paid, what bottomless account had not yet been bankrupted?  Tattered gray clouds shrouded the quarter moon.  A new moon would have been perfect.  I resented the silver shafts of moonlight like bony fingers shining on the water's surface, accusing me.  I used to take months, once a year, to reach the ugly emotional escarpment driving my precipitous fall.  My necessary evil.  Basta! I exclaimed, recalling my old Sicilian aunts.  Basta - enough!

This is the end of it.  I pulled my shawl closer, threw the leather gloves in the scrub along the creek and pulled on a pair of fleece-lined mittens.  There's something so innocent and childlike about mittens, something comforting.  The mist turned into light rain as I hiked back to the truck.

Submission

So, submission, submittal - I have finally submitted (at least I'm sure of the verb form) poetry to a journal - last minute, of course, having given myself an entirely arbitrary deadline.  The journal is "Aberrant Labyrinth," and I offered for consideration "Memento Mori" and a rewrite of "November's" ghost-eyed dog, an image I particularly like.  The journal is an eclectic, irreverent and dark publication...you may read it online, of course.

Following is the rewrite of "November:"

             a ghost-eyed dog
             trots across a field
             lately crew-cut of its corn
             brown stubble
             and rich clay
             expose the bones
             of the earth

             bones of the earth
             waiting in silence
             for another harvest

I walked into the kitchen...

I recently joined a writers' group, diverse crew of scribes who meet at a coffee shop in Elizabeth - with an attached wine shop.  Does it get better?

Last week we had a prompt for next week's meeting:  "I woke up and walked into the kitchen."  My offering follows:

I woke up this morning and walked into the kitchen.  The body was still there, sprawled across the tile like a grotesque cartoon.  Shit.  Well, what did I expect?  I had to step over the legs, all akimbo, to get to the coffee maker.  Thank god he wasn't a taller man or he would have blocked the fridge.  Shafts of the early morning sunlight reminded me to turn on the AC.  I wasn't sure how long it would take to figure out how this would play out.  The coffee maker growled and the scent of fresh coffee calmed me.  I poured myself a cup and headed into the sun room to think.  I didn't know much about decomposition, or about body disposal for that matter.  What do yo Google for that?  Calling the authorities was out of the question.  First, I needed to rent an SUV, maybe a Jeep, maybe drive out to that carpet warehouse on the outskirts of town.  I glanced at my watch.  Let's see.  Tuesday. Everything should be open.  I could be back by noon.

-->



-->

The Grave of Harmon Yenney

          

I stopped today at the grave of Harmon Yenney.

It is an April day, full of fear and promise, red-winged blackbirds

singing in the tender cattails.  Back in 1962 I was fifteen, a callow, careless girl

and Harmon 17, not yet a man, gone in a flash, rabbit hunting, carrying his shotgun

with shells in the breech as he crossed an unfriendly fence.

Too soon we die, one and all, too soon forgotten with the Weidmans and the Fulraths,

the Christiansens and the Yenneys, long generations marked in the indifferent

undergrowth of a roadside cemetery on a warm April day.

Church on a Hill 

Jesus Saves - Wednesday 7-9 PM

Twelfth Night

Leaving the holiday season - for me, just before Thanksgiving with the grocery shopping, until the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6th is a big heave-ho to the previous year.  Generally, not  bittersweet.  I'm ready to enjoy those extra few minutes of daylight and clear out the Christmas decorations.  Taking down the tree is probably the only sadness.  And every year I vow to get it up earlier and enjoy it longer.

We don't observe the traditional feast days, and it's a cultural void.  Epiphany is a celebration, an awakening.  Maybe a realization of things you already knew.  A reminder to look forward:  a new year, the rebirth that Spring brings the earth, anticipation and hope.

Be of good heart, be kind, be safe.

St Genevieve's Day

Yesterday was the St Genevieve's Day, honoring the fifth century nun who held off Atilla the Hun in 451 with prayer and fasting and by the force of her faith and personality.  As patron of the City of Light, she holds a special place in the hearts of Francophiles.

I have an Aunt Genevieve who holds a special place in my heart.  Aunt Johnnie was probably not named after St Genevieve, as my mother's family was German and decidedly Protestant.  But along with my other aunts and uncles,  she lighted my childhood.  She was my mother's look-alike sister and my surrogate mom.  When very small, I often clung to the hem of her skirt, thinking I had a firm hold on my mother.  A firm hold on Aunt Johnnie was just as good.

My aunts were ladies who wore face powder and always hand hankies in their purses.  I can hear the rustle of their dresses against stocking-clad legs, a sound of silken comfort.  The aunts never left the house without lipstick, even to go fishing.  They were a lively bunch:  bright, curious, active, outspoken and competitive.  They played cards as if their lives depended on winning, and they took no prisoners. They played to win, a lesson we learned at their knees.

My mom and her sisters influenced all of us cousins, all of our children.  Beacons of light, just as St Genevieve's light shone for Paris, my mother and her sisters light my memories and warm my heart in the cold darkness of winter.