Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Seasons

When I think of the season's change, birds chirping all over the place, day and night, trees budding, I think of when my kids were younger. The seasons changed somewhere deep inside them with no budding leaves, birds chirping or climate difference.
All at once they began to dig in drawers, clostets, old purses for ten little jacks, a little red or brown ball. Then I would hear the plunk, plunk, of the ball against our hardwood floors, or the metallic sound of jacks being scraped across cement of the porch, or the hard floors. I would be pulling out a splinter a day from these floors, pour alcohol on the wound and the the bounce of the balls would start all over. The girls carried little pouches everywhere of jacks and balls. When we visited friends with children there would be a cry, "did you bring you jacks?" and the game was on.
Just as I slipped into the rhythm of ones and tens and back down again, the jacks were away and out came the yoyo's. I now heard the clank of Duncan Yoyos against walls, floors and lamps and vases falling to the floor as they "walked the dog" or "rocked the baby in the cradle". Before the last vase went to heaven, out came the skates from the closet. I heard the rolling wheels up and down the road, the porch, and carried the first aid kit around my neck, in case. I learned the fastest route to the hospital and doctor's office. I learned to make room for skate cases, other kids with skate cases and all the hours that the rink was open.
About the time I had all those plans organized, it became softball time in the barn yard. This time the konk of the baseball against the bat, the bikes, the window was heard throughout the land. I kept the hospital route memorized. There were family games in the barnyard. Family games in the park. I learned how to bunt. I was real proud. Thought about sturdier sneakers for me. Then it was fishing time.
The kids dug worms all night, fished all day at the crick, or we went to the reservoir as a family,with picnics and, yes, bathing suits. And we sometimes added a basketball.
Because, somehow basketball got intertwined with all this activity. This was before we had organized, softball teams, swimming teams, championships for this and that for kids. It was a time of listening to the beat of the heart of earth and of just doing all of these because it was the time to do it, and it was fun. Do children still have their own seasons anymore, just for them? Or is it all organized. Every minute of their life? I never see kids with yoyos, playing jacks, jump rope, just playing basetball or baseball or even touch football in their yard or a field of just them. Tell me it still happens, somewhere. I'm not sure I see kids outside anymore.

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Tuesday, March 13, 2007

one more try

Help, I'm trapped in blogger land. ssc Now I'm out of limbo and can compose words that actually appear on the page. I, of course, have no idea how this happened.
After all these false starts I have no idea what to say that is intelligent, nor can I find the spell check. This is vaery important for a dyslexic soul as myself.
I had this idea that I wanted to blog. I do not think this is a very good idea.
I can write poety, mysteries, in my daily journal, and all sorts of things, but
I do believe that blogging is out of my league.
Dear gentle blog reader I found the spell check. Perhaps, with all my spirit guides and with the aid of my blogger friends I will accomplish this task. It is like climing a mountain, because it's there. Alas, dear reader, I can't make it work. It no go so good.
I am a psychic, spritual advisor, writer. I am happy and complete only when writing or doing tarot's. I live inside this strange world of my imagination, plots, mystery ideas, scenes that must be made into words of poetry and journaling. I see these wonderfyul scenes or words above peoples heads as I observe what they are doing. Everything I see becomes a story, a plot. Poems are the worst, because I see just a tiny little scene and have to write it into a poem so that others might see what I see. Of course they don't see what I see. It is almost impossible for two people to see the same way. So they will ask all sorts of question, that I, the poet, think is expressed in the poem.
What does that make me? An ego soul? A crazy lady? A dreamer? Only time will tell, or more blogging. Except, I got into my blog space this time. Will I suceed again That is the great mystery. Tune in tomorrow. Time will tell if it gets published on my blog, which keeps disappering, and this might be lost in space.

The sorceress.

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Help me

I want to blog, I can't not get into my spot. Oh goddess of the
bloggers answer my plea.

Finally, I'm here

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Finally, I'm here

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Saturday, March 10, 2007

(no subject)