October 31, 2011

Late October

junior witches gather in the streets
last year's pumpkinhead says hello as he passes by with a mouth full of sweets
children have swarmed all the gates and ring doorbells and knock on wood
tonight is dark and full of shining smiles and secrets

(this post is partially  paraphrased/white stolen (like a white lie/white magic?) and idea-ed/inspired from David Wagoner's poem Late October from his 1953 book Dry Sun, Dry Wind)

October 16, 2011

Can You See the Earth Turn?

I really like warm sunny days in October. They are bittersweet, but mostly sweet. The moon is always tangled up with wildly textured clouds in the October night sky and the sunsets have begun to have a certain lingering tension, a hold-on-tight-I'm gonna make-this-one-count exuberance. I know the wind will pick up with a chill and blow away the fuchsia tatters of puff in the evening sky, but I am going to relish every minute of it. The folks around here have been told it will be a wet winter (no kidding...?...we are on the Oregon Coast for heaven's sake..) and I for one would like to give thanks for the beautiful warm dry summer we have had. It was one of the loveliest in awhile. So very lovely. I am smiling. Wildly.
Eastman Johnson

October 10, 2011

Hedgerow Arts is 3

Woaza, I almost forgot to wish myself Happy 3rd Blog Birthday on October 3rd. It was in 2009 I started the blog and now I would like to send vanilla cupcakes and sparkling cider and buttermilk crullers and Starbucks hot chocolate ice cream and raspberries and chocolate-covered cherries to Hedgerow Arts. My ace in-the-hole, my shiny friend always, my amanuensis of random ramblings, my verbal sparing partner dueling ever so gallantly, my patient and oft' neglected left field - thank you ever so much for being so much more than I had hoped. I love you little blog-a-ling : )
Hope to get a place in a few weeks. Waiting for someone to move out then will be able to get into this fairly nice little place. Least that is the plan. I am in tatters. Like an antique raveled latch-hook rug, with tasseled edges shredding into fray - soft, worn.  I am the backseat of a car, the distant hoot of the train whistle in the night, the shadow slipping by in the early morning mist. I am the one unseen in a crowd, the one people aren't sure if it is safe to look at. I am pacing the confines of a wide open space with no walls or doors or windows. I am the girl pining for a table to sit at, a bed to lay in and a bathroom to steam up with hot showers. I am the mother with no nest no rest no downy comfort for her children. I will be the one you see in the rear-view mirror, the one you see in the corner of your vision, the one you see if you open your eyes. I am a face of the home-less/non-homed/un-sheltered. But not forever. I am. For ever.
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