Arts Corner
Welcome to Our Arts Corner!
There are all kinds of artists in our congregation and want to give everyone a place to show their work.
All creative work is encouraged: paintings, drawings, prose, short stories, sculpture, photos, installations, books, videos…You name it!
“… I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?” – Vincent Van Gogh
Whatever You Create - We Will Highlight!
Contributions by our UU kids are especially welcome as well!
Please send your submissions at any time.
InTouch will be highlighting this page once a month. see the schedule here.
Email to office@northchapelvt.org.
Spring 2024
I am excited to let you know about this Hospital Clown Training Program!
It would be wonderful if you could forward this note to your friends and colleagues… just to let them know that the book is available…
~ From Jeannie Lindheim
The Art and Joy of Hospital Clowning Training Program
This is an updated re-release of the 2005 edition, which sold in 23 countries.
It is the only published hospital clown training program.
Inside the book is a link (QR code and a YouTube channel) to a video that illustrates many of the 32 exercises in the book.
Your book changed the course of history for me and hospital clowning here. It gave me confidence, knowledge and ideas on how to go about starting my own training program. The war changed everything but since the beginning we were daily in shelter for refugees and hospitals and applying clowning. Thank you, Jeannie, pen is stronger than the sword and thru your book, you influenced so many lives here. With warmest hugs and love from the Ukraine, Jan Tomasz Rogala
If these links don’t open, please go to your country’s Amazon Marketplace or the marketplace in a country closest to you and they will have the book in a paperback and a Kindle. Put in the name of the book: The Art and Joy of Hospital Clowning Training Program by Jeannie Lindheim and the book will appear~
Here are two poems by Zoe Potter
Family Trees
secrets hiding in family trees
new twigs with bursting buds
hiding on branches among the leaves
roots reaching deep
holding up hallowed history
craggy bark like thick skin
protecting the most vulnerable
then nights turning frigid
North wind calling
leaves weakening and falling
exposing long-held secrets
generations forgetting
until the winter of DNA
like x-ray vision
revealing the truth
losing ancestors
glossing over with lies
unsatisfying fantasies
questions going unanswered
like why is my hair so curly
where did you get your blue eyes
why can’t we talk about grandad
who had Asperger’s
who had Marfan’s
where did the Roman nose come from
finding out history
hiding in the trees
sitting among the branches
our essence waiting
among the leaves
Pot Luck
I thought I saw my dad
At the North Chapel
In the community room
With a cup of tea
And a plateful of casserole servings.
He was sitting at a round table
With five others
Leaning in to hear the conversation
In the din of eventful chatter,
Looking happy to be meeting
New people after decades
of teaching every day
then returning home, struggling to
understand his parental role
repainting the Great Room walls
Delft Blu covering a sad, dull brown.
My friend, Mary, approached him
And introduced herself
And I stood against the kitchen wall
As if to distance myself from them,
not to question the intimacy
of their conversation and
not to hesitate to adopt their
acceptance
of each other right now
before I was distracted from this vision.
I turned to watch dishwashers
In a slow dance with
Industrial sinks,
Washing, rinsing, and drying dishes
As if no one else was there.
They turned their backs on the shuffling crowd,
Not to question how time nearly stood still,
But I had to admit I never saw my dad in a crowd
Like this, or eating any potluck casseroles
Before he slipped silently from my world.
"Rocks on Block Island Beach"
by Deb Rice
Room with a View ... Bob Burchess
Winter 2023-2024
Art Students League 1980 ... Burchess
Uncle Jack ... Bobby Burchess
Blurred Lines ... Bobby Burchess
Autumn 2023
Just Sketchin' ... Bobby Burchess
Big Daddy ... by Burchess
Summer 2023
Adagio for strings ... by Burchess
Albert's Mensan Projection ... by Burchess
Spring 2023
23 Ways to Belong
by Jenny Gelfan
Be yourself with others.
Enjoy others being themselves.
Long.
Group.
Invite.
Admit.
Accept.
Contain.
Speak up.
Offer.
Lead.
Participate.
Follow.
Release control.
Resonate.
Harmonize.
Notice.
Recognize.
Celebrate likeness.
Celebrate distinction and difference.
Admire.
Love.
Cherish.
(These are one church member’s thoughts. What are yours? You might want to share them.)
Gretchen Grunewald ... by Burchess
MIRACLE IN THE WOODS April 24, 2023 by Sherry Belisle
There, out in the middle,
Surrounded by decaying leaves,
And twigs
And old weeds,
One daffodil, all by herself.
I could only stand on our back porch
And think,
“What kind of miracle is this?
Not planted by a bulb
But by tiny pollen
That a bee or hummingbird brushed.”
Unlike the bouquets of white and yellow
That grace the boulders and rocks
Along my garden in front,
This one put down her own feet
And demands attention
All to herself.
And I stare
And stare.
Now, having written this, I don't know if that's the way this happened. You, the gardener, might be able to explain it to me.
Winter 2022 - 2023
BB and our beloved family friend - by Caroline Spencer
After listening to Carmina Burana for way too long (thanks to Buonarroti) ... Bob Burchess
Silvia the Cat by Kristin Rose
Today I am presented with a new koan:
If cats are allowed anywhere in the house except on the dining room table, which is strictly verboten . . . is this a good kitty or a bad kitty?
Is she not on the table or is she not not on the table? The reasoning mind has no answer.
THE OLD ACTOR TESTIFIES … ROBERT BURCHESS
Did a lot of Shakespeare as a young actor and a kid.
Didn't know what I was talking about but sure thought I did.
Now that I'm older than dirt I get it.
How much of what Willy said really fits.
So for all you old souls out there
With a little help from the Shakes
Here's a little tidbit.
It's time to stop fooling around.
The franchise of youth is over.
Our revels now are ended.
Endless time has ended.
Now the real endgame begins.
What to do?
If I only knew.
Welcome to the club.
Living in the moment and all the rest.
Rationalization at its very best.
Meditation to the max as good as it gets.
However you play it
Curtain still drops
After third act.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Happy New Year.
WAITING FOR THE JOYFUL NOISE - Pastel by Karen Chalom
WAITING FOR THE JOYFUL NOISE
Fairy Tale ... by Bob Burchess
Once upon a time
long long ago
when I was very very young
I thought I'd grow up
be a great big hero
knight in shining armor
conquering the world of my dreams.
But something happened along the way
I got lost in the endless day-to-day
until they checked my expiration date
how much shelf life I had left.
How the hell did I get this old
without even knowing it
It was certainly something
I intended to postpone
till way way later.
Oops
Autumn 2022
A Fistful of Fog
Writer’s block
What am I feeling
I feel tired
Tired is not a feeling
Tired is a state of being Lack of sleep leaves me tired dreary dark days
leave me lethargic
back to bed with a book hot tea with honey
a hot water bottle
mellow music meandering through the house
like thoughts of you
drifting in and out
like hummingbirds seeking nectar
seeking you
haunting my days
restless sleep
exhausting dreams
busy busy busy
need to get things done tasks
people pulling
from all directions
do this
give me that
fix me
find a way
make me whole
demanding my attention judging my work
ghosting me by morning tasks left undone
names forgotten
and there you sit
in the dark red
frame on my desk
with your wise eyes and perennial smile always with me
yet never here
like trying to grab
a fistful of fog
~Zoe Potter - 2022
losing one’s place
kale
pineapple
banana smoothie
calories in pineapple
into the kitchen
why am I here
a wave
a thought
a tide of forgetting
a bland beach
smooth, vast, empty
a calmness like
an evening pond
betraying the
turbulence below
the simmering fear
of dementia
like fog over
the village green
masking hazards
disorienting like
a scary dream
losing one’s place
in the day
~Zoe Potter - 2022
Twilight
And there came the day
that wandered in like summer rain,
soft and warm, drenching my thirsty soul
misting over your face
like ocean spray
beseeching the beach to release
the sand one grain at a time,
beseeching me to release you,
melting away your days
like sand castles in a high tide
leaving nothing but a smooth empty slope
dotted with a few waterlogged sticks,
soggy feathers and bleached bits of shell
reminding me of baseball cards
strewn across your bed.
And the rain ran along in little rivers,
eroding memories of your voice
as I wandered back along the dampened
dirt road, beckoned by a vagrant breeze
that cleared the clouds like velvet curtains
on opening night
and a burst of twilight
waved farewell with its orange and violet scarf
glowing through the trees, your final curtain call
backlighting my sorrow in silence.
~Zoe Potter - 2022
Vacant Architecture of War
old woman donning rubber boots
grabbing wicker baskets
shuffling along to gardens
thick with life
pulling carrots, beets, potatoes
whistling amid ever-nearing
explosions of artillery
shaking the earth
startling chickens and sparrows
carrying buckets to the well
pumping chilly water to fill
her black pot over the fire
while high-rises in
the city burn and smoke
choking refugees on
the dirt road past her house
offering a tin cup of water
wiping off a carrot
for a young boy
near the end of the line
near the end of his life
eyes already gone vacant
~Zoe Potter - 2022
Through A Glass Darkly ... Bob Burchess
HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU BABE - by Bob Burchess
July 2022
HER DANCE To 2022 "THE LEAP" - by Karen Chalom
Jeremy - by Robert Burchess
June 2022
Collateral Damage - by Robert Burchess
May 2022
Some contributions from Peggy Brightman
Dancing Post Lockdown
Keeping on their masks for now, my four dancers file into the space, carrying bags, shedding coats and shoes, trying on costumes, greeting one another as old, long-distanced friends, last seen in rehearsals some two years ago, after which we all locked ourselves into our solitary pandemic cells. Adjusting rehearsal clothes, they begin to shed their other roles—mother, waitress, teacher, wife...
A flock of egrets, poised on tip toe,
ready to take flight;
their long legged casual grace
a fresh surprise,
delight...
Inklings of a new dance have been hovering in mind’s eye for months, rapping on my door in early mornings. As we gather on stage, I suggest a rough game plan; we try it out, stop, adjust. They cannot hear the music so I sing it out, counting the beats. The long missed, familiar rehearsal rhythms begin: start, stop, revise, restart, repeat, until something new unfolds...
They clasp one another, spin slowly,
beating their feet gently in rhythmic tattoos
on the wood floor, arms curve upward in arcs
as they circle, shedding grace
across sunlit space.
As a solo cello strokes a Bach Sarabande, their bodies move through a new slice of space-time, while sunlit dust motes scatter, fall onto the bare wood floor caressed by their feet. Out of the egg of our imaginings, something new is opening its wings...
Wheeling slowly,
as hawks ride the high
wind, they move into the
light; a new dance begins,
takes flight.
Pandemic Dance Rehearsal
Sun on wood floor.
Why does everything seem to be in black or white now? By Sherry Belisle - February 6, 2022
Vaccinate, don’t vaccinate.
Don’t have an abortion, have an abortion.
I don’t mind living in the gray, the unknown,
There is less anger there, more openness, more possibilities, more hope.
When I was growing up, everyone I knew agreed on everything,
Or so it seemed.
But I was sheltered in white,
Having little knowledge of the world’s opinions.
I didn’t see the variety of color in all the faces I knew.
Now I wish that I could be with more colorful faces:
Their histories in colors,
Their culture in colors,
Their thoughts in colors,
Their opinions in colors.
It would put so much into perspective.
Books and newspapers certainly help,
But I want to touch those people,
Shake their hands.
Share hugs.
Listen.
No black and white.
A rainbow of color.
Memoriam Scratchings ... by Robert Burchess
STRANGE REHEARSALS: By Sherry Belisle - Spring, 2012:
In late February, the sun began to whisper to the life underground “It’s time”. It sent out warming rays day after day as if it were the month of June. Maple trees released their sap. Daffodils, tulips and lilies awoke from their winter of hibernation. Snowdrops, always in a rush to be the first to flower, appeared above ground. Then the sun realized that its clock needed repair, and the usual chill returned late in the month.
By mid March, the temperatures had risen once more. The flowering bulbs pushed the tops of their green leaves into the air. At two inches, they suddenly stopped when, once again, it was cold. Who would open their flowers at this chilly temperature? Everything living was confused. They were used to the consistency and reliability of the sun’s encouragement. Or the gray chill of its absence.
Then in mid April, the sun once again spoke the language of flora and fauna: “Reach for me. I love you. Reach for me.” So, once again, the tiny snowdrops stretched upward and this time, opened their lovely white flowerettes to say, “Yes, spring is on the way.” Although used to blooming over the snow, they showed even brighter against the black dirt. Winter had been unusually dry.
Once again, the flower stalks grew: one inch, two more inches, then stopped again as the sun turned its back. “Are we supposed to continue or rest awhile? What is happening?” Someone was bullying the sun, guarding it like a basketball player so that the rays may have reached other worlds, but not ours.
Then the days brightened, but the nights were cold. No plant felt comfortable unfolding its flowers. Would spring ever come? Would we see the purple of rhododendrons? The pink of azaleas? The blue forget-me-nots?
By the fourth of May, the daffodils dressed themselves in their pretty white or yellow collars and orange or yellow hairstyles. The spotted leaves of the pulmonaria overflowed and sent profusions of pink and lavender into their hats. Tulips formed, and although you could see the promise of the cupped shape, they held their colors tightly inside. Black-eyed Susan’s still slept, but their leaves looked out over their earth crown.
Hostas finally could wait no longer to prepare for their expansion. Bee balm came up just enough to say, “This is my spot.” Yellow and pink primroses began to appear, having grown larger as they slept through the winter. Sedum began to grow aboveground, but kept its transformation to scarlet hue a September secret. Lilacs held tight to tiny presents of perfume, ready to fill my senses with their gift for my birthday.
Finally, the birch and maple trees slowly opened their leaves, painting the forest palette with so many shades of green as if they were paint samples.
It’s like a symphony for the eyes. Most everyone is still tuning up; soon my garden will play in complete harmony for everyone who walks or runs or bikes or drives by.
Strange beginnings, this spring. I wonder what summer will bring.
Never Ever Forget - by Robert Burchess
In Recognition of Holocaust Remembrance Day, April 28
HOPE by Polly Forcier
Hope is my Phoenix This iridescent Being
Flutters in my ribcage Again and again
Synchs with my heartbeat. Comes to me.
Sees through my eyes, Against all odds
She speaks with my tongue. She chooses me.
Spirit. Wise, As I falter
Beyond my ken. She listens closely.
She listens closely Beyond my ken
As I falter. Spirit-wise,
She chooses me She speaks with my tongue,
Against all odds, Sees through my eyes,
Comes to me Synchs with my heartbeat,
Again and again, Flutters in my ribcage.
This iridescent being. Hope is my Phoenix.
A palindrome or mirror poem.
The Barrister ... ink drawing Bob Burchess
Healing is an Art : “Good Mental Health"
Dr. Neil Marinello has a podcast series on YouTube.
In these videos Neil is interviewed by Matt Kelly who bases his questions on post Neil has made over time on Twitter @coachdrneil.
You can subscribe to Neil’s YouTube channel and see all the videos here: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCBe2FtBIohh3VXOqH4dsuvA/videos
Episodes:
1. “I Am the Most Important Person in the World to Me.”
2: “There Is No Part of You That is Not A Part of Me."
3: “Each of Us Lives in Our Own Reality”
4: “None of Us are Better Than Anyone Else”
5: “Each of Us is Doing the Best That We Can”
6: “The Only Rules Controlling Me Are My Own”
7: “Deciding When I Finish the Job Is Up to Me”
8. “Quality of Life is the Only Variable That Matters”
9. “All Human Systems are Flawed”
10. “Trust People to be Themselves”
11. “RECAP - Dr. Marinello's 10 Rules for Life”
12. "What I See Is Not What's There"
13. "There's What's Real, What's Not Real and What We Perceive as Real"
14. "Reality Exists, Meaning Is Interactive"
15. “The Meaning of Life is What You Give It”
16. Final Episode
https://www.cctv.org/watch-tv/programs/series-finale
There is now a follow up video that combines clips from the earlier podcasts called “Matt’s Story” at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QV-0K3buazE
Link to the series: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLljLFn4BZd2OzQmO5byV6LoWX18gDIcFA
Hamlet ... by Bob Burchess
Listening To The Emperor While Thinking Of You Dear Ludwig…
by Bob Burchess
Straw Angel
Each year, I find the hand-made straw angel to put on the top of the tree. Only pale twisted straw, she convinces me that she is open, waiting for something numinous to arrive–– a silent locomotive from the past carrying shards of memory, like the long ago Christmas Eve, tucked into unfamiliar beds in our grandparents’ house, when I woke my little sister up to hear the reindeer hooves moving above us on the roof. Or the night our chimney caught fire, roaring, and we all managed to get out of the house with coats flung over pajamas, I was nine, limping in my plaster walking cast, having fallen off my bike from riding it too slowly; we crunched through the snow in the front yard, with the colored lights shining on the wreath and the firemen’s glistening boots, as they carried stout hoses and blasted us and the roof, and put the fire out, and we went back inside to celebrate Christmas once again.
It comes to belief--
whether in angels, reindeer,
or waterproof boots.
--Peggy Brightman
Autumn 2021
The Many Faces of November by Jeannie Lindhelm
Remembering Tough Times by Bob Burchess
COLLATERAL DAMAGE by Bob Burchess
Tightropes of memory split under the heavy step
of some orphaned who-knows-how-old kid I saw
falling shivering shaking among those brutal burial grounds.
Kid already with that thousand yard stare shell-shocked numb
bombed-out hair long-torn dreams pulled from their socket windows
sealed tight in stark new nursery no children allowed.
Walk among the mountains
Walk among the valleys
Limp along the muddy swamps
Drown among the flooded plains
The sound of sorrow is a dead wind knowing the secrets of old homesteads
chimneys of a life’s passage dying feet of a war-torn age stumbling
their mournful way through bloody theaters of the absurd.
Incinerated morning dawns and dreams forever frozen in time
splattered across the killing fields of human invention stillborn
in purgatory cocooned in solitary confinement
between being and nothingness.
All that was ever life choked in chains
Melodies mangled on the crimson plains
Lost among the twisted leaves
Dead among the gasping birds
Slow Turning (Haibun)
Do I grieve today because the birds are dying off, or
because my body is giving out-- raising flags of distress,
or am I mourning our honey bees, the golden-leafed ash
trees? I‘ve missed the curious nuthatch with his topsy-
turvy view of things. The season takes its time in
turning; acorns drop, leaves change slowly, half-
hearted. The world still spins on her axis, but there’s a
weird wobble––too much is turning sour, catching fire.
But can I see it clearly? The clock face is a blur now.
Each day, as the sun rises and sets, we ask what losses
can be met, stemmed. The goldenrod waits for a
monarch’s final fluttering. Listen as the phoebe declares
her descending two-note farewell; the lone cricket keeps
on scraping his rasping October song…
Oh birds, oh body,
oh butterflies, I am not
ready to lose you.
--Peggy Brightman
Listening To Too Much Mahler For Too Long A Time
Ink drawing by Bob Burchess
a new, pandemic film --
Our Voices, Bodies Rising
by choreographer Peggy Brightman
& filmmaker Carla Kimball.
coming to
The Grange Theatre
South Pomfret, VT
Sat, Nov. 6 & Sun., Nov. 7th at 4pm
Dedicated to Ruth Bader GInsburg, the film celebrates, in poetry and dance, women's long struggle for suffrage and beyond-- toward liberation. The 30 minute film will be followed by conversations with filmmakers, actors and dancers.
Suggested donation at the door -- $10.
Reservations: 802-457-3500.
About this pandemic film:
Our multi-generational, diverse cast features 40 dancers, actors, poets and musicians from the greater Upper Valley area. Thirteen area poets contributed poetry for this film, with music performed by Michael Zsoldos, saxophone, soprano Julie Ness, and cellist, Ben Kulp.
From Sherry Belisle
A Family Recipe
3 cups of
forgiveness
1 gallon of
friendship
a pinch of
hope
a spoonful of
laughter
endless love
Richard Brown, a wonderful Vermont photographer, suggests that we take photos of the same scene in different season, so I did….. Photos by Jeannie Lindhelm
Magical stairway in September, in February, and in July.
Peaceful pond in September, October, November, and December.
The leaves are starting to turn here in glorious Vermont….. Photos by Jeannie Lindhelm
Remembering September ... ink drawing by Bob Burchess
Summer
Lake Morey Inn Gardens
by Karen Chalom
Grandma .. ink drawing by Bob Burchess
Summer Photos by Jeannie Lindheim
Beautiful Maidstone Lake in the Northeast Kingdom and loons~
2 chicks came right up to my cabin… one stayed for one hour and one stayed for 90 minutes….amazing trip….
1) amazing tree 2) 2 adult loons - which way should we go 3) let’s go this way
4) barn on the way home 5) flower in the Village 6) beautiful view in Woodstock, VT
“The Book” and “The Wall”
Pastels by Karen Chalem
My old friend John
by Bob Burchess
Lovely photos of North Chapel Riverside Garden and Back Lawn by Mary Blanton. Gardening is an art!
"On My Porch" by Sherry Belisle
On my porch
I have a view of Mount Tom
With the star that shines
All wintertime,
And where, one August,
Our daughter became a wife.
I have a closer view
Of lush green:
Maple and cherry trees
And fiddlehead ferns below.
Some maple leaves
Reach for our porch,
And they are dipping now
With each raindrop.
The sound, subtle.
Soon,
the dance will stop
And the wrens, the chickadees,
The house finches, the bluejays,
The tufted titmice, the cardinals
And the precious hummingbirds
Will all celebrate.
A note with these photos from Jeannie Lindheim: “May 30 and it’s been 89 and today it’s in the 40’s… ya gotta love New England! I swam in my favorite pond two weeks ago, too! HAPPY ALMOST SUMMER~ hugs, Jeannie
Suzy The Dancer
by Bob Burchess.
A Slide Show of Photos of East End Park by Tambrey Vutech.
Poetry by Sherry Belisle
I want to be like the wolf or the mouse,
The white owl or maybe the giraffe,
The orca or a cat.
No past, no future,
No worry, no hope, even.
They must live in trust -
Or do they?
Guilt? Never heard of it.
They live without true love.
Then again, the swans pair together for life.
Is that true love?
As they feed and protect their children,
Is that true love or instinct?
I don’t really know,
But I do realize
That they stay in the moment,
And that alone
Is one reason to envy them.
My Little Tree Before the Resurrection
by Robert Burchess
Resurrection by Robert Burchess
Polly Forcier Has Created a Video!
Polly is a knowledgeable historian of Early American Decoration .
Watch “A Brief History of Early American Decoration, Wall & Floorcloth Stenciling”
For more information look here: https://www.mbhistoricdecor.com/
Photography and Pastels by Karen Chalom
April 2021
Beneath the Mask by Bob Burchess
“This old April Fool commemorates
his own birthday .. (and dear friend
Peggy Kannenstine’s too :) ..
with a little ink drawing ..
and a lazy poet’s plea for mercy.”
Lament of the Lazy Poet
How do I find the words
to speak the unspeakable
attach to things that be
beyond all words
sounds
that break the bounds
of all self-consciousness
breathing fresh air into the vacuum
of our closed little lives
trying to touch impossibly
the wondrous mysterious mountains
of love, being, life itself?
'Tis much too much for most mortal souls
much less an old fool like me
who can barely scratch out a few more lines
of the same old puerile poetry.
Nevertheless, Namaste, they say, Blessed Be.
Hope springs eternal for even old dogs like me.
New Book By Rowley Hazard!
Talking Back
How to Overcome Chronic Back Pain and Rebuild Your Life
From the Press release:
Talking Back brings the reader into the classroom with people disabled by chronic back pain to experience the insights and lessons that have helped thousands of them to regain the physical and emotional capacities to resume productive lives and wellness. Through the stories of sufferers and the steps they took to take back their lives, Dr. Rowland Hazard reveals their pathways to recovery.
“My goal is to get the book into as many hands as can benefit from the lessons I learned through 30+ years of listening to and caring for people disabled by chronic back pain.” ~ Rowley Hazard
Click HERE for a link to the press release with more information.
Publication date is May 7, 2021. Here is the link for ordering on Amazon. (Amazon encourages pre-publication ordering and then brief reader reviews once the book is out.)
Order Your Copies of “Wednesday Poets, a collection”
“Wednesday Poets: a collection” is a new anthology of poems with a foreword by Dr. Leon Dunkley, minister of the North Universalist Chapel Society in Woodstock. Books are offered at a special table as part of the Art Show, at the suggested donation cost of $15 each. Click HERE to order from Peg Brightman.
The Wednesday Poets began meeting weekly several years ago in the Woodstock area; several are established poets, while others have just started publishing work. The group includes Pam Ahlen, Peggy Brightman, Blair Brooks, Jon Escher, Laura Foley, Debby Franzoni, Jill Herrick-Lee, Brooke Herter James, Wendy Smith, and Sarah Dickenson Snyder. Blair Brooks, one of the founding members, died in 2019; he is sorely missed. The cover art on Wednesday Poets—A Collection— is by Jill Herrick-Lee.
The poetry book is offered as a fundraiser for North Chapel in gratitude for hosting the group’s weekly group meetings in their Library. Local residents can order the book for pickup by contacting Peg Brightman at peggybrightman@gmail.com. Out-of-towners may order it from Amazon HERE.
If you buy a copy of “Wednesday Poets” directly from Peg Brightman the entire price of $15 will go to the church. With an order through Amazon, a percentage of the cost going to the church.
As pandemic concerns ease, the Wednesday Poets hope to offer poetry readings in the area.
March 2021
The Promise of Spring
By Sherry Belisle March 20, 2021
Listen.
Can you hear them?
The bulbs, the tubers, the rhizomes, the roots?
Snowcover muffles them,
But some are awakening,
The snowdrops most of all,
Always eager to be first,
Keeping the promise of Spring
Even on the days
When it still feels wintery.
But soon, once the blanket has melted,
The others will arrive.
One by one and two by two,
Making the long winter days
Worth the ecstatic joy
Of Spring.
Apple Trees In Bloom
(While we wait for Spring to arrive.)
By Peggy Kannenstine
The Woman at the Well. Sechem, Israel
By Joan Columbus
Homage to Michel
Red chalk drawing
By Robert Burchess
February 2021
Lockdown Lament by Peggy Brightman
Ring around a rosy, months pass, a year passes;
we begin to know what prison might be like--
the gray sameness every day, the locked-in-placeness,
the endless monotony of house-arrest.
The same few faces down the street, eyes alone
above the mask--known or not known? Turn away,
run away, we don’t dare to breathe the same air
lest we all fall, we all fall, we all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, instead of funeral pyres, pages and pages
of local obits in the papers, sons, parents, aunts, friends
cut down in mid breath…gone on permanent vacation…
the numbers look bad, look bad, look worse, a curse...
Roll up my sleeve for the vaccine; if only I can see
my grandchildren again before my meter runs out,
hold their small warm bodies close, smell
the shampoo in their hair, bake them birthday cakes.
Pray for return to the grand old normal--picnic
out under the trees, a meal around a table, rubber
band a granddaughter’s pigtail…losing, losing
losing --the ties of generations stretching thin…
Winter snows cover mounds of new graves;
empty chairs call sadly for former occupants.
We long for what we’ve lost-- even as we forget,
each day, to put on more than sweatpants, zoom
with lonely friends. We get used to the chafe
of the ankle bracelet, but each gray day hunger
for all we are losing, losing, ashes, ashes, masking,
masking, lockdown, lockdown, we all fall down.
Igor The Terror of 72nd Street … pencil sketch on paper by Bob Burchess
Continuing the saga of my misspent youth, somewhere back in the late ‘60’s / early 70’s in New York … in the late night backgammon gambling and chess dens of the upper west side … spending much too much time playing past my bedtime to fend off the dark night of the soul … I clearly remember how we all shivered in our spines when Igor walked in, daring anyone to play … even my ancient mentor, Ivan, the grandmaster (see last December’s post), averted his eyes in deference … ah, those were the days … when the only childish games played were won or lost by cold calculation, versus the current climate of cosmic chaos, catalytic covid et al … “things fall apart, the center cannot hold, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world” as old Willy B. Yeats said … nevertheless, namaste, blessed be, if we could only be free of fear and antipathy … E=mc2, as old Einstein said, and relativity is all … as Brother Leon said, if we could but straddle both life and death, in one fearless thrall … now wouldn’t that be something else … pray good luck to us all.
January 2021
Emergence - soap stone
by Joan Columbus
Watch Sandiland & Vincent Live on YouTube 1st and 3rd Fridays!
From Sandi Anderson:
Hello Friends and Family,
Please join us Fridays at 7 PM EST for the YouTube Channel Premiere of the Sandiland & Vincent ~Social From Home Mini Performance.
We are musicians and lyricists, Sandi Ellen Anderson and Vincent Girot, both from Woodstock VT. We are trying to make the best of the current social distancing situation by regularly offering you these virtual performances until playing live becomes possible once again. We will play for you a mixture covers and originals, which we really enjoy and hope you do too..
Sandi Ellen Anderson: Vocals, Harmonies, Guitar, Bass, Found Percussion and Mariachi Horn Section
Vincent Girot: Vocals , Harmonies, Guitars, Fretless Bass.
Thank you for being Social From Home with us!
You make it all worthwhile.
Two Notes:
You may watch our mini performances anytime after each premiere has aired, on YouTube at Sandiland & Vincent
Email questions to sandilandandvincent@gmail.com
Stay Safe!
Sandi and Vincent
Find us on YouTube at Sandiland & Vincent https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCTTFEn6L6epKLcbxVjeqefg
1/6/2021: The Darkness Drops Again … Robert Burchess
Regarding insurrection January 6, 2021
Didn’t you see this Second Coming
Screamed old Willy Yeats?
Wake up before it’s too late.
We said ‘Never Again.’
And now that same old awful sound.
Eine kleine Nachtmusik.
Kristallnacht 1938.
Enough already humanity.
Grow up for dear Christ’s sake.
And you thought 2020 was bad.
Happy New Year.
Flying Pandemic Angel by Peg Brightman
Tree in Snow Storm by Peggy Brightman
Animal photos to make us smile by Jeannie Lindheim
mother and baby
so sweet
ha ha, that was a funny joke!
are they really real? The person with the alpaca farm said I captured their personalities!! and I was soooo far away from them~
beautiful face
The Reverend Juanita Middlebrook - portrait by Joan Columbus
Meeting Now by Jenny Gelfan
The ocean is singing that song,
Curling edge of forever,
Its tracings left on the soft sleeve of land.
Stones resting together,
Sure of gravity, faces touching,
Slow exchange of heat.
Breeze lush with fragrance
Lifts traces of my labor
Beyond the gritty reach.
Sun blushes the horizon,
Leaf whisper, bird solo,
Crescent moon and emerging shawl of stars.
Symphony of this hour,
Promise of tomorrow.
December 2020
Ivan the Grandmaster – pencil sketch on paper by Bob Burchess
Way back in the ’70’s some time, I lived in a little walk-up on the upper west side of NYC, was a chess freak, spending too much time playing blitz speed chess in the local infamous late night chess parlor cafe/coffee house on West 72nd Street….chess masters taking on all comers in the front and other sordid gambling and such in the back….this is a quick study of my friend and mentor, the old Grandmaster, Ivan, Chess King of 72nd Street, I sketched between moves….(I lost most games back then, but not always – BB
“Pirouette – Gliding on Air” – By Jenny Gelfan
Joy, watching birds surround feeders
A kind of uplifting happiness
Like when I watch dance
Choreographed or spontaneous
Solo, duo, even a crowd
Filling my eyes and heart
Swirling in various styles
Synchrony and the lack of it.
Partner dancing satiates me
Its lead and follow
Close then open connection
Familiar sequences and
Moment to moment improvisation
Response, interpretation
Teetering then recovery
Acceleration and liquid stillness.
Chickadees flutter in, an upside down nuthatch
Skittish titmouse, languorous doves
Jewel-bright cardinal in the grass with his dusty mistress
Jay bandits decorate a nearby tree
Woodpeckers – red bellied, hairy, downy
When we’re patient, a raven or crow.
Today the juncos arrived.
Why am I so happy?
November 2020
“Libertée”
by Peggy Brightman
The French sculptor who shaped the clay
for her noble Grecian nose, her massive limbs,
the workmen who poured molten bronze into molds,
imagined into being a goddess
to tower above the ordinary;
a goddess to raise hopes, break slavery’s chains,
strong enough to hold the scales of justice
level, without tilting or falling to her knees.
For years families with young children
visited Lady Liberty, delighted in climbing
her hidden stairs, to look out over the blue
of New York Harbor through her crown.
With massive broken shackles at her feet,
she stands still, as streams of protesters with signs
crush into crowded streets, as police crouch
behind their shields, as poor men of color choke and die,
as brown babies are torn from mothers’ arms, as
people with Arabic names are reviled, targeted.
Even while votes are being counted, the ground shakes
underfoot- her tender bronze skin begins to crack open….
“A Poem of Mine” by Sherry Belisle
It doesn’t take perfection to save even the most delicate of creatures. By no means am I delicate, but, like you and everyone human on the planet, I occasionally need to be rescued. I still, every now and then, need a safe way down.
Experiences give us inspiration like quick breaths. They give us strength like a stone foundation. They give us wisdom like the clarity of the sun. And they also give us brokenness, like shards of glass from a mirror. Once the mirror breaks into pieces, we are empty, and can sometimes better understand ourselves with the broken glass more than with the framed mirror we studied before. If it weren’t for the broken pieces, broken experiences, we would glide forever above, unmindful of the glorious details that show themselves when our feet are on the ground. Disappointment, sorrow and want can be sewn together as a quilt is sewn, and each unique fabric makes us who we are:
Strong in the face of adversity, or perhaps weak.
Wise when intelligence is required, or mindless of resolution. Inspired so that we can move forward, or fear that we cannot.
My broken pieces are deep violet, forest green, navy blue and black. Reds and oranges and yellows have no place there. I have gathered and sewn my guilt, anger and sadness into a beautiful parachute. Whenever I have the need, I weave the straps around me and jump from the clouds, secure that the Spirit will blow into my parachute, slowing my safe descent.
“Autumn Scenes” – photography by Polly Forcier and Jack Nelson
On November 5th Polly and Jack captured these stunning shots of hills, fields, and sky during a morning walk around Lake Runnemede in Windsor.
“Giving the Gift of Music”
“Each Wednesday at 6 p.m., you can hear Spencer’s trumpet echoing across the village, from the steps of the Norman Williams Public Library.” Read the whole article here. Photo by Gareth Henderson
‘The Poetry Squad’
Norwood Long, Bob Burchess, Mary Jeanne Taylor, Richard Schramm (and Danelle Sims not shown), as they appeared in Peg Brightman’s production of the Moving Spirit Dancers/Poetry Tribute to Mary Oliver. This performance was at Artistree and a UU service little over year ago. Photo by Wayne Thompson
October 2020
“Pandemic Angel” by Peggy Brightman
“Leaf Painting” by Peggy Brightman
“Set Her Name in Lights” by Peggy Brightman
( for RBG, d. 9/19/2020)
A new constellation has appeared
from beyond the Milky Way,
a glittering circling necklace
of stars –– “Dissenting Collar.”
Far removed from this sphere
of sorrow and cruelty, our frail jurist
with her outsized love of opera and justice
smiles down on us with brilliant gleam.
She reminds us how a mere human can fly
like superwoman—powered by sheer grit
and wit. Rest in your peaceful turning,
dear Ruth. But if you can, keep on shining
your light down here on earth;
we are sorely in need.
Peggy Brightman
“Paying homage to the humanity of Andrea’s artistry” by Robert Burchess
September 2020
“New York NY 9/11 Revisited” by Robert Burchess
I was there
sitting in my apartment 63rd and Madison
finishing breakfast leftover coffee around 9:00
in the morning watching the news as usual
when I saw something impossible on tv
right in front of me in real time
that just couldn’t be happening
couldn’t be real.
Two planes exploding one after the other
crashing right into the World Trade Center
black smoke and fire bursting out all over
people jumping out of windows quarter
mile high like tiny stick figures
falling out of the sky.
Both buildings shattered suddenly gone
collapsed crumbling all the way to the ground
just three or four little miles downtown
dark burning clouds over all everywhere
panic and the pungent smell of fear.
They closed all exits out of the city
subways buses cars going nowhere
huge crowds huddled below in the streets
didn’t know whether to dare go down
look around or stay inside and hide.
Nobody knew what was going on
figured this was it the end suddenly
out of nowhere goodbye America
the world and all the rest.
Back then if and when I ever got out alive
decided to leave all the cities of my life
live out the dream snow white and green
pristine peaceful Vermont.
So here I am almost twenty years later
an old man now watching the news as usual
finishing breakfast leftover coffee around 9:00
in the morning and another shooting just reported
in some little kids’ school right up here
in God’s country somewhere really near
just over the rainbow.
August 2020
“One Black Cat” By Sherry Belisle, February, 1991
We took Zoocher for a walk on Sunday as we often do. Other people take their dogs for walks; we take our cat. She doesn’t know that it’s not a part of cat culture. Usually we take both Zooch and Ebony, her daughter, but Ebony is such a wanderer, always off to the side investigating this and that, that the walk takes forever, so we try to slip out without her noticing. “Oh!” she thinks to herself. “Look at that fascinating dead branch!” I must see if I can balance myself all the way from tip to tip. There’s a little brook! I wonder what might be floating along its bubbly path.”
I try to instill this love of nature in my own children. Then God gives me this cat and I wonder if there is a limit to appreciating His work.
As we approach the top of Shurtleff Lane on the way home, friends round the corner with their three Labrador Retrievers. Now, we used to raise Labs and no one loves that breed as much as we do, but God created them to tangle with my cat, so I had a sense of immediate future that was going to get everyone nervous in no time.
I scooped up Zooch as quickly as I could, before she had a chance to think to herself. But before either Bob or I could vehemently suggest that our friends grab the collars of their pets, all 3 dogs were at my feet and Zooch was eight feet above road level (I do not exaggerate). Mid air, she turned 45 degrees and leapt for the nearest tree. We watched in fascination as our little cat scaled the trunk with the ease of someone who has done this 1000 times.
“So this is what Zoocher has been practicing all these months,” I remarked to Bob. Since the first week we had her, she has always been scaling trunks. We would calmly be going for a short hike through our woods, when she would suddenly, as if there were imminent danger, race to a tree and climb 2 or 3 feet vertically. We were not expected to be surprised by this. We could tell that she expected us to be proud of this feat. After the first few times, we stopped looking around to where the danger lay for her. Nope, this was just instinctual rehearsal.
She was now 20 feet high, and all 3 dogs were at the foot of the tree, leaping 2 feet into the air, barking and looking like dogs on fox hunts when they’ve caught their prize. Zooch was safe, but not feeling very safe.
The 3 women called their dogs. All three left to continue down Shurtleff Lane. Then one returned, for one last run at the tree. “So there! Black Feline! I might just come back in another minute, or maybe an hour from now. You’d better live in that tree because you’ll never know when I’ll be back!” Then back to his buddies, boasting of his prowess, all 3 of them smirking about their dastardly deed.
We gave Zooch about 5 minutes to calm herself, speaking tenderly, telling her that we understood her trauma and that we would never let anything bad happen to her. (Right! If Zooch hadn’t bounded and the dogs had their way, I really wonder if I could have stood in the way of Mother Nature when she bares fangs.) She was precious to us.
“Ok, Zoochie, ready to come down now? Come on Sweetie, right there is a good branch. We’ll be right here. Come on, you can do it!”
“Come ON, Zooch! It’s been 10 minutes now. You know that big dog won’t return. We won’t let him get at you.”
“ZOOCHER! THIS IS ENOUGH! WE HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO TODAY! LET’S GET DOWN! YOU KNOW THAT YOU LEAP FROM ONE BEAM TO THE OTHER IN THE LIVING ROOM WITHOUT BLINKING! THIS IS ONLY A LITTLE FARTHER. YOU CAN DO THIS . . . NOW LET’S GO!”
She answered with a pitiful tone of voice we had never before heard, “But I caaaan’t! Please don’t make me!”
“I’m getting the ladder, “ Bob announced, and he trudged on down the hill. Zooch looked at me, pleading for sympathy, but sympathy didn’t work after the first 15 minutes. We were beyond persuasion and into frustration.
Bob mounted the ladder, now only 5 feet from her and gently patted the branch we felt would be most appropriate for her descent. “This is it, Zooch” he said. “This one will do it for you. Look, there are little twigs all about it that will help to break the jump. “
She looked at the branch and answered, “Sorry, I don’t like the looks of it. Go call the fire department and get one of their long, long ladders. I have heard that people do this for their pets that they truly love. “
We told her that we knew that wasn’t necessary. That she was capable of coming down herself. We would stay put until she jumped, and it just better be within 2 minutes. Those of you who know cats are on the floor, laughing. I know. One can never tell a cat what to do. One cannot even suggest to a cat what to do in even non-desperate situations. But we had to try. You understand that we had to try.
Thirty minutes later, Molly and Darren joined us. Molly tried her unique “cat talk” which can’t be transcribed to paper, but if I had to describe it, I would say that it sounds like a German speaking baby talk. Darren took his turn on the ladder.
Zooch would turn around on the branch, look at the spot we suggested and moan, “I caaaaan’t!” Finally she decided to try, and she began to rock back and forth to get momentum to jump. “GOOD! ZOOCH! GOOD KITTY! COME ON, YOU CAN DO IT! ALL RIGHT ZOOCHER! GO ZOOCHER!”
Then she stopped and turned around.
Forty five minutes have passed. Cars have driven by, looking to see what these family folk were doing with a ladder up a tree. Zooch kind of blends into the branches, you see.
Molly tried the ladder. Zoocher cootsie-cooed back to her but didn’t budge.
I began to invite birds and squirrels, hoping one would alight the branch we pointed out to Zooch so that she would forget her fear and follow her fascinations with other of God’s woodland creatures.
No takers.
Darren went up the ladder again. Finally she turned around, away from him and headed down the opposite side of the tree, upside down like a nuthatch, claws digging in securely to the trunk. Twenty feet head first.
She allowed us to carry her home. We felt her body shaking and we told her that loved her and that she would be just fine. If it happened again, we hope that she has any tree – and dog – mastered. Us too, for that matter.
“Confidence, like art, never comes from having all the answers;
it comes from being open to all the questions.”
Watercolors by Jeannie Lindheim
July 2020
“Call to Order” By Sherry Belisle
There was to be a gathering of the wood beings.
Mother Fox allowed her bushy red darlings to run about and act like the children they were, but she also kept close watch over them. Meanwhile, Father Fox was in another part of the forest, enticing another vixen for serious play.
Tiny mice, whose lovely ears were close to the land, could give fair warning of the sizes of predators by passing along strident squeaks in morse code.
Everyone judged the chipmunks for taking more nuts and seeds than they needed. The cute little guys didn’t care.
The deer, high above those small creatures, watched for hungry red hawks in order to warn little creatures below. The deer began to look hard for nightly owls dressed in soft, silent feathers. The birds needed a nightly snack, but sleep mostly came to the deer before the owls awakened.
The soft black and white rabbits nibbled at the greenery and hopped about, looking for more. Their noses were known for excellent sniffing. One sat on her haunches, pondering the meaning of life.
Above, the cardinals, red and brown, flitted between the branches of a sugar maple tree. Clearly there was a relationship blooming.
A devoted couple of robins titled their heads to the ground, listening for the movement of worms to bring to their babies in order to help them grow.
A blue jay chirped. Everyone heard him; he was always so loud!
A large gathering of evening grosbeaks dove in and out of a birdfeeder before the Head Honcho asserted himself for the black sunflower seeds.
Finches sang their sweet songs. Everyone knew the words.
Crows interrupted each other, everyone having an opinion about what kind of tool to use.
A raccoon ambled about, looking for a spot of water to wash her hands before dining.
A teen black bear sped through the woods, looking for a date.
Meanwhile, there was an animated conversation going on in the pines. Gray squirrels had lots of gossip to spread. They often talked with their tails.
A beautiful toad with artistic wonder on his back stayed silent. He was doing some deep thinking.
The creatures decided, after all, not to gather for their monthly meeting. They each had their own agenda, and finding out about one more topic to discuss just seemed too much.
“Prompt: It’s Easy” by Sherry Belisle
“It’s Easy!” Someone exclaimed. “Come over here and help us figure out this crossword.”
“I love word games!” pronounced Excited.
Difficult moaned. “Crosswords are always hard. Finding the right words is nearly impossible.”
Antsy was moving from one foot to the other, back and forth, back and forth. “I’m Nervous,” her twin said, with her eyebrows crammed together.
“Aww, it’s just a game,” Silly grinned. “We don’t have to be serious about this.”
Serious asserted, sadly, ”I can’t be anything else.”
“Sure you can!” promised Compassionate. “I’ll help you relax.”
Relax sang, “Don’t worry. Be happy.”
Preoccupied announced, “What? Who is singing? What’s going on?”
“Pay attention!” Angry yelled. He was feeling particularly cross.
Creative said, “I want to make up a word.”
“That’s not allowed,” cried Hostile, Angry’s father. “It won’t work in this game.” He gave Creative a harsh look.
“Now I’m dismayed,” cried Uncomfortable.
Brainy proudly announced, “Antidisestablishmentarianism.”
“You’re intimidating me!” stated Resentful.
“Is sex involved?” asked Aroused.
“Look, look at the clues, everyone!” Focus exclaimed.
Confused bemoaned, “I don’t understand the rules.“
“I could care less,” sighed Indifferent.
“Thanks for inviting me, Someone”, Easy said.
She came to the table and filled in every square.
Barbara Abraham’s mosaics are broken dish or “picassent” mosaics.
THE REAL RAPUNZEL Short Story by Sherry Belisle
Mrs. Ogilvart was frustrated. In her late 30’s, she’d already given birth to 5 boys. Fine boys, really,
Handsome, each in his own way
Smart
Good manners
Ambitious
well, all but the last one, Sir Plunt, who eventually became a stand up comedian. Last child syndrome you know.
Mrs. Ogilvart wanted a girl in the worst way. A girlie girl with clear blue eyes and long eyelashes, hair the color of the sun and a mouth that needed no lipstick. Charming. Beautiful. Intelligent. She would love lace and ballet, play the flute and be the apple of her father’s eye.
The sixth time Mrs. O took the pregnancy test, the miracle happened. She didn’t know then that the baby was a girl, but she still had hope. Her doctor had told her to be prepared. Strange things can happen when you have a baby at 46.
But no, an easy pregnancy, simple birth, and a petite sweet thing that didn’t have the external body parts she was used to identifying. Mrs. Ogilvart was ecstatic. She sang to her baby. Told her all the lovely things that mothers want their daughters to know: “Turn the mattress every 6 months. Moisturize your skin every evening at bedtime. The best deals are always at TJMAXX.
By the time Miss Rapunzel was 5, it became clear to her parents that this daughter was no delicate princess. Oh yes, she let her blond hair grow to her knees. She even permitted her mother to brush it every third morning. Miss R was a tree climber, a frog getter, a mud pie maker. Was she the apple of her father’s eye? More like the onion.She and her friends built forts out of branches and threw dirt bombs at the boys in the neighborhood, including her brothers, who shouldn’t have been surprised that the tomboy effect was simply their gift to her.
One Thursday when Rapunzel was 12, she was playing in the tower and her hair got in the way of the wheels of her toy trucks. She lifted her hair out the window, which seemed a clue to Prince Charming as he was heading over the moat toward the massive front door.
He climbed her hair up up up. Finally he was at the top and when Rapunzel turned around, she didn’t recognize this handsome young man. “Did you bring your own dump truck?” she asked.
Well, Prince Charming’s face was all apuzzle and he became speechless at such a request. Rapunzel noticed that he was dressed in finery not appropriate to vehicle play. She grabbed the scissors and quickly cut her hair to chin length, giving Prince Charming no option but to fall to the castle’s lawn.
A cousin in a land far far away fit the bill for becoming queen. Although she was a Beauty, she did sleep a lot. Rapunzel grew up to run a hardware store, and it was said that it was the very finest in the land.
The Fourth by Peg Brightman
Tis of thee— dreamland of living free…
Blues-singing, blue-nosed, blue-stockinged,
blue-in-the-face, battered black-and-blues stand,
kneel under blue stars, dream of blue heaven.
Red-baiting, red-lining, red-blooded red-hats
packing heat— oh so sweet— love those tweets—
I’ll see you in the ICU… sweet dreams…
White-sheeted ghosts whistle worn-out tunes
against the wind’s turn, weaponize monuments…
history is whose story to tell…?
Wash down footlong franks with beer;
ring our ancient bell.
Art by Robert Burchess
June 2020
Sketches and Photo by Robert Burchess
May 2020
From the Thicket by Peggy Brightman
From the thicket, the robin’s song—
chirp, chirp, chirrup– keeps on breaking
over us, determined to smooth over,
to mend all that’s broken in this world–
his hesitating song tries again and again
to make low every hill, exalt every valley,
make straight the crooked, plane the rough–
chirp, chirrup, cheer our sour, sagging spirits.
He welcomes spring despite the flood warnings,
despite dying bees, poisoned slag, clear-cut forests.
He sings despite the fawn’s death beside Route 4;
despite the grief choked corridors of hospitals.
From the thicket this morning, the robin’s
broken song keeps flowing—his notes
weave themselves into a bright garment
we wrap around our shoulders.
April 2020
“Life” by Carol Egbert
April 3, 2020
As I walk around the village each morning, new thoughts arrive in my brain.
Today’s thought:
Life is all around and its signs appear no matter the challenges and changes winter has presented.
New shoots of old plants push up through frozen soil, the yellow/green of life is reappearing, new and unexpected challenges, piles of icy snow, unexpected challenges like rocks that have been pushed into new places, present challenges to be grown around.
We are all strong, Spring will come here for each of us, life is with us all.
The birds begin to appear and add their songs.
Time passes in the same way for each of us.
Sitting by the window communing with the cactus [brought from the high school greenhouse a long time ago]
by Pam Ahlen
how much I’ve needed this
coming to a halt
breathing into who I am
what I’ve become
where I want to be
Jung said who looks inside awakens
how lovely
the sun everywhere still smiling
my cactus six feet tall
all that I thought I knew now ancient history
The Alternate by Polly Forcier
We are so absorbed by Corona Virus
Do we forget there are other ways to die?
Cancer, “the big C”, we called it.
I’ve known a few.
My childhood friend, Pat
Swaddled in her hospital garb,
Husband hovering protectively,
Squeezing her shoulder,
Receives her loved ones graciously.
She points to the fuzz on her head
And invites us to laugh as she says…
“Just like a baby bird”.
Thinking of her now, I remember how she said,
When Ouisie, her mother died,
She believed her spirit was in the bird
She released that morning
From the screened- in porch.
And then, a Heavenly sign,
As she meditated in the glowing sunset:
A lone goose flew over the farm field
And another arose from the grasses to join it,
Honking. Her mother and father,
Once again united.
This page is updated monthly.
