FINISHED THE DAY

art by Kim Northrope

(all the prompts and exercises that led to this poem follow the poem...)

Finished, the day's deliberations as twilight turns
the sky a fulsome blush
Finished, the busyness of life as families flee home
for reconnection, peace
Finished, for the nonce, all strife mentioned;
now put away
Now is the time for recharging, reclaiming
that of you that needs rescuing
Remembering who it is you really are,
the why of you and what you do


Miz Quickly Exercises  from August 16th 2014 - Quickly, Warm Up

Exercise of the first part (use each of the words in a "poetic" stand alone line)

Drink deep of dawn and slake sleep's left-over dreams.
Her world contained in one sparkling tear-drop reflected his.
Sometimes fishing brings the solitude found with singing sardines.
No sound is more needed than that of a baby's laugh.
Her writing spilled lines and letters like an overfull abecedarian's knapsack.
There is nothing so terrible as a wish become regret, once time beats a tick too fast.
For a cemetery, it was surprisingly filled with life, herds of jack-rabbits hopping everywhere.
She dangled from the overhang, hanging by the strap on her purse, finished.
It's not every day you hear your name mentioned in a valedictory speech and a eulogy almost simultaneously.
Those apostles, they had to be twelve, didn't they? A dozen - not a Baker's Dozen...a true dozen.
Is there anything as haunting as the call of the loon?
The bag tipped and soon there were oranges rolling every which way.

Exercise of the second part: take six of the words and write two lines with each of them. Two lines that work together. Use your word once, or twice (or three times if you can manage it artfully)

In her whole life, she had needed no-one and nothing; wanted nothing so much as not to be needed. Now, with a baby, hers alone it seemed - it was round the clock, twenty-four seven being needed.
He was surprised to find he was so old-school but the proof was in the hand-written letters, years of them bound with cross-grain ribbon. Love letters, pen-pal letters -- even copies of letters he'd written to buddies way back when...yep, old-school, for sure.
The man wondered if there was such a thing as a terrible-metre, some way to measure the degree of awful that was going on. He pictured a large thermometer-type gizmo with 9/ll being up near the high end of terrible and the Hindenburg being...hmm, he realized he didn't know where to put that burning ship, nor the Titanic, nor the paltry terrible that went on in everyday life.
There was life in the old wolf yet, she thought, watching her aging border-collie cross bound ahead through the blizzard. Wait up, she tried sending him telepathic messages, the life left in my legs is not quite as lively as yours seem to be...how that always led to thinking about life-span, she found herself musing.
Taking down trees was one of her least favourite tasks but she was almost finished with the weeping birch. Finished, was what it was, she found herself thinking as she cut up the branches...brittle and dead, ready to be burned in her fireplace come the winter.
Was it enough to be mentioned at the end of life, she wondered, sitting quietly in the half-empty church, listening to the eulogy for her friend. She guessed a heartfelt eulogy was more than a mention really but were any words enough?
Her mother was delighted when her brother was ordained; after all, he had the call, as she told anyone who would listen. "A calling, Mom," she couldn't help correcting her. "He has a calling...you make it sound like he keeps getting a telephone call."

Exercise of Third Part - If you have time for it: Use three words in a poem of six to ten lines (Finished the Day - the poem at the top is the answer to this exercise)

BENEATH SKIES

(Woman in Fields by Musin Yohan)

She will bend

beneath skies

fraught with

fallen angels

Her sight stolen

as soon as she

strains to see

past the edge

of now

Beyond

the parameters

of yesterday.

And in her

gown woven

from memories

as solemn

as prayer

or baptism

she will

wander blindly

through fields

stripped bare

of growing

things...

Picking her

way carefully

through rutted rows

carrying kindling

bits high

upon her head

Doomed to

endless traipsing,

endless

carrying on.

ALL I WANT IS A GOOD OLD PEACE MARCH

So they came to me all fired up, with that look in their eyes

That I remember so well, that I haven’t seen in mine for years
And their words spilled out on top of each other as they fair
Bubbled over with excitement as they contemplated this new idea
They had – well they weren’t quite that naive – they knew it wasn’t
Really brand new but they also knew it hadn’t been done on a large
Scale for some time and they think they’ve figured out a way to do it big
And when they said big, they meant huge – they said, we want to march
For Peace, oh and Non-Violence too, if we’re going to do it– let’s do it

So we put the kettle on and some of us opened wine or beer, and I settled
Back and started listening, then started reading their material; then
After a very short while, I picked up my phone and called a few close friends
Told them they better get on over to my house, the peace train was about
To run again and we needed to get on board I thought, but I wanted more
Than just a second opinion, I wanted a third, a fourth and more, if you please
And I don’t think I imagined it, the ripple of excitement I heard, just behind
The first “mmmhmms?” that were definitely tinged with years of scepticism
Bred of cynicism and age, in my view, perfectly understandable, having come
From there myself – however, when I started tossing out numbers and names

Of some of those, already signed on, there were these little pockets of silence
And then, inevitably, the acquiesces - the agreeing to come over for just a bit;

In less than thirty minutes, even those that lived the furthest away, had arrived.

As is true of many a fine idea, this one was simple at its core
A World March for Peace and Non-Violence, that would kick off in New Zealand
On the anniversary of Ghandi’s birth, October 2 – and after wending its way
From and continent to continent, and country to country– the march would end
On January 2, at the base of the Andes Mountains in Argentina
When I asked how many people would actually march all those places,
They told me, it would be a symbolic core group of between 20 and 100 people
Then, one of them took out his laptop and showed me the map
With all the countries signed on and explained how marches will take place

along the way every single day of the three months between October and January
Every day, somewhere in the world, sometimes more than one place
There will be a march or a sporting event or a country fair or the opening of an art gallery
And each time one of these things happens,  it will be done in the name of this march

Then, he showed me their newsletters and more people already endorsing the march

Admittedly, I was impressed – it’s not every day you see the Dalai Lama,

and the President of Chile,
Yoko Ono and Desmond Tutu cheek by jowl with Viggo Mortensen, Art Garfunkel 

and Amnesty International...
So - obvious question – what do you need with me – it seems this is going well
Well indeed, they nodded, but not so much in this part of our country
Besides, we’ve heard stories about – back in the day
My friends are exchanging knowing looks a few chuckles
I wonder who’s sold me out; decide it might’ve been my kids ...

Anyway, they continue, we don’t want to be left behind, we want to mobilize,

do our part, you know?
Of course I know – remember well, living at the other end of this country
And travelling to New York at times to march, although Toronto wasn’t bad for protests
In the 60’s and 70’s and it looks like it’s going to be holding its own again this go round
But, I agree, there is no reason the capital city of this fair province cannot lead the way
For the west – not B.C. of course – they probably know more about parades then the rest of us
Put together – but for the prairies to the mountains – we will pull it together
We will overcome, whatever there is to overcome, and we will march in the name of peace
Ahh – and I thought being a grandma was going to be exciting...who knew this other was coming?

This was written during the run-up to the March for Peace and Non-Violence, several years ago,an incredibly successful world-wide project that did unite all the continents, hundreds of countries and cities around the planet and garnered interest and conscious-ness raising in such diverse groups as professional soccer teams in Europe and elementary schools in the Philippines...as mentioned in the poem - it began on Gandhi's birthday on October 2nd in New Zealand and ended on January 2nd in Argentina. (this site was chosen partially because it was the birthplace of the founder of the march and partly because it was a natural end to circumnavigating the globe.)

TREES DYING IN ICE

  

In the photo the girl is taking a picture

An old-fashioned camera held to her eye

And all about her a fairyland of crystal;

Trees, bushes, buildings outlined

Even in black and white, everything

Shimmers in the sunlight, everything

Glimmers and sparkles like crystal

It is only after careful examination

That the eye registers the awkward

Un-natural angle of tree-branches

And whole rows or trees lying down

As if shot by firing squads and all of them

Iced over thickly until it is impossible to tell

Where one stops and another begins

The ice-storm came in the dark of night

With the winds high, howling wildly

And sleet sheeting down in copious amounts

The ice built up, layering the wood

Until its groans could be heard even

Over the storm’s cacophony – wood dying

Groans and moans deeply but in the end

Booms as loud as thunder when the ice

Takes its life – whether amputating limb

By large limb, or going right to the heart

And chopping it down at the trunk

Ultimately, the sound so like that of a rifle

Report ends with old growth forest being

Brought to its knees and no matter

How beautifully the storm dresses the result

The damage is fatal and irreparable

SIFTING THROUGH YOUR LIFE

Finally tomorrow, we hold your memorial

And it's time, past time really;  I don't regret

The three weeks between your death

And the day we remember you -

For various reasons it was a necessity

But now, we need to have the thing

At least do this part of the process

So we can move forward, I know you

Would agree

So - after a week of writing out abbreviated

Versions of your life to fit with obituary stylings

And still honour your wishes, plus a memorial card

And an Order of Service - all similar but none

Exactly the same, we are on the cusp of ready

But not quite; now there is the business

Of assembling a tasteful grouping of items

For a table to be placed in the narthex at the church

Some things that will be representative of you

and your life but not overly so, and nothing tacky

Something that memorial attendees may gaze

Upon before and after the service whilst waiting

A turn to sign the visitor's guest book, proof

Positive that yes, they did indeed show up

For this, or before they queue up for coffee, tea

Or sweets, after the service, prepared

By your lovely Ladies Guild who insisted

On doing everything "because it was no trouble"

Or maybe while they wait to speak with family

Yours is not large and depending on crowd size

It may take time if one wants to chat for any length

Of time

So - what of your eight-seven years would you find

Appropriate for this table? Your eldest grandchild

Has an inspirational thought and one we all

Agree on - for Christmas she bought you a digital

Camera frame, one you regrettably did not live

Long enough to enjoy - she offers to download

Pictures of you and your family to run continuously

During the period we are at the church - we all concur

You had mentioned you might like your book on display

And of course we'll honour that wish - you were,

After all, a published author - and your book saw

Two different runs - both versions will be displayed

With some photos of you as a celebrity author

We were prouder of you then probably than any

Other time - your stint as "The Doll Lady" was such

A wonderful time and made more so because

You took it upon yourself to speak out against

Racism and you did it with your book and your talks

In such a way that school kids understood and "got it"

And you never made money from all that speech-making

And travelling - only the rare honorarium - and did your book

Ever make royalties? Probably not enough to cover

Your cross-Canada research trips but you so enjoyed

Both the work and the results - a good time in your life

Maybe a few photos of your church in its infancy

For only a very few new members would not know

That this church where your memorial is being held

Is quite literally "your" church - when you moved

To Edmonton and found out this group were meeting

In a school but had a parcel of land left to them

In a will - land they were about to lose if they didn't

Get busy and build on it - what did you do?

Of course - contacted the powers that be - got permits

Marshalled those that could do such things

Got the hole dug and in less than a year ...

"Grandma's Church" was no longer meeting in the school

Not something we can put on the table

But certainly something that typifies your determination

And initiative - although, it won't happen tomorrow

Because it's still winter here and the ground

Is frozen hard as cement but - when my Dad died

You decided you wanted him near you - got your church

Fathers or deacons - whatever they're called

To approach the city and get the land around the building

Consecrated, for heaven's sake (no pun intended)

They (the city) wouldn't go as far as making it an actual cemetery

Which was fine with you - you didn't want gravestones

There anyhow - feel it invites vandalism - how sad is that

Just wanted to be able to bury Dad's ashes beneath a tree

Near one of the side doors of the church - we all have a map

Then add yours there when you die which, of course

Means - as soon as the ground is workable, we will

Be planting you there as well ...

And finally, after that, I guess - we will be done ...

Anthologies My Work Has Appeared in (at least 3 times) THIS YEAR

While I haven't published a book myself this year, I have had the good fortune to have my work included in several on-line publications and a number of anthologies.Within the three below, I have over ten poems.

http://www.amazon.com/Prompted-An-International-Collection-Poems/dp/1907375945/ref=pd_sim_b_2

http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Dark-Pearl-Ketover-Prilik/dp/1907375759/ref=pd_sim_b_1

http://www.amazon.com/Poetic-Bloomings-Marie-Elena-Good/dp/148029246X/ref=pd_rhf_dp_p_img_2

It’s About Time

Salvador Dali had a thing for clocks and watches

Letting time run off the canvas in a surreal fashion

Giving way to nightmarish visions and new meaning

To the fairy-tale beginnings of, ‘once upon a time’

Even before Jim Croce died before his time

Dali was dreaming of ways to put in time or rather

Put time in a bottle or some other container

Or so it seems if one studies his work long enough

Taking the time it takes to understand the artist

He, a painter of his time, was considered

Quite the trail-blazer, a man before his time

Some said - and others, one for his time, so it

Was difficult to decide which it was in a timely fashion

Although many dismissed him out-of-hand in no time

Refusing to consider that even tinged with craziness

Dali’s time had come and his art was just in time

For a public long stultified by less interesting fare

Dusk Dreams

In that netherland

at day’s end when

the sun kisses the tips

of the waves

Good-night and

drowsiness reigns

A drifting in and

drifting out

of reality occurs

and sights seen

like bats on the wing

being ridden

by lithe silver fairies

are commonplace

Once a dragonfly

as big as my foot

set down right near

my resting book

Then, seemingly bored,

balanced carefully

on the edge

of my glass,

began sipping

my wine through

a green-grass straw

It next put on my

glasses, scanned the page

I’d been reading

before winging off

through the gloam...

There’s just such a

somnolence settles on

me at twilight that

makes it impossible

to move

Especially when

the enchanting

begins to beguile

Why on earth

would I want to bestir?

S.E.Ingraham©

A version of this poem appears in The 2009 Stroll of Poets Anthology

MEMORY PALES

Powders pale flung with abandon

Covered cheeks made rosy from the ocean's spray                         

Or indiscretions erotic deep in the tall grasses

When off the path we may have strayed

Memories swing between melancholy

And golden when recollecting those early days

S.E.Ingraham

A BLACK-WEBBED CLAW

The bluffs in all their pristine cathedral-like wonder

Call with a persistence that haunts me day and night

In that shadow time that is neither dreaming  nor waking

I go there and crawl through the mud on a beach stained indigo

The stones of my childhood run black with blood and tears

An old willow trembles,  weeps dead snakes and impossible dreams

And tiny lighted vessels set off from the shore with all the people

I have ever loved aboard and waving under the light

Of a sickly moon, a double corona'd moon so lopsided

I wonder if it's the moon at all and not just some imposter nailed

Into the sky and in the time it takes to wonder this

The tiny vessels  drift so far out in the lake; I can't reach

Them;  now they are ablaze and all aboard are screaming—

I keep brushing at my face as if spider webs are blinding me

If I can just get free of them I will wake up and everyone will be saved.

S.E.Ingraham©

HONOURING THE DEAD AND ENCOUNTERS

Parallel universes aligning ignoring the spot

On Venus purposely - to honour the master

Everything else mattered not, not even

The recently retired spectacular moon twirling

Uselessly in the pale used up sky reflecting

Upon itself ... rivalries great were set aside

So trivial hates would not be acknowledged

Even in passing as all gathered for this send off

In less time than one might think light travels

They assembled on the innermost edge of the known

Universes in as many deep as there are rings

Of some little or unknown planets, mostly the latter

Earthlings, busy with their own preparations

For the well-known personage were oblivious

To the ones amassing in great numbers just beyond

The beyond - they had little idea of what was coming

On the third night after the great man's death

All of the non-humans had arrived and were ready

To do their part - since forever they had known

Once he ceased to breathe, he desired to come to them

And now, they wanted nothing but to honour his wish

As soon as the moon acquiesced and went darker

Than dark, they spun the earth quiet, drifted inside

Acquired the corporeal human and his soul-self

Slipped back to the outer edges, realigned moon

Planets, earth and all else - bowed to enemies

And friends alike and ferried the master home

Earthlings awoke surprisingly refreshed for the memorial

Paid homage to the man at his closed casket service

Went back to their lives never realizing their close

Encounters with the three hundred trillion kinds ...

S.E.Ingraham©

                

Deus Ex Machina Redux

Through my ear buds comes

this message

Listen has the same letters

as silent

Then—

nothing

I squint at my little teal

music maker

The screen is

blank

Must need

recharging

Damn

There are over four

hundred

songs

Loaded on this bit

of technology

No good to me

now

Are they?

S.E.Ingraham©

Last Night I Heard Africa Drumming

In an ordinary community hall

In the south-central section of the city

On one of the longest days of the year

They gathered.

Many of them from here:

Aboriginal, Métis, French and English Canadians,

And many of them from the Dark Continent:

Ghanaian, Angolan, Somali, Zimbabuen

We were raising money for a drought and poverty-stricken

Hospital in Western Ghana, and doing it in styleic

To say the hall was filled to overflowing

Would not be an exaggeration—but the real

Fulfillment came from the sound ...

As a little-travelled Canadian white woman

My understanding of African drumming

Was pretty much limited to what I saw on TV

And in movies from Hollywood; even specials

On National Geographic did not do justice

To the splendour of real drumming

The likes of which we heard last night

First, one drummer would start and he alone

Would be powerful and loud and rhythmic

In ways that are hard to define,

but

Then another would do a counter-beat

And another would join in and layer his

Distinctive drum either on top or in step

Until sometimes as many as ten drummers

Were making this remarkable sound

All of them different and all the same

Transporting many of us to Africa or to dance

Or both

It was not hard to imagine being in the jungle

In the dark around a fire, hearing the beat

Of these drums playing long into the night,

Or maybe for several days or nights

So mesmerizing is the intensity of music

That is just drumming—and I do not mean

To diminish it in the least by saying ‘just’

In fact, it's the opposite –that drums alone

Make such compelling music enthralls me

Thrills me, makes me want to move

As I noticed it did almost everyone

In attendance at this function

Yes, last night I heard Africa drumming

And began to understand her mystery

Just a little bit better and why

We need to keep trying with her;

Mama Africa, we hear you, we do

I found myself promising to try

Harder to help her and I will.

S.E.Ingraham©

Coda: Of crows, dragons, angels and swans

On the roof a cacophony loud enough

to wake the deadly, and me

Murderous damned crows

tap-dancing thunderous as dragons

They shimmy across the shingles

down to the eavestroughs where

they're sipping rain-water

and mountain-ash berries collected,

fermented to a fine natural exquisite wine

No wonder they're in no hurry to go

I raise the blind to squint them gone

but of course they have their own

flashy feathered abstract ideas about

timely leaving; they are oily black, spangling

ethereal black angels up on my roof

I lay back, my head aching from their sound,

and their beauty

Still, I wish them gone

Imagine folding each one carefully

into a perfect black origami swan

But instead of sending them aloft or aground

I know I'd have them shelved, quieted at last.

S.E.Ingraham©

At Dusk

At dusk on the stoops

Mothers broken, buried

Beneath babes too many

Weary to the marrow

Of their souls, hum songs

Bloody sorrowful songs

Staggering from the drink

Or their latest addiction

Crying over another mate

Gone to the store

For smokes

For good

And another bun in the oven

Same old story

It's destiny

S.E.Ingraham©

THE TASTE OF COPPER

His face is still the face I love

But his eyes are weeping blood

Great clotted tears are plinking

Into his cupped hands as he stumbles

Towards me, his shoulders curved

Around his body unnaturally

I reach to touch him but my hand

Is not my hand - a small snake's head

Appears at the end of my arm

Begins to sway hypnotically

As it nears his head, its tiny forked

Tongue flickering close to his forehead

And it's as if I cannot control

This snake that is my hand but not

I open my mouth to warn my love

But nothing but old pennies spill out

The snake turns to look at me

Its eyes the colour of used snow

I close my mouth - try not to watch

See only, serpent's jaws yawning wide

I close my eyes tight.

S.E.Ingraham©

Mirror, Mirror

image: Duane Michals

Through the years the woman looking back

At me from my mirror has been so changeable

As to be unrecognizable from time-to-time

By those nearest and dearest, and even by me

The early years, before my twenties, are blurry

But I was in the fashion business so I have

A photographic record and can look at it

And say, oh – so that’s who I was back then

After I married, I would often look in the mirror

And depending on the day, say to the woman

I found there – you are the luckiest girl alive, or,

What have you done? Where can you run?

There were times when I would stumble into

My bathroom afraid to turn on the light, frightened

To confront the crone I knew was awaiting me

In the mirror there, especially if she had been there long

Oftentimes, I would glimpse her accidentally

And she would rail at me to end it all and I would

Let her, listening intently, then crawling away

To whatever hidey-hole I’d fashioned for a time

The crone would never leave me willingly, on her

Own – I would have to run, most often to a hospital

 Away from my mirror, for a time, to oust her

From my house – then, when I saw a semblance

Of myself reflected back – I knew I could return

To family, to sanity – to try again, and I would

Reinvent the woman I thought I should be

Becoming wife, mother - trying always to stay sane

After many, many years – I found the mirror less

Intimidating, the crone appearing more infrequently

Or maybe I became used to her and familiarity gave

Me a certain advantage – I knew I could beat her

Or even learn to live with her and so I did

Now she and I are one – we try to live together

In a kind of truce, with a sort of wisdom; I know

She can take me down if she puts her mind to it

She knows I am stronger than I used to be

And don’t go to ground nearly as quickly

Or without putting up a fight, as I did in the

Good old days —we are making it work somehow

There is an old adage about living your life

In such a way so that you can face yourself,

Look at yourself in a mirror — I get that now

I’m finally able to do it, at least today I can.

S.E.Ingraham©

The Last Wolf

Deep in the dense old growth forest

Before the new moon has fully set

A lone wolf, reluctant to stray

Becomes entranced by a murmur on the wind

His senses are answering some innate call

El lobo, dark and smoky as soot, lopes

Down through the foothills, across fields

And onto the cement that is the city

The closer he gets to civilization, people

The more cumbersome his winter-thick pelt

Still, his step is unfaltering as he hurries on

Not knowing why or when he will stop, or if

The last of his species knows not how to lie down

Will run out his life 'til it's done or is taken ...

S.E.Ingraham©

His Eyes Were Serenely Blue

Hospital walls glow sickly mint-green

Late afternoon sunshine slants sneaky shadows

Across dirty tile floors; floors I’d expect to find clean

Spotlessly sterile in fact in this environment

This long, broad hallway is filled with light

And hilliness, slopes, inclines

My father, dressed in brown, a sienna brown suit

I’ve never seen before, has just finished hugging me;

I am reeling, faint with it ...

He rarely hugged anyone—not even me, his favourite—

As I stand in the basin of the slopes, I watch Dad pivot,

Then walk hurriedly up the incline going away from me

When he reaches the top, he turns

His eyes are clear, serenely blue

There is no pain there, it’s plain

He smiles broadly, waves at me

I muster up my own smile and wave back

Grinning, he turns away sharply,

Walks out of my view

There is something off about this

But I can’t quite put my finger on it

The niggling remains after I awaken

And all the next day as well

It’s like a name you’re trying to remember,

Or a word you can’t think of

It’ll be “right on the tip of your tongue”

And then - boom - gone, seemingly irretrievable.

It wasn’t until I saw a child struggling

with his crutches later that day, that it finally  hit me

All my life, my Dad, so uncomplaining, it was easy to forget -

Had a pronounced limp;

He’d been severely crippled as a child

And in later years, he was slowly resigning himself

To having to use canes and other “assists”,

as he put it.

As fate would have it, lung cancer

put paid to any of those notions

Dad had more to worry about than

walking sticks, when he got sick

And he was in so much pain

in such a short period of time

He didn’t do much moving at all

in the few months left, after his diagnosis

The issue of pain management

was the only thing that mattered at the end

And his trouble getting around became part

of his history, by the time he died.

But in my dream, Dad was vital again,

and he was walking tall, striding really

and with no sign of a limp, no hesitation

to his step even

I rewound the dream-reel in my mind,

picturing him pivoting and strolling

briskly up the incline of the hospital hallway

Then turning abruptly at the top,

smiling widely — he was inordinately proud

of keeping all his own teeth—

I thought that’s what the smile was about...

Ah, but, his eyes were so serenely blue

As he waved good-bye to me

—of course, I should have seen it—

Not only was he pain-free,

he could walk normally, briskly

Probably run if he chose to;

I like to think he was off to some rink

to try out ice-skating.

He’d always wanted to.

S.E.Ingraham©

 This poem is based on an actual dream that I had about a year after my Dad died, and most of the details are true. His hip was broken when he was six years old by kids giving him the “royal bumps” at his birthday party. The break wasn’t discovered for almost a week (I cannot imagine the pain!)when my Grandmother was helping him bathe,  and consequently, he spent the next four years in a body cast and in the hospital. He was told he would never walk again, never even tie his shoes, in fact, he would never likely do much of anything. He became a determined, patient little man, probably the most patient person I ever knew. As far as I know, the only thing he couldn’t do was ice-skate - and still, he taught both my brother and I how to do that as well.  Yes, he’s one of my personal heroes, and I still miss him greatly, almost seventeen years after his death.

*photo - my Dad's namesake and great-grandson, also with serenely blue eyes, who he unfortunately never got to be meet 

je ne sais quoi

the meal, French

the sunset and the light,

all about Tuscany;

a combination admittedly

difficult to put into words

but, heady with wine

and love, we tried—

speaking long into

the night, recapping

a holiday not to be

forgotten; the fields of

sunflowers near Nice

turning their heads as

if just for us, and not the sun;

the scent of the tiny éclairs—

we never can recall their

names— in that tiny place

near Vence; the art, oh

the art—too hard to pick

favourites but the

Pieta still brings tears—

groping for words,

a phrase, something—

Of course—leave it to the

French

je ne sais quois

S.E.Ingraham©