IMAGINARIUM

I Cry

2011-10-14T16:19:00.000-05:00

They don't hear me.
The words pour from my heart.
With a knife they slice them apart.

It's not true--it's not you!

Inside I bleed.
They salve and pet their pride for they
determine what stands and what is right.

They trample the man in ordinary life.
They praise each other.

While mortals bleed and die on life's byways.

The Great Wide Asleep

2011-10-01T09:06:00.000-05:00

Nestled in the great wide asleep
golden in the cusp
A spiral of songs drifted to me
and in their rivers I belong
Translucent the mood
nothing is veiled
With eye's clear focus
The gentle rustle of slumber's soft timbrel
fell upon the floor like padded slippers
Translucent the mood
perplexity turned to whisper and thus was subdued
There is no end to trace beginning's rupture
No path for which to aspire
like a sunken tome
time's forever lost in the chasm of the asleep
Petal to metal, concentration does not break
Wrapped, entranced
the slumber enthralls and beckons
the awaken to fall once more

Comfort

2011-09-29T22:51:00.000-05:00

Comfort I pray this tender heart

where love beats

but its walls are fragile thin

spare not kind words

that could breach the deeping

wound gouged within

Lavish with forgetfulness the missteps

For the love that beats these tender walls

seep like tears that quickly

disappears

Moments

2010-09-20T12:00:00.002-05:00

I look prettier. My lips rosier.

‘Tis the touch of love upon the skin.

The dew of affection reflected from the eyes.

My glow is revived.

Topsy

2010-09-13T12:00:00.002-05:00

I wait upon a breath

for wings to lapse overtime

conventions, convictions

life foundations

I wear them & chisel them

What happens when the world

your world turns upside down

What trust can you place

in topsy-turvy space

Implications too heavy

to deny I composed a

draft in my consciousness

and drift to midnight realms

Your words emblazoned

a torch that scarred the wood

I understood

for to be kind and to love

prevails the blackest of veils

Dare I Dream

2010-09-06T12:00:00.001-05:00

Dare I dream the dream I cannot tell?

What once was closeness is distilled and

I can’t tell if you can hear.

Dare I speak the dreams I live?

Through garbled sounds silence emerge;

I dare not trust my voice to words.

Refuse to Dance

2010-08-31T12:00:00.000-05:00

Soft and weeping is the mourner’s

symphony a dirge of black

costumery soulless and hallow

I don my glass mask

Should you not dance? I fear your

happiness that you do not dance.

Heavy sighs do I bear

sorrow of your soul lessened by the

sad fate that you participate.

Should I oblige you by my happy?

Do I breathe my existence for your

ease? Am I but to serve your

conscience and neglect my own?

I fear you astray. Beware the

darken mis-steps of your path.

Come back, I pray. It is never too

late. Misgivings perchance happen;

save your fate.

I dance not you say. I sing not nor

do I laugh with abandon of one

enveloped in ignorance. That bliss

is no longer afforded me. Mine

eyes have seen what yours have not.

Do not misread my solemnity for an

ineptitude to gaiety. You see me

not, neither do you know me. For

had you but a grasp of life’s journey

you would withhold your tongue

and offered your hand.

Awake

2010-08-30T12:00:00.000-05:00

Wakefulness is a song.

that necessitates the bringing along

of abrupt openness

Yes, I am awake.

My arms are burdened with weights.

I cannot perpetuate this bliss of ignorance.

I am awake for

slavery is slavery

when my mind is shackled.

Do I hear that still?

The still that wills me to propel

beyond these blasted four walls

that stare me in their

wicked beige

Yes, I am awake.

I see the pantomime.

I cannot perpetuate the bliss of ignorance.

Where be the stairs that lead to sleep?

The doors are barred

I cannot escape

being awake.

Bleeding

2010-08-23T12:00:00.001-05:00

Oh!--the bliss we forsake when we

in chains

bind our happiness to pursue

the fleeting

of flighty things

the mirage contentment brings

corked in a bottle

shiny and new

a fragrance never before endued

a price

a purchaser’s paradise

oh!--what sacrifice--

a vapor here and soon

dissolved

spend not your blood

your finite blood

for when you bleed

your soul spills

never to be regained

Tax Free Weekend

2010-08-23T00:10:00.000-05:00

Local Wal-Mart a jumbled mess.

Full moon and parking lot.

Bright green avocados hard as baseballs sit in bins.

Naked shelves--scant spaghetti sauce.

Doritos gone. No bangles and baubles.

Mud streaks aisle of protractors, pens and notebook paper.

Mad rush. Woman stockpiles cart with groceries.

Empties it on conveyer belt.

Halle Berry on Vogue magazine.

Black wool replace Burberry trenches.

Julianne Moore poses nude with lion cub

pressed against her chest and expensive handbag.

More people stream through doors.

Cashiers tired, their jaws clenched.

I hurry home and try to text. Green lights all the way.

Walmart is nearly cleaned out.

I bet!

I crave nachos. He craves mashed potatoes.

Good night; I’ll talk with you tomorrow.

Remember Me

2010-08-21T17:04:00.000-05:00

Remember me...

...after well-drunk cups of tea

...after rose-aired hospitality

Remember me...

...past night’s repose

...past the breath of dawn’s last close

beneath the pale street lamp

dewy moss and painted glass

soft percussions

faint reductions

please, remember me

Remember me

when time doth tell

that we no longer care-free

the roads no longer playful

the days less hopeful

Remember me

when winter’s wake

leave our bones to shake

and dust to dust we float away

remember me in that sacred place

The Wait

2010-06-02T12:00:00.002-05:00

In the twinkle periwinkle of night's
   soft kiss
In the bask of the velvet black moon-drop
   sea
Out on the balcony I wait for thee

Stars like pearls effervescent
   opalescent shimmer
atop canopies of orange blossoms

Time evades I count days until your
breath I taste again
   Not in phantoms of dreams
   but in flesh warm and moist

I wait atop the trees until you call
   out for me
And then to you I run

Searching Happiness

2010-06-01T12:00:00.003-05:00

The last of dreams is elusive.
   Flighty and airy I search for your face.
   Twists and turns
   journeys through life don't pan as expected.
I am not the cartographer. I designed not the
   geography. My life was given as a gift.
   My birth was blessed by God.
   A citizen of a land where liberty I can partake
   & pursue my own happiness.
Why is selfishness attributed with seeking
   happiness? Adhere to generational principles
   & practice what has been done.
Is this life mine own to live? Or will I always be
   a child within my ancestor's shadows?

HWY 84

2010-05-31T12:01:00.001-05:00

It is stark this land less populated by people.

Balded hills of taupe gray fields

houses and squat silos, twiggy trees yet nude

punctuated by slanted telephone poles.

It is the land of the vast empty

where winds do roam untethered & unnoticed.

Solitude lives here amongst the sagging roofs

homes long abandoned.

It is an island unto itself

apart from civilization

a sense of loss & forgottenness.

We meander along the artery carved between

the hills. No sentries of trees greet us. No

electric lights to illuminate us down this

stretch this corridor of West Hwy 84.

Tomorrow

2010-04-23T23:27:00.000-05:00

take my hand

together we’ll dance

through the night

so full and bright with

stars

sing along

you and I were meant to be

never far you still beat

within my heart

come along

together we’ll glide

through the clouds

so full and bright with

dreams

stay with me

together we’ll soar

high above the

impossibilities

Blurred Dream

2010-04-14T07:34:00.000-05:00

in the embers of soft gentle slumber

i stumble into the arms

of another

deftly diminishing

memories led astray

i forgot you

frozen stillness

suffocated sounds

unveiled the path

my feet to tread

further and farther

past night’s remembrance

and the face of your image

‘til the road behind

vanished

a putrid scent

awashed

all traces of recollection

vast into the unknown’s

bosom the road before me

secured

leeching and pressing

my way was made

oblique

the past erased yet

remorse awakes

i have lost my way

there is no solace for

the forsaken

i lost you in slumber

and awoke to another

Where be a savior?

2010-04-03T19:19:00.000-05:00

Wind swept...beaten...shorn.

Gritty desert, whirling dust.

There’s no shelter for the weary worn.

Chafed, disgorged, tormented.

Where be a savior?

In marbled buildings of luscious light,

in sweet perfumed sanctuaries

crowds are hushed

hands withdrawn.

Withered hands of putrid souls.

Where be a savior?

In reverend halls of century’s

austerity holy scholars pause.

Words of life they cling

tenaciously, their meanings

are for naught.

Where be a savior?

In sacred texts teachers and

preachers find their call.

And drawn forth like swords they

use their texts to doth inspire.

The words in light embody

their meaning but only to

those who willingly seeing

the Truth-intent of God-breathed

texts, for when the Spirit imbibed

the Savior was made flesh.

Where is the shelter for a soul

ragged and worn?

Where is a refuge for hearts

tattered and torn?

Seeking sanctuary’s embracing

arms find cold dissipation and

hardened reservation.

For many a requisite must first be

discharged; institutions are after all

man-made religion.

Seek not the pious halls, the

solemn meetings. Seek not

the fakery of man’s vain worship;

the stringed music of lofty timbrel,

the sweet but empty voices of choir’s

praises.

Where then is this savior?

As light that doth illuminate.

As air that doth penetrate.

As life that doth course through

the veins, He’s ever present,

ever near. With Him is the solace,

the resting place for wearied years.

Aiyda

2010-03-25T18:15:00.000-05:00

No one knows why Aiyda is such a bitter woman. The creases in her face, the sunken skin around her eyes, her very tired bloodshot eyes mocks her years. The lines around her mouth are sharp and long. There are no curves upon her features. Hard drawn lines that seem to have been etched since birth. Her lips are not fleshy but emaciated like an inward pucker. Like a mural against the wall, she sits hours on end at the pub. A very unnatural thing for a woman, but people have forgotten that she is one. Her figure is well hidden beneath shirt and jacket and trousers of a man’s. She snuffs as a man, drinks and curses as one. So no one at the pub cares that she is there every night, slouched in the same corner at the same table. A hunched figure against the shadows of a faint candle. Aiyda hates light. She drinks her beer in silence, stares at her mug lost in whatever thoughts that tinker in the cobwebbed brain of hers. On darker days she would drink and glare at the patrons, from the finely dressed landowners come by for drinks after business while in town to the fair minded country folks who regularly visit. Aiyda is a shadow, present but no longer noticed.

Tell me what you see, little man,

with your eyes of soft gray down?

The tempestuous shudder doth quake.

For fierce-some is wrath when struck

upon the mighty breast of a woman

once scorned.

The deeps converge as spinning

orbs, of seas purging and

churning. Alas, little man, the time

doth come when vengeance smite

with her forked tongue.

To this I pray, garner your strength

and fly away. No reason or mighty

oak can stand the bought of this

hurling storm. Beware and

forewarn, the rage of a woman

once scorned.

2010-03-23T19:28:00.004-05:00

This poem was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend Sunday afternoon.

There is no title, simply because none came to mind.

i have seen my mother cry

a mother who was never to be for me

i have seen the tears my

mother shed a life that i never

lived to see

i have seen the charred

and burnt scars discarded

and one choice silenced my voice

another birthed in me air

i have seen what was to be

and now i live in what is

Night of the Storm

2009-06-10T22:43:00.004-05:00

She rides upon the tempest
this soft-winged creature
clothed in rain’s ethereal sheath.
She descends like a droplet
amongst the torrents.

She circles the dark-bellied clouds;
her songs of crystal lightning
tease and beckon storms’ restless
brooding.
Hobbled upon fury’s gusts,
plummeting trees’ top turrets,
bending boughs with mercy’s
lesser breeding.

She sighs upon thunder’s bellows;
her breath bearing shudders
froths the foamy seas.
She dances upon the restless wind—
in mockery she churns and spins.
Falter and fumble she tumbles;
her net sweeps earth's shattered face—
Disgraced—
she lifts her feet, fury bent—
scorned, she dips and drags until her
shame dispelled and no one remembers…
save destruction.

Serenade

2009-05-28T21:59:00.000-05:00

When dusk begins to fade and dew lights glow
bathing evening’s brow with mists of soft
and delicate touch

When flowers bend their heads, lend feathery
scent to glide the air, their white petals
illume

When sounds collapse and noises hush, a
cool tissued silk tempers warming
musk

‘Tis then fairies prance and jump from unfurled
fronds, ‘tis then birds celebrate and bring to
merriment night’s serenade

To My Friends...

2009-05-28T21:40:00.002-05:00

To all my friends,
Life’s journey is better together.

In spring’s dewy glow
we travel highways
we pause and
sip iced tea
we laze on sofas
and watch TV.

In summer’s fervent swelter
we refuge indoors
we boil pasta and
savor sweet cream
we laze on sofas
and dream.

In autumn’s colored calm
we dust off baking tins
we package cookies and
drink strong coffee
we laze on sofas
and enjoy one’s company.

In winter’s sharp brisk
we bundle
we wrap scarves and
light sweet candles
we laze on sofas
and contemplate tomorrows

Garden Steps

2009-05-25T16:40:00.003-05:00

I.

Our paths once crossed and looking
we did not see.
The Garden Steps overgrown with moss
lead beyond the way familiar.
The hedges untrimmed are high,
obscuring views of what's before.
We know not the leaves are golden
thus the steps are quickly forsaken.

II.

Could there be a soul brave & stalwart
dare to walk the untrodden path?
The songs of birds are silent there,
no whispering fountains to sooth
sultry airs.
The way is curt.
Perhaps there's beauty
past the sunken hollow.
But who can tell who's not
ventured past tomorrow?

III.

Seize the steps for the day quickly
wanes. When darkness thrusts
it will be too late.
What premonitions hold you sway
to treat the path less traveled by
a destiny too quickly shunned?
Bitter sorrow lace regrets like
fingers intertwined.
Discovery awaits when alas
you make that climb.

Where is the gate keeper to bolt
the way past fatal time? A
host of others never follow
so why bother?

When at the time appointed
there comes one who flings
a backward glance past caution...
and dares to tread the Garden Steps.

Shadow Star

2009-05-25T16:26:00.004-05:00

he comes like a shadow star
blinking in the night
like a dusky breeze he ruffles curtains left open
for a sign

make haste, enter
do not stare as billows of vapor
smooth the soft down laying comfortably there

whispers carried on a breath leaves
with haste so close to regret
what is it like to find rest in such solitude of night?

the owl's cry signals twilight's dismissal
can you fathom the purple deep
ensconced in tempered breathing?
lulled by a wakeless lullaby he drifts past reaching

liquid dreams tempt to hold substance when
form and time scoff
how can one climb to grasp night's vision
before the embers of remembrance fade?

stand with out-stretched hands
on tip-toes raise
sealed with baited breath...
watch closely the shadow star

as he leaves, the curtains he will shake
leaving his scent along the wake
and adieu he floats away

Prisms

2009-03-24T22:55:00.013-05:00

prisms of glass

you reflect a maze of shades

variations, eschewing forms

never the same, bending norms

you hide your face

veiling your identity

shielding your eyes that I could

not see

past the mask, the wall of colors

that change indefinitely

paper thin glass like vapors
your image shatters
in the fullness light dispels
cracked and broken, blackened shells
those walls of beauty where
once you dwelled

what true form reflects on Water

the secret stillness only uncovers

your source of color

a higher plane stretches before
your feet, a road paved with
clear transparency
bathed in unrefracted light

you’ll see clearly

Wings

2009-03-19T12:46:00.007-05:00

airy wings fly softly
delicate pretty things
fluid as a breeze’s kiss

glide further higher
brush your touch
past morning’s grasping rays

sail over the pale first light
ascend and flutter

thin tissue paper caress your breath
a dance fragile as whispers
quick as a pulsing heart

colors of brilliance depart

Shackled

2009-03-17T20:00:00.008-05:00

Long…dark fingers snatched the sky--
Helpless.
--Night envelops

Years we stumbled--
Ashes.
--We vanish

Long we wait to taste
the dew of joy--
Crushed.
--Our moments flee

Peace like slivered glass
Pass
Pain like chains
Shackled
We remain
Helpless.

-------

A flame--
Power.
--proclaimed
Darkness quaked

Broken chards
our shackles fell

Years we stumbled
now we walk
our knees tremble

In our hands--
Freedom lands
--we
no longer helpless

Luke 10:19

Half a Cat Dying Easter Eggs

2009-03-17T09:23:00.007-05:00

“How about we split half a cat?” he asked me with all seriousness.
That question was made in reference to an eatery which has garnered a notorious reputation among our circle. I’ve never visited the establishment due to the reports I’ve received from my colleagues. Yet it amazes me that they keep returning to it.

“Half a cat?” I asked.

“Seriously.” He couldn’t maintain his poker face much longer though.

Bon Appétit.

Also what is it with people walking their dogs in the park without a leash…when there are signs clearly posted that pets must be leashed at all times?? Granted most of the time the dogs are well-behaved. Imagine though being a parent with a tottering toddler only to be confronted with a too boisterous oversized German Shepherd…or St. Bernard…or some frisky animal that is five times the size of your child. I shudder. Speaking of German Shepherds, I saw the most bizarre dog a few months ago. This dog had the body of a Bassett hound but the head of a German Shepherd.

Remember dying Easter eggs when you were young…er?
I remember going to my friend’s house and dying eggs. We had an assortment of colored water in which to dip our hard-boiled eggs. In addition we had stickers, colored markers, Easter baskets in which to put our beautified eggs and bags of plastic grass. We spent the afternoon dying eggs until our fingers were grayish black due to all the colors mingling on our skin. A waste of eggs. By the time the Easter hunt arrived we were much more interested in the plastic eggs containing candy.

I have not decorated Easter eggs since then. No inclination or desire to…until…. Williams Sonoma displayed in their store an Easter egg decorating kit. All of a sudden a plethora of childhood memories flood me. Jelly beans of every color, white & cotton candy pink Sunday dresses, chocolate bunnies, and Easter egg hunts on the church lawn. All of a sudden I felt inspired to decorate eggs, but at the same time I wasn’t quite drawn to mixing bowls of colored water. Alas, Martha Stewart came to the rescue. Her April issue of Martha Stewart Living featured ideas and how-to’s on decorating Easter eggs…decoupage style.

Penetrate

2009-03-13T12:39:00.006-05:00

Surrounded
I press in
Farther away
to reach him

Pressed and cast
aside I tried
but could not reach him

Fingers stretched
decision made
my life bleeds
my body fades

From every side
walls crush in
a glimpse of blue
I see him

Stretched
I press

Closer
to get…

At last
my fingers graze
like a shaft
LIGHT penetrates

Luke 8:42b-44

Encounter

2009-03-12T21:22:00.011-05:00

We liked to sit and talk. Madame DuChamp would reflect over a cup of tea. If we were in her sunroom I would sit on the sunshine sofa next to her with my feet tucked under me. She would draw the beloved and time-worn quilt over our knees and slip into the past. I followed when I could. Sometimes her smile and silence hinted of reflection upon an intimate memory. Now a days I sit in my own reflection room and think of the stories I have told and lived. There are times when I wish I could enter the Memory World and extend those long gone days. But it cannot be. And such as it is, there are more stories to tell.

Grab a seat...

Pull up a chair...

Curl up on the sofa...
I'd like you to meet Madeline Sutton.

Across the street piano music arrested her attention. Sad, plaintive notes escaped the enclosed shop and slinked its way to her feet. McMillain's Coffee Shoppe in trendy brown and cream. She adjusted the weight of the groceries in her hands. The music beckoned. It was meant to be heard. She crossed the street at the next light and pulled open the mahogany door.

The interior was dark cherry, the appearance of a gentleman's club. The aroma of percolating coffee beans permeated the air. A fireplace cuddled a merry fire that danced upon a new visitor's arrival. Velvet sofas and worn leather settees lined the long narrow shop. Past the ordering counter and the corridor of plush seats and packed bookshelves was a tight circular space, roomy enough for a modest stage. More sofas and chairs squeezed against the room surrounding a heavy-set blonde playing a Yamaha.

A tall cafe mocha, please. No cream.

She paid for her order and waited obligingly for it. The music the woman played was a watery piece. The keys tinkled tunes of the watery depths. The song of a Triton mounring his love. Or was it a sea princess' song of hope for her returned love? She took her cup and proceeded closer towards the music. It drew her, unveiling the stage of her imagination. She found a seat on the plaisley sofa, wegding her groceries between the sofa and the wall. She leaned back and sipped her coffee. The crowd offered a polite applause at the end of the song. The blonde quickly struck up a tune that painted the golden and red landscape of Tuscany. The poppies bobbing in hills of golden wheat. Two lovers meet at the fountain in the piazza. The girl was too young and could not away with him. He had nothing to offer but his heart. Poverty and love made romance forbidding but more delicious.

She did not notice the gentleman who came to sit next to her. Her thoughts were miles away, intertwined in love's melancholy story.

"Have you heard this song before?" His question shattered her painted thoughts. Gone were the Estrucian hills and towering cypresses. Dissolved was the kiss that was to be enjoyed.

Is he speaking to me? She turned to face her sofa companion. Yes, he was. "No," she shook her head.

"You are American."

She nodded. He spoke with an European accent, decidedly not British. He wore a black turtle neck with a tweed sport coat and dark trousers. He smelled expensive and of soft leather.

He nodded his head towards the performer. "It is a Romanian love song. A very old one."

A trill in the score reminded her of birds chirping on a branch near the bedroom window while morning sunlight peered through.

"It is the fashion now a-days to resurrect old folksongs and lend it a modern twist."

She smiled, sensing that was the adequate response to give.

"May I buy you tea?"

"Thank you," she replied, lifting her cup. "I've already purchased a coffee."

He nodded. His eyes where gray, the color of winter sky. His hair was black, almost unnaturally so. He rested his hands on his crossed leg. "Ah, now this song that she is playing is an ancient Welsh melody."

She had not noticed the change in songs until he mentioned it. She brought her focus back to the lady behind the keyboard. The melody hinted of Celtic influence. She could see a red-headed girl standing upon a dark gray granite-like rock jutting off the coast line. The sea before her roared in angry waves. Her alabaster complexion shone against the drench of rain. A boat that she could no longer see carried the one she loed.

She took a long sip of coffee. Sleep danced upon the edge of her senes.

"Let me buy you tea. Coffee will dehydrate you."

She vaguely heard him speak. Was it the beverage in her hand or the heady cloud of music that dimmed her senses and carried her off to far away lands? If only her laptop was within reach.

He patted her knee. "I shall get you a pot of brewed tea." He arose with his hand casually placed on her knee. As he left, so did she. She skirted aorund to the front door and slipped into the outer world.

She unloaded her grocieries and turned on the hot water to fill the claw-footed tub. Sleepiness deterred her from enjoying the hot suddsy water. She stepped out of the tub after a few minutes and pulled on her p.j.'s. When she turned off the lights, the bedside clock glared 11:46 PM in red lights.

A pounding at the door stole her from fields of lavender. She was eating a biscuit slathered in honey when the intrusion disrupted her. The darkness momentarily disoriented her. The clock regitered 12:29 AM. Two police men stood on the steps.

[Excerpt from "A Boy Named Joseph"]

Abby

Reckless Abandon

2009-03-11T08:58:00.012-05:00

Reckless abandon I search your face.
Incomplete mystery you shower your grace.
Lost in your mercy
I cannot explain
but fall to my knees and say...

What have I done for you to choose me?
What do I have that you would need
something from my nature--if you only know
you would let go.

Reckless abandon my reasons barred me.
I find it hard to only believe
That you care, that you give
your love
your grace
your life
poured out lavishly.

I fall to my knees
If you only know
But you smile and say...
Come follow me.

Luke 5:3-11

Abuchon (Dishes)

2009-03-08T19:25:00.018-05:00

I am to plan a luncheon.

What shall be on the menu?

What shall be the theme?

What shall be the centerpiece?

Mediterranean tuna salad with capers, kalamata olives and feta cheese.

Fresh sliced strawberries and juicy Fiji apples.

Honey custard made with lavender honey.

Margharitt is bringing crackers and cheese.

Caroline has baked wheat rolls for the tuna salad.

Diett is in charge of the drinks.

Sundays are breather days before the busy-ness of the week soon envelops us. I just want to invite a few close friends over to give them a reprieve from having to plan a meal. We'll sit on oversized cushioned floor pillows around the coffee table.

At the corner flowershop not far from Diett's store I saw on the counter volumptuous blossoms spilling over a colorful vase. How did the blossoms grow to be so big and fluffy?! I bought a couple dozen with some green accents for the arrangement. (I'm not proficient with plant names and species. I know the basics, and when I have the liesure time I'll sign up for a gardening class offered by one of the ladies of the Historical Society.)

I can't help it. Whether I'm hosting an informal gathering or even just contemplating on one I like to peruse the stores to get new ideas. What I usually end up doing is buying new things...more things. I have collected so many things, and I do not tire of purchasing more. One of life's simple pleasures...if one can call shopping a simple pleasure.

Fields of pansies and strawberries. This reminds me of a strawberry farm not too far from my parent's house in the country. We would pick strawberries until our finger tips and tongues were stained with berry juice.

Bluebells and violets. I am reminded of a charming bed and breakfast I stayed in Provence when I took a short weekend break from working on my book. I need to make a note to go revisit the cottage again.

Caroline so wants to go to Peru and Belize. The colors make me think of the vibrant travel brochures she has been collecting.

Elegant. I would like to have this setting one day.

Exactly what I was in search for. Was I really searching to buy something? Inadvertently I guess I always am...

Fun. These napkin rings inspire me to plan a spring picnic. I do miss Madame DuChamp so!

Abby

Abuchon (Chandeliers)

2009-03-07T20:41:00.016-06:00

03.07

On days like this when the sun does not scorch...or better yet the sun is not shining, I take a stroll into town. It is not nearly spring yet; the flowers have not yet awaken and trees' limbs are but naked twigs. Today is a preview of what spring has in store...a teaser. The air is light and void of the biting cold. Although clouds obscure the sun from view, it is a refreshing change. Chilled sunshine is no longer refreshing.

Clay is playing at Robert's. I dropped him off before heading to the square. Caroline asked that I look at some chandeliers for her. The bakery is beginning to take off. She has averaged three orders per day. Occassional customers pop in every now and then. She really does need a bigger sign by the road. I think Monsieur Ferment agreed to have our rocky lane paved. It will be a much welcomed change. So dusty!

Anyway, chandeliers!

Madame Lindle's store.

One of her many chandeliers.

I couldn't resist. Who could resist...the EYE??

Besides, it was on sale.

Belle-epoc's corner boutique.

I have to admit, this one is my favorite thus far.

It befits Caroline.

Madame Lindle might be a bit disappointed

if Caroline chooses this one.

I am rather drawn to this. A friend commented

on its Arthurian style.

There I go again...I think of Cedric.

Reminds me that our gate needs to be replaced.

Monsieur DeFluer would be delighted

I think.

Feeling drawn to yellow.

Warm glow...

I like the surface of the wood. It inspires me.

I brought my journal. The park benches are not yet all occupied. I think I shall sit for a while and write before returning. What would Cedric think of crystal chandeliers and early spring-like mornings?

Abby

The Table

2009-03-06T19:25:00.001-06:00

Two chairs. Two plates. Two cups.

A private table in a private room. No noise, no flowers.

Just a simple white cloth to cover.

No candles, no violins.

Just bread and drink.

He beckons. The table is laid.

"For you." He gives a piece of bread.

"For you." He gives a cup with drink.

"Take and eat; take and drink. The meal was made

For you."

He lifts the bread.

The price has been paid

He lifts the cup.

His life He poured out.

"Remember Me. I did it

For you."

Silence

2009-03-06T19:07:00.002-06:00

Silence. Like the placid surface of a pond. No stirring. No motion.

He stood apart and in a lonely place. A deserted place. Not an outcast but by choice. He was called to this wind-blown terrain of gritty sand and jagged rocks. Days and months he roamed. Restless at times but with purpose. He was never void of purpose. He knew what he was waiting for. He waited and he was alone.

Years of silence all but snuffed the memory of the Words that were spoken. Faded memory turned stories into myths and fairytales. The silence endured for so long.

The wind continued to brush against the rugged plane. Dust clouds billowed and dispersed. On this day his senses were heightened. The atmosphere bulged and grew weighty like an expectant mother's belly. More than just the wind stirred on this day. It disturbed silence's stillness, awakening ripples. Larger and wider the ripples grew until it burst. It burst! At long last silence was shattered. The Word of the Lord came to John.

Luke 3:1-2