Poem In Your Pocket Day !

FOR SIX YEARS, New York City
has proclaimed April 30 as
" Poem In Your Pocket Day".
Last year the American Academy of Poets
picked up on this, and now, for the
second year in a row, in honor of
National Poetry Month, continues
this celebration.
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The idea is to choose a poem you really
like, write it down, print it, then perhaps
tuck it into your pocket, or maybe just
clutch it. And share it with friends and
family..yes, stop them in their tracks and
recite a poem! Change the world! If that
idea can make it here, it can make it
anywhere.
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What to choose? Aha! I know, I'll slip
one of my own past them...
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xxxxxxxxxxBUDDHA'S WAY
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I said to my soul be still,
and wait without hope.
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Be as the seed that knows
the path of its being,
never wishing to be
more than a rose.
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Wake up my soul, I said,
sleep no more in fruitless thoughts.
I happily refuse
the candy of hope
to sweeten my course.
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The light itself will burnish me.
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from TWO GHOSTS/ poems

Dawn

DAWN IN GREENE COUNTY
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Starting as a dim crest of orange
along the range of hills,
dawn stirs slowly here in Greene County.
Galaxies of stars still claim the night,
then abruptly disappear
to melt into the sun.
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Crickets cease their chirrup
and box themselves in
against the day.
A bat that took flight
ahead of the cluster,
flies home
to grasp the cave's edge
as if it were in Transylvania.
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The cream of morning rises
to top the milky sky.
Soon enough it boils over
into another August day.
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from: TWO GHOSTS/ poems
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http://www.amazon.com/
http://www.bn.com/
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Julia !

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx Julia Child
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Being a fan of the great Julia Child, I was
delighted to hear that she's to be the subject of
the movie, "Julie Julia", based on Julie Powell's memoir,
"Julie and Julia : 365 Days, 524Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment."
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Powell spent a year doing all 524 recipes in Child's
" Mastering The Art of French Cooking". I can't
claim the numbers, but I can claim that my DNA
is embedded in my copy. Learning knife skills did
that. Also does gravy have a DNA? Because I
dropped some Boeuf Borguignon on the book one
night. No one could tell after that I'd scraped
it together.
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Meryl Streep was hired for the role of Julia in
ten seconds. She will portray the 6 foot 2, Julia,
although she herself is about 5 foot 6. But Streep
can do anything, so growing shouldn't be a
problem. The time, 1949, Paris, Le Cordon Bleu.
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Joining her in the role of Julie, is Amy Adams,
who played the young nun with Streep in "Doubt".
Nuns on the run, indeed.
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Can't wait to hear Streep trilling..Bon Appetite !

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Meryl Streep as Julia Child
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Just noticed that this is my 100th post!
Now how did that happen? Time to get serious!!

Just Lovely!

IMAGINE GETTING A MODERATELY GOOD
NIGHT'S SLEEP...(MILO, my cat, USUALLY
HAS DIFFERENT IDEAS)...AWAKENING,
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plugging in to the electronic universe, and finding
an award placed in my name in Bloggywood. Even
my dreams held no such rewards. I won some sort
of lottery, ( money would have been good!).
Well at least I don't have to pay taxes on this one!
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And how did this come about? The estimable Derrick,
of Melrose Musings, after receiving this Lovely Blog
Award, which he so deserves for his constantly
stimulating and informative (and lovely) posts,
has generously passed this award onwards !
And I, in the company of some really talented bloggy
folk, am amongst the chosen!
A good night's sleep has its rewards!
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Thank you Derrick, for this surprise. I so
appreciate your constant comments. Bloggy
friends are like angels...we know they're there,
even though we don't see them!
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I am thinking right this minute about whom to
pass this on to.

Who speaks...?

from: Leaves of Grass (1900) by Walt Whitman
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How lucky can you get? When I haven't
got a clue what to write about next,
someone quite acclaimed rescues me.
So, thank you today, Walt Whitman.
Alas,tomorrow's another day!
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SONG OF MYSELF/ section 52
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The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me-
he complains of my gab and my loitering.
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I too am not a bit tamed- I too am
untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs
of the world.
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The last scud of day holds back for me;
it flings my likeness after the rest, and true
as any, on the shadow'd wilds;
it coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
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I depart as air- I shake my white locks
at the runaway sun;
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in
lacy jags.
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I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow
from the grass I love;
if you want me again, look for me under
your boot-soles.
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You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean:
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
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Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing the one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.
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Who speaks for you today?
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A Question.

x WHAT SAVES YOU? I found this question
floating above me this morning. I paused,
and asked a cliche', "are you talking to me"?
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When I've fallen down the well, and no one
heeds my call, what saves me, rewards me,
is nature itself. I remind myself that I'm
allowed to be here on earth. I start climbing,
and wrap myself in fanciful notions. I let
myself be kissed by the Sun and the Moon.
I become softer, an accessible soul.
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So what if it's my imagination, I thank whatever
placed this fantasy of life within my heart. I seek
and want to receive great beauty. It's always
there : Hello, Monet, hello, Manet, hello Mozart.
Ah, the three "M's". I know that Cezanne's the
father of them all. Greetings to him, how lucky
can I be? Please save me, Vermeer, and Rembrandt
too. A shelf of books are tumbling down..at my
feet, Hardy, Eco, Zola...Billy Collins, yes.
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And unreeling, films, if remade, would star little me.
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I used to move very aggressively within my tender
feelings. Now I move more slowly, like a fish
swimming backwards. That saves me, but
mostly lets me have mercy for others placed on
my path.
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I seek further studies. I look for what points me
to an entry to heaven. I like to think that if I
bless someone, they receive it, and return it.
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What saves you? I'd love to know. It could be
something as simple as strawberries. Why not?

Poem

XXXXXXXXXXXXXNIGHTHAWKS/ Edward Hopper XX 1942
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XXXXXXXXI WON'T
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I don't like to cry.
I take steps to stop myself.
I know how.
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Each time I feel a tear
touching my lash,
I look around to see if you are there.
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Not a chance you'll ever see a drop.
It's the giving in, the giving up.
Let others fall down,
I won't break apart.
I'll never be Jack,
I'm not Jill the tumbler either.
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My neck is white and smooth
Above the grey collar.
I swallow sharply,
throat confining a breath
that falters.
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Control tightens like fingers
maneuvering a stangulation.
I stop short of dying.
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Breathing becomes easier.
By now you know I won't.
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c copyright / all rights reserved

A Woman Of No Importance

I'VE SORT OF TAGGED MYSELF.
I'M AN ARIES, THAT'S WHAT WE DO.
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First, I have really asked for permission and
been granted it. I've taken this post from
Raph's Ramblings, in which he listed 6 things
or habits of no real importance. So funny and
charming.
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Which made me think of "A Woman Of No
Importance", by Oscar Wilde, which opened in
London on April 19, 1893. "A Woman Of No Importance",
offering an insignificant list. It does seem right
to have a mannequin represent me.
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1. I retain an enormous amount of useless
data. Mostly movie stuff. If anyone needs to
know the most arcane information, I will pull it
forth like a magician pulls a rabbit from a hat.
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2. I was almost arrested by the
KGB. I was in Moscow, waiting in line to get
into a book store. People in Moscow stand in
line to buy a book of poetry. Really. I made it
into the shop, was approached by a young man
who tried to sell me rubles, I knew enough to say
absolutely nyet. Set-up!! KBG thugs in black coats
were beginning to surround poor little tourist,
getting ready to pounce, visions of Siberia dancing
in their heads. I smiled, shrugged, waved bye-bye.
They left in limo, I bought a book.

3. The waitresses in the cafe at the Athens Hilton

Hotel were absolutely convinced (by themselves) that

I was Nancy Sinatra. With my two kids in tow,

staying with friends at the hotel for the summer, nothing

I could say would convince them that I wasn't "Old Blue

Eye's" little girl. Every day brought giggles when we

entered the cafe, and they vowed to "keep my secret".

I should have sung for them, then they would have known

the truth.

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4. I have to close the blinds at night even though

no one can look in because I'm too high up. You

never know, someone out there could have

binoculars. And it's sort of nice to let the sun shine

in, in the morning, when I want it to!

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5. I eat a piece of chocolate every day.

Every day.

6. I have a new blog. Why have I thought

that this is necessary? I don't know. I'm not

doing much about it.

I'll tell you the name:

Minny Blue

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I never tag because I don't like to put
anything on anyone. I'd love for anyone who wishes
to play this game to please do so. I think you've
learned a sufficient amount of info about me that's
unimportant! Things go round and round.

Film Noir

All of the movies listed here came out
before 1950. I'm trying to work my way
through the film noir decade, pretty
much the 1940's.
The heroines were generally babes, or
so naive that they wound up dead
five minutes after the titles appeared.
If a babe was married, it was usually
to some old guy who was bound to get
bumped off. The hero was usually
a Private Eye, or a guy who just got out
of the slammer. Everyone smoked, drank,
doublecrossed, all this while making out.
All the babes had great wardrobes although
they never held a job. All the guys wore suits
with very big shoulders. Oh yes, and they
did it in black and white.

1. THE BIG SLEEP (1946) Bogart and Bacall

(Humphrey and Lauren). Detective Philip

Marlowe, blackmail, murder, mayhem, worth

the effort for Bacall's profile.

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2. DOUBLE INDEMNITY (1944) Fred MacMurray,

and femme fatale Barbara Stanwyck plot her

husband's accidental death. Will they get away with

the loot?

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3. LAURA (1944) Otto Preminger directed this

enigmatic mystery. A NYC Detective, Dana Andrews,

investigates the murder of Laura, Gene Tierney.

Look for a shocking twist or two. With Clifton Webb

and Vincent Price, getting into trouble.

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4. THE LADY FROM SHANGHAI (1948) Orson

Welles, directed, wrote and stars with Rita

Hayworth as the babe married to an older guy

who owns this yacht, so...anyway, there's a

famous "sequence of mirrors" at the end of

the film. Incredible.

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5. DECEPTION (1946) Bette Davis thinks her lover,

Paul Henreid, was killed in the war. He comes back,

she has to hide her affair with Claude Rains. Drastic

measures ensue. Lots of classical music. Classy.

6. THE BIG STEAL ( 1949) Robert Mitchum

sets out to clear his name for a crime he didn't

commit. Can he do it? Maybe, with the help

of Jane Greer, good hair.

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7. KISS OF DEATH (1947) Richard Widmark

and Victor Mature (muscles) as two-bit hoods and stoolies

caught in a heist. Nasty Richard was nominated

for an Oscar, his first role. A real creep.

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8. I WAKE UP SCREAMING (1941) Victor

Mature (muscles), caught between Carole Landis,

quickly dead, and Betty Grable as the distrustful

sister, might be a hero, then again..

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9. THE STRANGER (1946) Orson Welles as a

Nazi fugitive hiding out in a small Connecticut

town. Edward G. Robinson is the detective out

to uncover his identity. Strong photography.

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10. THE MALTESE FALCON ( 1941) The noir

classic. Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade. Trio

of criminals, Mary Astor, Sydney Greenstreet,

Peter Lorre, looking for a priceless bird.

Double-crossing at its peak.

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Unicorn

for: National Poetry Month,

a new effort, not from Two Ghosts.

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTHE THREAD

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One thread, tattered, lies hidden

beneath the surface of the tapestry.

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Stand away from the wall

Stand back!

The guard protects the expanse

atop the marble steps.

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Stand back from the wall.

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The needlepoint, on tour,

gathers round it

the rapt consideration of centuries.

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A vista of woven Unicorns,

the carpet first adorned a breezy

palace hall,

when each Duchess

dropped a stitch every hundred years.

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One thread, never pulling free,

not attached to the heart,

a fiber serving no known purpose,

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Not a bit of it seen,

not being there to the eye,

like being alive and not being somebody,

not only not famous

but a filament detached, floating unbound,

waiting within its perception

to be christened.

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c copyright / all rights reserved