Fashion Find Friday

Nothing simpler

and less expensive

makes me feel any more

festively attired

around Christmas

than a pair

of red gloves.






How do you dress for the holidays?



Here are a few words to remember, when you put on your gloves.

Glove of Friendship

If the heart is true
a friendship will last
If it's built on mistrust
it 'll become a thing of the past

If the heart is honest
a friendship will thrive
the bond will be solid
and never implied

If the heart is open
and truly willing to love
a friendship will flourish
and should be worn like a glove

by Jock Ridi

how to wear gloves
https://www.inesgloves.com/pages/gloves-etiquette

Contemplating Death

Sickness

is a place...

where

there's no company,

where nobody

can follow.

Flannery O'Connor





Camille's Deathbed by Claude Monet
Oil on canvas


This painting is one of the subjects covered in Susan Vreeland's Life Studies, an interesting book which I have picked up and down several times over the past few years. The chapter is entitled "Winter of Abandon" and offers some interesting insight into Claude and Camille's relationship. Furthermore, I learned that Monet painted this canvas immediately upon her passing, shewing everyone out of the room.

Creepy?

Or *One Time Chance to catch the light in this situation?*

At any rate, I thought it an appropriate illustration to highlight some current thoughts I have had on *death*. The first is a quote from Polycarp, that great Christian martyr:

"The business of the Christian is in one sense nothing else than to be ever preparing for death."

Now have you ever thought of that? I mean what steps have you taken, either mental or physical, in preparation for your death?

Hmmmm

I think too much.........

Update:

Recent deaths of high profile individuals:
9/1 = 1983 Larry McDonald, US Congressman

9/5/07 = D. James Kennedy
9/6/07 = Luciano Pavarotti
9/6/07 = Madeline L'Engle

Exercise

I

set out

to find

where

the sidewalk

ends.







Walking with purpose is what I had in mind when I left home. In my mind's eye I had charted the journey to maximize my safety, avoiding the busier, curvy road. About two miles from my subdivision is a newly constructed multi-use development packed with new homes and a shopping center. And although walking alone can be lonesome, I purposefully left behind the earphones and audio files. It would be important to hear and pay attention to my surroundings. I was investigating. Over the course of the next two hours, I covered about six miles of new territory, found the end of that particular sidewalk, and made it back home safely.

Only Shel Silverstein says it better -

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Shel Silverstein

Art and Poetry

Where Are the Shows of Yesteryear?


Where now is Jean-Leon Gerome,
One of the greats of heretofore,
Who made the Orient his home?
His "Woman of Cairo at her Door"
Immortalized an unknown whore;
Imprisoned in its little cage,
Her pretty finch shows evermore
The mark he made upon his age.







And where is Bouguereau, on whom
Fortune outdid herself to pour
Her golden favors? Overcome:
The modernists thought him a bore.
And yet it is hard to ignore
Those nymphets that he loved to stage--
He should have been arrested for
The mark he made upon his age.






Fabres y Costa's Prix de Rome,
His silver medals and much more
Availed not when his time had come
And gone, and left him very poor:
His prices fell right through the floor.
Now exercising righteous rage,
Defenders of the new deplore
The mark he made upon his age.



Envoi:
O Prince, may those well-known before
Find new collectors to assuage
Their disregard and to restore
The mark each made upon his age.

by Charles Martin


PS I had fun looking up the artwork referred to in this poem. At first I was only familiar with Bouguereau.

Doing the Next Thing

Saturdays are full of choices: what to do and where to do it?

And today is no different for me. Because it didnt work out that I head to Unicoi State Park to hike the Smith Creek trail, I headed to the office to catch up/get ahead on some ever-present paperwork: posting, balancing, billing, scheduling, filing, organizing, et cetera. Even if I'd stayed at home, there is laundry, cleaning, cooking, and ironing.

It makes me happy to be busy. Read Robert Service's poem.


And for safekeeping, here's a poem used by Elisabeth Elliot, to encourage us in our daily lives.

"At an old English parsonage down by the sea,
there came in the twilight a message to me.
Its quaint Saxon legend deeply engraven
that, as it seems to me, teaching from heaven.
And all through the hours the quiet words ring,
like a low inspiration, 'Do the next thing.'

Many a questioning, many a fear,
many a doubt hath its quieting here.
Moment by moment, let down from heaven,
time, opportunity, guidance are given.
Fear not tomorrow, child of the King,
trust that with Jesus, do the next thing.

Do it immediately, do it with prayer,
do it reliantly, casting all care.
Do it with reverence, tracing His hand,
who placed it before thee with earnest command.
Stayed on omnipotence, safe 'neath His wing,
leave all resultings, do the next thing.

Looking to Jesus, ever serener,
working or suffering be thy demeanor,
in His dear presence, the rest of His calm,
the light of His countenance, be thy psalm.
Do the next thing."

What's keeping you occupied this particular Saturday?

The Pasture
by Robert Frost
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too.


I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too.



Headed to the public library, I am returning a box-load of books checked out to undergird my April Poetry Month postings. But just like Cindy and Carmon, I still have one more I want to highlight. This Frost is just the perfect invitation to enjoy the change of the season.

I think I would have like to have come along with him.


Photo credits to my cyberfriend, Jean, whose pictures of her farm and family I really enjoy.

My Funny Valentine

Behold the way our fine feathered friend,
His virtue doth parade
Thou knowest not, my dim-witted friend
The picture thou hast made
Thy vacant brow, and thy tousled hair
Conceal thy good intent
Thou noble upright truthful sincere,
And slightly dopey gent
You`re my funny valentine,
Sweet comic valentine,
You make me smile with my heart.
Your looks are laughable, un-photographable,
Yet, you`re my favorite work of art.
Is your figure less than Greek?
Is your mouth a little weak?
When you open it to speak, are you smart?
But, don`t change a hair for me.
Not if you care for me.
Stay little valentine, stay!
Each day is Valentine`s Day
Is your figure less than Greek?
Is your mouth a little weak?
When you open it to speak, are you smart?
But, don`t change a hair for me.
Not if you care for me.
Stay little valentine, stay!
Each day is Valentine`s Day

Lyrics to a song sung by DD#4 with Lovett's Duke Ellington jazz band at their Spring Concert. Wikipedia can tell us more about it.

Rejoice Ye Pure in Heart

Lyrics by Edward H. Plumptre, 1865
Tune: Marion by ARthur Messiter, 1885



Rejoice ye pure in heart;
Rejoice, give thanks, and sing;
Your glorious banner wave on high,
The cross of Christ your King.
Refrain

Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice,Give thanks and sing.
Bright youth and snow crowned age,
Strong men and maidens meek,
Raise high your free, exultant song,
God’s wondrous praises speak.
Refrain

Yes onward, onward still
With hymn, and chant and song,
Through gate, and porch and columned aisle,
The hallowed pathways throng.
Refrain

With all the angel choirs,
With all the saints of earth,
Pour out the strains of joy and bliss,
True rapture, noblest mirth.
Refrain

Your clear hosannas raise;
And alleluias loud;
Whilst answering echoes upward float,
Like wreaths of incense cloud.
Refrain

With voice as full and strong
As ocean’s surging praise,
Send forth the hymns our fathers loved,
The psalms of ancient days.
Refrain

Yes, on through life’s long path,
Still chanting as ye go;
From youth to age, by night and day,
In gladness and in woe.
Refrain

Still lift your standard high,
Still march in firm array,
As warriors through the darkness toil,
Till dawns the golden day.
Refrain

At last the march shall end;
The wearied ones shall rest;
The pilgrims find their heavenly home,
Jerusalem the blessed.
Refrain

Then on, ye pure in heart!
Rejoice, give thanks and sing!
Your glorious banner wave on high,
The cross of Christ your King.
Refrain

Praise Him Who reigns on high,
The Lord Whom we adore,
The Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
One God forevermore.
Refrain

Labor
Luci Shaw (1928 - )

After her daughter's wedding
she cleaned out the bedroom - rolling up
the posters of Venice, the Greek
Islands, virginal sails like wings
in golden bays. Surveying the naked
closet and walls from the doorway
she felt the chill, as though
she had just expelled
her afterbirth. And from

some deep place she remembered -
that beginning of loss, a pushing out
and out that left the matrix hollow.
The newborn's muted cry still
echoes - another expulsion,
another wave goodbye.
Every division of cells widens
the change; the ripples circle out;
the boat leaves harbor.

Going-Through

To All Archivists and Executors



The maple-sugar mustiness of old papers
clings with a strange, dark sweetness to our hands,
and photos, faded sepia, arouse
a memory of twilights told in tans--
of eras lived in the long, slant-light of autumn,
deep shade beneath each tree and under eyes
caught staring,
archetypes dim, disturbingly detected
beyond the arch of treelimbs, gables, arms
akimbo,
strong ancestral brows arched in surprise,
cathedral-quiet,
mute
magnificent.
Here is the delving-dust, the ochre tracks
of ancient pens defy deciphering.
Here someone's soul is bared, but Time--
discreet informer - looks the other way,
deceives us now.
This fragile book's rose-petal leaves dissolve
with handling, though our touch be delicate
and caring as a surgeon's, or a lover's.

What shall we let live, what sacrifice?
What make history of, or what consign
to neverborn oblivion?
We're gods. We cannot infiltrate the future
with all our memorabilia, all our dreams.
The burden of our work weighs heavily:
we decide what sees the light of day,
what is destroyed;
which heirlooms last to coming generations
or which, undocumented, are denied.

Did what we now reject exist at all,
for our rejection?

Heavy on our hands we bear the stain,
as Shakespeare's Lady did,
And all we touch hereafter shares the taint
of glory, or regret.
So, whom do gods propitiate for error?

The odor lingers languid on the air
with motes that mock our motion in this shaft
of evening gold that compensates our task,
if not our hearts.

By Harriet Ann Stovall Kelley (1933- 2022 )



In 1978, this poem won The Conrad Aiken Prize, awarded by the Poetry Society of Georgia, Savannah.

This poem is found in a handcrafted book,

  Look Back, Beholden: Poems of Heritance by Harriet Stovall Kelley (my first cousin) in 1998.

What a treasure! What a labor of love!

POEM FOR CONFEDERATE MEMORIAL DAY
by Oliver Reeves

How many springs have gone since they
Who wore the uniform of gray
Last looked upon summer snow of dogwood, blooming below
Their southern skies and friendly sun,
Or watched the winding rivers run
Or knew when spring wind's gentle hand
Stretched forth to heal their wounded land.
They sleep where the azaleas spread
Their glorious colors, where the red old hills
And mountain peaks
Stand listening while nature speaks.
And from the woodlands sound the strains
Of memories; where coastal plains
Run down to join the ceaseless tide
Ebbing and flowing as they died.
Let us remember them as time
And tide move on in endless rhyme.
When spring is wearing her bouquet
For the lost legions of the gray.
While bud and blossom, hill and tree
Remember them, so shall we.


In my great state of Georgia, we celebrate *Confederate Memorial Day* by closing the State Capitol and State Offices on the Monday closest to April 26th.

The War Between the States was the pivotal event in our Nation's history.
If you want only the facts about the conflict, any textbook will do.
But if you want to understand the thoughts and emotions
of the men who faced each other across the battlefield
and those who waited for them at home,
look to the poems and songs written during and after the War.

All of A Summer's Afternoon
by Bettie Sellers (1926- )

If you click on the link and click another link in the top right-hand corner of the Georgia Encyclopedia page, you will be able to hear Ms. Sellers recite this poem. The accent is delicious. Enjoy!

When my mother had turned
her sad, slow heel back into childhood,
She ran away for most of a summer's afternoon.

Neighbors with pitying faces
came to help my father
search the Flint River bottoms
where she had scratched up arrowheads for us
and told such tales that Creeks were lurking
behind every pine and oak for all our summers.

They combed high grasses
skirting the beaver ponds where she once sat
shushing our very breath to quietness
even the shyest beaver could trust.

They found her in the farther pasture
tugging feebly at her print dress
caught in a tangle of barbed wire.

She stood with wide eyes
watching the Indians come
from behind the trees.

A Cloud Shadow
by Robert Frost (1874-1963)

A breeze discovered my open book
And began to flutter the leaves to look
For a poem there used to be on Spring.
I tried to tell her "There's no such thing!"

For whom would a poem on Spring be by?
The breeze disdained to make reply;
And a cloud shadow crossed her face
For fear I would make her miss the place.

The Phoenix and the Turtle
By William Shakespeare

Commentary found here.

Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.


But thou, shrieking harbinger,
Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,
To this troop come thou not near.


From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.


Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.


And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st
With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.


Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.


So they lov'd, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.


Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
'Twixt the turtle and his queen;
But in them it were a wonder.


So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix' sight:
Either was the other's mine.


Property was thus appall'd,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was call'd.


Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either-neither,
Simple were so well compounded


That it cried how true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none
If what parts can so remain.


Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supreme and stars of love;
As chorus to their tragic scene.


THRENOS.

Beauty, truth, and rarity.
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclos'd in cinders lie.


Death is now the phoenix' nest;
And the turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,


Leaving no posterity:--
'Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.


Truth may seem, but cannot be:
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.


To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

Lord's Day Evening

from The Valley of Vision:
A collection of Puritan Prayers and Devotions

May the close of an earthly sabbath
remind me that the last of them will one day end.

Animate me with joy that in heaven praise will never cease,
that adoration will continue for ever,
that no flesh will grow weary,
no congregations disperse,
no affections flag,
no thoughts wander,
no will droop,
but all will be adoring love.

Guard my mind from making ordinances my stay or trust,
from hewing out broken cisterns,
from resting on outward helps.

Wing me through earthly forms to thy immediate presence;
May my feeble prayers now show me the emptiness and vanity of my sins;
Deepen in me the conviction that my most fervent prayers,
and most lowly confessions, need to be repented of.
May my best services bring me nearer to the cross
and prompt me to cry, 'None but Jesus!'
By thy Spirit give abiding life to the lessons of this day:
Let all who see me take knowledge that I have been with thee
that thou hast taught me my need as a sinner,
hast revealed a finsihed salvation to me,
hast enriched me with all spiritual blessings,
hast chosen me to show forth Jesus to others,
hast helped me to dispel the mists of unbelief.

O great creator, might protector, gracious preserver,
thou dost load me with lovingkindnesses,
and has made me thy purchased possession,
and redeemed me from all guilt;

I praise and bless thee for my sabbath rest, my calm conscience,
my peace of heart.


Today's sermon was from Colossians 2:20-23

Courtesy
by Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

Of Courtesy, it is much less
Than Courage of Heart or Holiness,
Yet in my Walks it seems to me
That the Grace of God is in Courtesy.

On Monks I did in Storrington fall,
They took me straight into their Hall;
I saw Three Pictures on a wall,
And Courtesy was in them all.

The first the Annunciation:
The second the Visitation;
The third the Consolation,
Of God that was Our Lady's Son.

The first was of Saint Gabriel;
On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell;
And as he went upon one knee
He shone with Heavenly Courtesy.

Our Lady out of Nazareth rod--
It was Her month of heavy load;
Yet was Her face both great and kind,
For Courtesy was in Her Mind.

The third it was our Little Lord,
Whom all the Kings in arms adored;
He was so small you could not see
His large intent of Courtesy.

Our Lord, that was Our Lady's Son,
Go bless you, People, one by one;
My Rhyme is written, my work is done.

To ___, With a Rose

by Sydney Lanier

I asked my heart to say
Some word whose worth my love's devoir might pay

Upon my Lady's natal day.

Then said my heart to me:

Learn from the rhyme that now shall come to thee

What fits thy Love most lovingly.

This gift that learning shows;

For, as a rhyme unto its rhyme-twin goes,

I send a rose unto a Rose.

The Doctor's Story

by Will Carleton (1845-1912)
Hillsdale College graduate

Good folks ever will have their way--
Good folks ever for it must pay.

But we, who are here and everywhere,
The burden of their faults must bear.

We must shoulder others' shame,
Fight their follies, and take their blame;

Purge the body, and humor the mind;
Doctor the eyes when the soul is blind;

Build the column of health erect
On the quicksands of neglect:

Always shouldering others' shame--
Bearing their faults and taking the blame!

Deacon Rogers, he came to me;
"Wife is a-goin' to die," said he.

"Doctors great, an' doctors small,
Haven't improved her any at all.

"Physic and blister, powders and pills,
And nothing sure but the doctors' bills!

"Twenty women, with remedies new,
Bother my wife the whole day through.

"Sweet as honey, or bitter as gall--
Poor old woman, she takes 'em all.

"Sour or sweet, whatever they choose;
Poor old woman, she daren't refuse.

"So, she pleases whoe'er may call,
An' Death is suited the best of all.

"Physic and blister, powder an' pill--
Bound to conquer, and sure to kill!"

Mrs. Rogers lay in her bed,
Bandaged and blistered from foot to head.

Blistered and bandaged from head to toe,
Mrs. Rogers was very low.

Bottle and saucer, spoon and cup,
On the table stood bravely up;

Physics of high and low degree;
Calomel, catnip, boneset tea;

Everything a body could bear,
Excepting light and water and air.

I opened the blind; the day was bright,
And God gave Mrs. Rogers some light.

I opened the window; the day was fair,
And God gave Mrs. Rogers some air.

Bottles and blisters, powders and pills,
Catnip, boneset, sirups and squills;

Drugs and medicines, high and low,
I threw them as far as I could throw.

"What are you doing?" my patient cried;
"Frightening Death," I coolly replied.

"You are crazy!" a visitor said:
I flung a bottle at his head.

Deacon Rogers he came to me;
"Wife is a-gettin' her health," said he.

"I really think she will worry through;
She scolds me just as she used to do.

"All the people have poohed an' slurred,
All the neighbors have had their word;

"'Twere better to perish, some of 'em say,
Than be cured in such an irregular way."

"Your wife,," said I, "had God's good care,
And His remedies, light and water and air.

"All of the doctors, beyond a doubt,
Couldn't have cured Mrs. Rogers without."

The deacon smiled and bowed his head;
"Then your bill is nothing," he said.

"God's be the glory, as you say!
God bless you, Doctor! Good day! Good day!"

If ever I doctor that woman again,
I'll give her medicine made by men.

The Hippopotamus
by T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)


THE BROAD-BACKED hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo’s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The ’potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo’s voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus’s day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the ’potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

Lines Scribbled on an Envelope
While Riding The 104 Broadway Bus:
by Madeleine L'Engle


There is too much pain
I cannot understand
I cannot pray.

I cannot pray for all the little ones with bellies bloated by starvation in India;
for all the angry Africans striving to be separate in a world struggling for wholeness;
for all the young Chinese men and women taught that hatred and killing are good and compassion evil;
or even all the frightened people in my own city looking for truth in pot or acid.

Here I am
and the ugly man with beery breath beside me reminds me
that it is not my prayers that waken your concern, my Lord;
my prayers, my intercession are not to ask for your love
for all your lost and lonely ones,
your sick and sinning souls,
but mine, my love, my acceptance of your love.
Your love for the woman sticking her umbrella and her expensive
parcels into my ribs and snarling, "Why don't you watch where you're going?"
Your love for the long-haired, gum-chewing boy who shoves
the old lady aside to grab a seat,
Your love for me, too, too tired to look with love,
too tired to look at Love, at you, in every person on the bus.

Expand my love, Lord, so I can help to bear the pain,
help your love move my love into the tired prostitute with false eyelashes and bunioned feet,
the corrupt policeman with his hand open for graft,
the addict, the derelict, the woman in the mink coat and
discontented mouth,
the high school girl with heavy books and frightened eyes.

Help me through these scandalous particulars
to understand
your love.

Help me to pray.



This poem seems especially appropriate to contemplate today, the day after the senseless massacre of 32 people on the campus of VA Tech.

Indeed, Lord, help me to pray.