This is a new poem, and I'm not thinking about new love here, I'm thinking of love that continues past the 7 year mark. Valentine's Day is most fun, in my experience, for young kids excited to share cards with school mates. I visited a church in Dublin and waited in line to have a visit with the bones of Saint Valentine, who inspired this celebration.

Photo by u0410u0440u0442u0435u043c u0421u043cu043eu043bu0434u0430u0440u0435u0432 on Pexels.com The Wicked Witch wasn't a witch. She was more of an archetype. That is to say, there ARE wicked people in all religions, people revel in unkindness, who feed off the misery of others, who seem to look for the less fortunate to bully like the Tin Man, the Lion, and a young girl who became lost in a storm.

New England is about to have a whopper of a winter storm with high winds and heavy snow. It's traveling up from south of here. When this happens kind of storm- heavy snowfall, winds- happen, we often loose electricity for several days as we wait for contitions to allow work crews come in to repair. But the delight is that after the storm the sledding, ice skating, and skiing will be good again.

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In my End of LIfe paperwork, will, and wishes I've got some information to help myself be comfortable close to the end. It's written that I should be offered spuds, black tea, yogurt, and chicken broth with pastina stars, even if it appears It's not wise. I don't want to leave this world anxiously hungry or thirsty. I can always decline.

Who better to describe the cold beauty and introspection of December than a ninth century Irish monk, who shares this poem with with us. I have news for you I have news for you:The stag bells, winter snows, summer has goneWind high and cold, the sun low, short its courseThe sea running high.Deep red the bracken; its shape is lost;

Yesterday cars on route 2 had lights turned on at 3:30, and sure enough, the sun was already lower than the pines Today dark seemed to fall even faster, in between my reading and cup of tea. Christmas, Yule, Solstice. We welcome you. We hope for a cessation of causing harm throughout the world. We wish for warm beds and warm foods for all.

I'll be at the Greenfield Library next Saturday, and I'd love to see you. Since my last post Winter has arrived bringing snow and plummeting temperatures. I've been bringing wood in every day, and the woodstove holds dancing fires and warms us. I wrote the following poem for my mother. Yule Blessings to you and all of your ancestors. What She Saved…

There are some gardens that bask in light, and so, there are still some garden treats left. Gathering Supper Russian kale picked at dusk sprinkled with pine needles miso and wine splash onto roasted squash a little tipsy all of us mushroom-filled oak logs pop like firecrackers next to Moss Brook from the forest edge to skillet sizzle of butter garlic shitake life dances from seed and spore from fallen trees at forest edge onto our table tonight

May all people be safe, warm, loved, and well-fed. Thanksgiving Sleep and stillness cling to my eyes. Morning light trickles through pine branches into the kitchen where yeast has raised soft pillows of cherog dough overnight. I slide the fragrance of warm yeast into the waiting oven. I kept the fire going last night to coddle the dough, to be kind to myself.

The weather is cold and Winter says she's just around the corner. If you are in the area, come to Worcester this Sunday, the 9th, to listen to some excellent poetry and also to share some of yours. After the reading, there is an open mike. Also, I've added a few more paintings to the paintings page in the menu bar at the top of the page.

On Monday October 28 I'll be reading at the Wheeler library in Orange MA as a finalist in the Collen' Poetry contest. Years ago I used to enjoy meeting up with Robert Collen' a the library for a chat, and I love being a part of this library; it fees like a second home. Next, a poster below gives details for a reading in Worcester MA on November 9th.

You are all most welcome to come to this event, one of the last NEPC events of this year. In August I got covid for the first time, and I've been thinking of how much covid has changed our lives. I wrote the following poem back at the beginning, when many people were critically ill or dying. That spring I got into gardening with a LOT of enthusiasm.

Turning Season Brown stalks and seed heads along the path. An umbrella of oak leaves diverts rain from a patch of chanterelles. Scarlet blueberry leaves on the hillside woo the last robins. In the dark velvet of pines raindrops drip through branches where old bird nests hang empty. Birds have flown except for that Blue Heron who silently glided downstream.

Summer's warmth has continued, comfortable emperatures that keep the flowers going. The grasshoppers are able to jump to the second floor and cling to the window screens. The woodpeckers are happy to find them there. And so the circle of life continues even as leaves turn yellow land orange. I sit on porch steps, watch the sun warm away the night's dew.

Today I offer another tiny flight of imagination story, born from a prompt at my writing session. All photos are my own, taken in Florida. Mira Largo It was a sunny morning at the Mira Largo House. Parrots flew through the bamboo trees, and soft breezes gently lifted the smallest waves. A newly constructed drawbridge connected the large white mansion to a golf course on the other side of the small man-made canal.

First, I have good news to share. Farm Girl Press has accepted two poems for their Autumn/Winter journal. When the time comes, I'll share the online version with you. Today I heard from my cousin Deb, who is mentioned in the following poem, and it brought the poem in mind. For New Englanders Cape Cod has been a place that only grows more wonderful in our memories as the years pass.

I met David and we found our grandparents were survivors of the Armenian genocide from the same general area, close enough to speak the same dialect. He grew up with Sunday visits to his grandparents, and I grew up with us all living together. Photo by Luiz M. Santos on Pexels.com Refugees from Endearments He always wondered what endearments Grandfather…

Late August I sit on porch steps, watch the sun burn off the late August dew. Fog fronds curl away from Brown-Eyed Susans and squash flowers. I sip tea and watch bumblees already working. They hover and dip into each separate chive blossom, feet first, bury their heads deep in its glory. Orange pollen sacs fill on their back legs, travelers…

I wrote this for my grandchildren, Lina and Ella/Nico. I hope it finds them. Her Grandmother Wishes I would have liked to hear her call Seanmháthair— to hear her toddler tongue shape that word. Perhaps I would have fed her porridge some morning, lifted her to pull an apple right from the tree. We would go into the garden, salute yarrow…

I'd like to dedicate this week's blog to Gabby, a former student who is now a friend and mother of four really great kids. Gabby and her children have grown a vegetable gardenin past years and loved eating many fresh veggies. This summer they've turned thier hands to caring for a backyard flock of chickens that will soon be laying eggs.

I find the same things that delighted me whan I was a child still delight me now- the idea of ice cream on a warm day, picking any kind of berry, no matter how hot the weather, and making jam for the next morning, eating berries with just about anything. I even mix fresh berries and smoked salmon into scrambled eggs.

Blueberries by Elaine Reardon They were heaven—sweet food from fairy realms. I ate as we picked along the road, into the field where three sheep watched us warily. We picked into the woods at the s…

While most of my writing is optimistic, some isn't, bcaue difficult things happen in life. And this is a poem about a young woman's hard times. She Was Certain She was doing the right thing. Her mother-in-law gave her kids processed foods, M&Ms, and sugary peanut butter, put the girls in frilly dresses, didn't like them messy. So it seemed right, if that woman…

This story was recently published by Iron Fairy Press. I was a huge Star Wars Fan back for the first several movies. My friends and I lined up with great anticipation outside theaters, wore Princess Leia braids, and wished for Jedi training. I was happy that Skellig Micheal, off the coast of County Kerry, is where a Star Wars movie was filmed.