tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13601715360533203972024-03-14T10:57:04.970-06:00THE SOUND OF THE WORD NIGHTwords, phrases, lines...thoughts made wholeS.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-20418567145583079082023-07-31T13:51:00.000-06:002023-07-31T13:51:19.304-06:00WHEN SHE THINKS BACK<br />
<br /><span style="font-size: medium;">
When she thinks back,<br />
she pictures herself sitting<br />
out on the patio stones,<br />
rocking in a wicker chair<br />
The chair bleached as white<br />
as the stones<br />
The stones, the colour of the<br />
sheep on the hill<br />
<br />
The memories blur together;<br />
one falls against the next, and the<br />
next, and the next,<br />
much like a long line of dominos<br />
set to cascade in some crazy method<br />
<br />
Her rough red hands, delicate then,<br />
did fancy needlework<br />
She can still see the thread - colours<br />
plucked right out of the fields:<br />
corn-yellow, olive-green, tomato-red<br />
<br />
While she sat on the patio stones<br />
rocking and humming, snatches<br />
of hymns, and laughing at nothing<br />
Sometimes she mended things, but<br />
she can't think what now<br />
<br />
What would a country girl have<br />
to mend, she wonders<br />
She can almost put her mind on it<br />
but it flits away, skittish as a colt<br />
Was she always such a fool,<br />
she ponders this a bit before moving<br />
on to some other something.<br />
<br /></span>
<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-33671103077386904272023-07-04T13:45:00.014-06:002023-07-05T12:01:39.720-06:00POSTCARD FEST PHOTOCARDS AND POEMS 2023;One of the most satisfying and inspiring things I've done over the last decade plus is take part in Paul Nelson's baby, the Poetry Postcard Fest -- sending a poem a day on a postcard to a stranger, every day for 30 days over July and August (I may have the date slightly wrong; I've been MIA for several years) but the 30 days is correct and it is in the summer, so that's a given, plus, every registrant gets a list of strangers' addresses and receives the same number of cards from other participants. People from around the planet take part and it's quite remarkable.
<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqyi0tKEtcQMLX7BAIdsp8qzvLQin6ccERObYnqKqz7QDEEajVU-ospeForBy8hSpIszu3dETURjKApRMKNSLwB6qIC4KyQB8nc5lxqLcS_lLJeF00i8laDkiGP_GuoO45GKuopNt1RLgrFI9woKjefJGfvub63m9iSdoc5aGMlSZDY9PwG2mehbl52c/s2000/2.Lightning%20Creek%20where%20Bill's%20ashes%20joined%20water%20to%20flow%20to%20the%20ocean%2012.30.10_InPixio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqyi0tKEtcQMLX7BAIdsp8qzvLQin6ccERObYnqKqz7QDEEajVU-ospeForBy8hSpIszu3dETURjKApRMKNSLwB6qIC4KyQB8nc5lxqLcS_lLJeF00i8laDkiGP_GuoO45GKuopNt1RLgrFI9woKjefJGfvub63m9iSdoc5aGMlSZDY9PwG2mehbl52c/s320/2.Lightning%20Creek%20where%20Bill's%20ashes%20joined%20water%20to%20flow%20to%20the%20ocean%2012.30.10_InPixio.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-56280070580849307812022-04-19T16:40:00.001-06:002022-04-19T16:40:30.542-06:00<h3 style="text-align: left;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">GRANDCHILDREN - A KIND OF DO-OVER</span></b></h3>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">One of the nice things about
grandkids is the freedom they bring<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Not that I ever felt
particularly hampered by my own two kids<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">But
the responsibilities are different with the new batch.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I’ve
always known I’d throw myself under a bus for any of them<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">It’s
just a given, but, what joy to learn I can watch all the movies<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I
didn’t have time for when my kids were growing up<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">And
listen intensely when my granddaughter tells me her visions<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I don’t remember so many
things from my own kids’ childhood<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">We always seemed so busy,
and I was so tired. True, I was ill much <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">of the time. Maybe that’s
why this do-over is such a gift. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> </span></p>S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0Edmonton, AB T5C 3L3, Canada53.615621999999988 -113.460686312.266913506751621 176.22681369999998 90 -43.148186300000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-59178091056763259682022-04-07T23:49:00.009-06:002022-04-08T12:15:59.873-06:00THINKING AND PONDERING AND WONDERING ABOUT THE BODY MIND CONNECTION, FOR "F'S" SAKE<p style="text-align: left;"><b>For “F’s” Sake WAS HOW THIS STARTED</b></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">France, a country with whom I fell in love, remains high on my list of favourite spots (and is also a place my body and soul are content)</span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fudge, especially maple and butterscotch, tickles my tastebuds unbearably (and are flavours that I actually at times, yearn for)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fireplace nights when the temperature outside is Arctic cold feel especially warm (and not even an electric heater warms my body like my wood-burning fireplace with birch-logs flaming high)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Feeling loved, cherished, and feeling that all is well – fine times. (Again, body and soul -- mind/body connection -- it all comes down to this, it does.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div><br /></div>S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0Edmonton, AB, Canada53.5461245 -113.493822925.235890663821152 -148.6500729 81.856358336178843 -78.3375729tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-28245502355745802882021-04-04T18:59:00.004-06:002022-04-08T14:14:34.209-06:00LET ME TELL YOU WHO I AM<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTgmyGIA_p6-_BxptERnz28of4bLu7ZHYN9la00CCjoPsb8QxuLFB0sXRQxFf7Dk5hbfGuBc4SwoTg3rL1VbCOC1TqsL-qmw4ooBqIKmCvPLkH8Fl3gVhnovhqo1vy95UTHpCW0puJtIs/s448/moonshot.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTgmyGIA_p6-_BxptERnz28of4bLu7ZHYN9la00CCjoPsb8QxuLFB0sXRQxFf7Dk5hbfGuBc4SwoTg3rL1VbCOC1TqsL-qmw4ooBqIKmCvPLkH8Fl3gVhnovhqo1vy95UTHpCW0puJtIs/s320/moonshot.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">LET ME TELL YOU WHO
I AM<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In the howling that is bees ushering twilight out<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">and the blackness that is night in across the sky,<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I am every dying star appearing diamond-like<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">and each planet aligning with our own.<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I'll be the blush along the horizon announcing<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">dawn as Sol's coin slides up, glowing<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">and the warmth you feel when your kitten<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">purrs, good morning beside you in your bed.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I am the instinct in your feet as they hit the<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">floor an instant before your baby calls for<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">you to come and get him.<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The gasp you
utter in the night when the phone<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">rings and your heart stops
beating<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">for the few seconds it takes you to answer it.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I am all the dotted lines upon which you will ever<br /> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">be asked to sign
your name —<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-no-proof: yes;">for</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> good reasons, and
those not so great—.<br /><o:p></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">And the blue envelopes in your mailbox bringing<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">letters from overseas, even in these days<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">of emails and Facebook<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I am the thick white and yellow pages you used<br /> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">to find in big cities, and still can, if you look hard<br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">enough, containing the names and numbers<br /> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">of everyone, you will ever need to contact.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">In the days that
feel dwindling towards the end<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">of your life, I will be the sound of solace<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">you desire.<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The master of ceremonies, the person in charge<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">of the view-master, the reels; I'll unspool whatever<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">memories you are keen to review.<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Before you take your final bow—I live, then die,<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">to serve you.</span></div><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p>S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-16686940161570618012021-03-27T16:13:00.000-06:002021-03-27T16:13:06.001-06:00APRIL IS THE CRUELEST MONTH<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXXrpM2UQHli_sK8z3D1jcvZ7y5Qdfhgz7lt69d0l80J-I4HOJNPY8qRBapvwdydiVpYqI93njqDrfU861RytVaYcRj_qcBw-6Yxj8RowuFSkkibz-G54VvgzoIeewytRaQI-64VuAWog/s273/2+geese+a+honking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXXrpM2UQHli_sK8z3D1jcvZ7y5Qdfhgz7lt69d0l80J-I4HOJNPY8qRBapvwdydiVpYqI93njqDrfU861RytVaYcRj_qcBw-6Yxj8RowuFSkkibz-G54VvgzoIeewytRaQI-64VuAWog/s0/2+geese+a+honking.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Most any other place<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Plays ordinary April
fools<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Jokes, at least that’s
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">What they tell me<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">It’s only here <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Where one expects<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">To see showers and
flowers<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And wakes to bowers<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And drifts of that
white stuff<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Not clouds, no<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Not fog or mist or dew<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Nothing so ephemeral<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">As any of that<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Here in this place<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Crouched on the lip<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Of the Arctic Circle<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">As some wise scribe<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Once penned<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">April fools<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Are those who<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Continue to dwell<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Where snowfall<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Tries to set world
records<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Every<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Single<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Year<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">S.E.Ingraham<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-60831074795111882742017-08-03T19:09:00.001-06:002017-08-03T19:09:58.786-06:00A BEGINNER REFLECTS ON IWWG: HOW SHE GOT THERE, WAS THERE, LEFT - 2017In the winter of 2017, a friend I write with online – Ingrid Bruck – suggested there was an organisation she belonged to that I might like … she gave me the link to IWWG and I checked it out.<br />
Ingrid was quite right. She had talked about this superb conference she attended in Muhlenberg that was just for women writers, trying to encourage all the writers we write with to attend. (We’re a group of seven or eight collaborators from all around the planet, poets mainly – we’ve known each other from studying various MOOC’s but have stayed in touch in this smaller group to work on rengays, on a regular basis.)<br />
<br />
This year, only I managed to attend the conference but after I read the courses offered, and one in particular – I was determined to come. Eunice Scarfe is not only on IWWG’s board, she’s a regular presenter at the conferences, and, she’s also a big deal where I come from – Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. As it happened, after years of trying, I finally managed to enroll in one of Eunice’s classes in Edmonton this past May – and was thrilled I could tell her I’d see her in Muhlenberg also.<br />
<br />
Was IWWG what I thought it would be? Oh yes!<br />
<br />
Ingrid had tried to prepare me for this wondrous event and even offered to put me up at her house in Pequea, PA (about 2 hours from Muhlenberg) before and after the conference (this is someone I only knew online, until the conference) – a generous offer I decided to take her up on.<br />
<br />
This was not my first rodeo, as we’re fond of saying in the west. I’ve had the good fortune of attending workshops with publishers in Colrain, Massachusetts, with mixed genre facilitators in Hudson, New York, and with the late Thomas Lux in Palm Beach, Florida – not to mention many in Canada as well. I guess you could say, after almost seven decades on the planet, I’m not easily impressed.<br />
<br />
But this conference managed to put paid to that notion – being hard to impress me, that is – I arrived with a healthy dose of skepticism in my bag, and left thoroughly uplifted.<br />
<br />
Ingrid had primed my pump, so to speak, telling me glowingly of the supportive atmosphere she found at previous conferences, and mentioning various instructors she thought I’d find commonalities with – she mentioned Susan Tiberghien and Myra Shapiro, for instance; when I threw Eunice Scarfe into the mix myself, Ingrid knew I was a goner.<br />
<br />
Being gently guided to and from the conference by two long-time attenders, Ingrid and her sister Leslie Keithline, who flew in from Denver to join us, to being embraced by newbies and seasoned members alike – my indoctrination as a first-year joiner was about as perfect as I could have wished.<br />
<br />
The hardest part? Selecting which courses to attend, by far! I knew I would want to stay in Eunice’s class once I started going there and was almost relieved that she was delayed arriving so I could try out another. I did go to both Susan’s and Myra’s – and I was hooked from the get-go, knew I wouldn’t be looking any further afield this year. The other person I was most interested in was Marj Hahne, but I intended to attend poetry critiquing and knew she was doing that, so decided to cover getting to know her—at least a little bit—that way.<br />
<br />
Every evening was rich with speakers and awards, readings, and more; the Red Door Lounge filled with camaraderie and good food and drink.<br />
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I like to read my poetry aloud but haven’t done that in awhile, and not in front of a large crowd for quite some time. Still, I was determined to do it here – and am thrilled I did – never a warmer crowd than this one.<br />
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Dancing – we danced every night before other more formal parts of the evening got started – if someone had told me I’d be doing that, I would have pooh-poohed the idea as not happening, but somehow, here – with these women, the most natural and fun thing ever.<br />
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The seminar about writing for racial healing: “experimental”, it was billed. Heart-warming and inspiring is how it felt. I hope we do more of this in the future. I especially liked that we each committed to doing one thing, in the near future, to promote racial healing.<br />
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From dining in the great hall (which many of us agreed reminded us of Hogwarts) to moving across the quads to go to class, IWWG 2017, was filled with the joy of learning and being amongst our tribe – women who were philosophically attuned to each other. Is there a greater joy? I can’t imagine one.<br />
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Some Photos from the College:<br />
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S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com2Allentown, PA, USA40.6084305 -75.49018330000001240.5119705 -75.651544800000011 40.7048905 -75.328821800000014tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-24038008940071299672017-06-24T14:16:00.002-06:002017-06-24T14:16:10.491-06:00Shamelessly Self-Promoting ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Haven't been posting much, so when a poem goes live ... have to crow a little<br />
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http://www.persimmontree.org/v2/summer-2017/international-poets/S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-10173330693759763322017-03-23T20:18:00.001-06:002017-03-23T20:18:27.805-06:00NOT TO WORRY, THIS CAN BE IMPROVED <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Take it apart - no - tear it apart<br />
and be ruthless, the editor says to me<br />
Do what you would if you were<br />
changing a very dirty diaper<br />
You know what you'd be getting rid<br />
of then, right?<br />
That's what you need to do when you<br />
revise your poem - get rid of all the sh**<br />
That's the only way to make it better,<br />
to make it good<br />
I know she's right, I do<br />
Sighing, I begin<br />
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(Artwork print - M.C.Escher)<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0Edmonton, AB, Canada53.544389 -113.4909266999999953.2425465 -114.1363737 53.8462315 -112.84547969999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-54924023924030501732017-01-29T20:36:00.002-07:002017-01-29T20:36:56.671-07:00ONE PEARL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On a porch in Amish country<br />
a wise grandmother of the first<br />
order knits a crooked path<br />
Once it is of suitable length, she<br />
covers it with dry tobacco leaves<br />
Then casts it up past the eaves<br />
up past the stars<br />
up past the edge of the world<br />
Until the path finds a black hole<br />
in the sky and is gone<br />
And the grandmother just sits<br />
there with her plants and knits<br />
no more.<br />
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S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com4Edmonton, AB, Canada53.544389 -113.4909266999999953.2425465 -114.1363737 53.8462315 -112.84547969999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-71678220816940126552017-01-18T18:19:00.000-07:002017-01-18T18:19:49.695-07:00MAGIC DIARY 2017From a wonderful course out of Duke University (a MOOC, courtesy of Coursera) - a group of writers stayed in touch and wrote stories about places they were from, and/or had lived ... under the guidance and care of a special leader, Jaya Sengupta - a special volume came into being (more than one actually - there's a cookbook that led off, then a two-part storybook). Here's the preview from my section ...<br />
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S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0Edmonton, AB, Canada53.544389 -113.4909266999999953.2425465 -114.1363737 53.8462315 -112.84547969999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-52691183225041375352016-10-13T19:15:00.001-06:002016-10-13T19:15:52.031-06:00A NEW TAKE ON THE BURNING MAN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At first glance, I think—<br />
performance art —an actual<br />
albeit, huge man<br />
standing there<br />
It's hard to understand why<br />
Then, the scent of candle-wax<br />
wafts towards me; I realize<br />
finally, the man's head<br />
is melting<br />
<br />
I walk towards the sculpture<br />
and read the description<br />
One artist is paying homage<br />
to another<br />
Has sculpted a larger-than-life-<br />
size, absolutely realistic<br />
replica of an idol<br />
Then put, what one writer has<br />
referred to as,' a candle that<br />
burns at glacial rate'<br />
within the head and neck<br />
<br />
At some point, the whole<br />
thing will, presumably,<br />
collapse in a waxy puddle<br />
I find it odd, but interesting<br />
Less so when I find out<br />
the fellow being idolized<br />
is still living<br />
<br />
As I observe the crumpled<br />
cranium, the already long,<br />
grey hair, frazzled and dripping<br />
down the back<br />
I wonder how the living<br />
replica feels about <i>this</i> guy.<br />
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Seen in the Whitney Museum in NYC, August 2016 - Urs Fischer's sculpture dedicated to writer-director Julian Schnabel.<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0Edmonton, AB, Canada53.544389 -113.4909266999999953.2425465 -114.1363737 53.8462315 -112.84547969999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-5893915817378024022016-09-27T17:28:00.007-06:002016-09-27T17:28:57.079-06:00OUTLINE ECLIPSED<br />
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Doppelganger you,<br />
never far from me<br />
My damn, constant<br />
companion, you<br />
never let me be<br />
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You're no spectre no<br />
spirit, too solid by far<br />
My alter ego menace<br />
my double, super nova<br />
- spirit-star<br />
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Oh shadow self, silhouette<br />
let me see you whole<br />
Step out from the gloom<br />
come over here in<br />
to the light, my mole<br />
<br />
I wonder what it is you fear<br />
Why darkness is your friend<br />
Come forward, shady one<br />
I'll protect you, keep your<br />
ghost-trace from the sun.<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com7Edmonton, AB, Canada53.544389 -113.4909266999999953.2425465 -114.1363737 53.8462315 -112.84547969999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-30120178320806548992016-09-24T00:37:00.000-06:002016-09-24T00:37:15.612-06:00Not Necessarily a Bird PoemHere's the link to my poems in Sixfold (did I mention I received my print copy over the weekend? Pretty cool).<br />
http://<a href="http://www.sixfold.org/PoSummer16/Ingraham.html">Sixfold's Summer Poetry 2016 Issue</a>S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-73144627749759960062016-07-18T22:55:00.003-06:002021-03-12T14:16:01.303-07:00BASTILLE DAY, NICE 2010 and 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Bastille Day, six years ago, in the photo, she stands on the beach at Nice<br />
Remembers feeling blessed to scrunch her toes in the sand where the very rich<br />
and the artistic both loved to frolic - the playground frequented by Picasso, Matisse,<br />
Monet - and the writers - Stein, Hemingway, Gatsby and others, too many to mention<br />
The words idyllic and privileged occurred to her more than once but she didn't mind.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to the present: annual celebrations underway for France's biggest revelry<br />
as dark inks the night, and fireworks are readied to be-jewel the sky. Abruptly, chaos<br />
reigns - a thunderous cacophony, and some flares - did the fireworks begin early?<br />
All too soon it becomes apparent something much less celebratory is happening ...<br />
An out-of-control truck is careening at high speed down the main boulevard; the place<br />
<br />
is chock-a-block with people of all ages and no other vehicles. There is no escaping<br />
the death-mobile. The night air saturates: shooting, screaming, blood, and dying.<br />
Dying. Before police are able to kill the driver, dozens of dead line the street<br />
with dozens more seriously injured. A terrorist attack takes place in Nice on Bastille Day.<br />
The woman stares at her photograph through stinging tears; first it was Paris, now<br />
Nice; she carves out room to house more hurt in her heart. It's all she can think to do.<br />
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</div>S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-71549414155639206782016-06-27T16:24:00.001-06:002016-06-27T16:24:22.242-06:00BECOMING UNSANE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I wake and find myself mad with missing you,<br />
is that a form of craving?<br />
I picture your infant self - you were so beautiful; everyone<br />
said so; strangers would stop me at the mall, on the street,<br />
everywhere - and it was always the same,<br />
"Oh my, what a beauty - a girl, I guess, eh?"<br />
<br />
Even though I'm all about gender-neutrality,<br />
you were very fair, bald almost, and I got tired<br />
of confirming that, yes, you were a lovely girl<br />
Hence the bows, the pink outfits ...<br />
<br />
Sometimes, my arms ache to hold you - often actually -<br />
to not even hear your voice is almost beyond my ken<br />
And the rest of it - this shunning thing you're doing -<br />
I guess that too is beyond me.<br />
At times I think I'm going unsane, that I'll never<br />
get over this surreal period in my life.<br />
<br />
It comes to me that it's your life also.<br />
Do you feel the loss as keenly? <i>Ever</i>?<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-33830344873242012862016-04-08T13:45:00.000-06:002016-04-08T13:45:15.635-06:00THE BROTHER WITHOUT A NAME ... OR NOT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i> <i><br /></i><br />
<i>A Daughter Wonders</i><br />
<br />
Their conversation was casual<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
at dusk, in the bedroom<br />
and she cannot remember<br />
how they got onto the topic<br />
again<br />
It's not like they talked about<br />
it often, but it did come up<br />
the matter of her brother's<br />
adoption<br />
The night he arrived<br />
Was this the first time she'd<br />
learned this detail<br />
That he'd arrived un-named?<br />
<br />
<i>Too Late, a Daughter Wonders</i><br />
<br />
I wish that she was still here<br />
so that I could ask her if she<br />
really told me this<br />
Why would she lie to me about<br />
this? What was the point?<br />
It's not like I didn't already<br />
ache for him in so many ways<br />
But to tell me he arrived at<br />
their house without even a<br />
name ... why would she tell<br />
me that, if it wasn't true?<br />
<br />
<i>Betrayed and Angry, a</i><br />
<i>Sister Wonders</i><br />
<br />
Going through her things<br />
was mostly routine; she was<br />
so organized, just as she was<br />
when alive. But papers are<br />
papers and each one needed<br />
to be examined - then filed<br />
or shredded.<br />
Finding our adoption papers<br />
was a bit jolting but I didn't<br />
expect any surprises - wrong.<br />
I found your real name.<br />
You had one! After she'd told<br />
me you came to them without<br />
any moniker, it turns out<br />
they had just completely<br />
changed the one you were<br />
given ... what the hell?<br />
<br />
<i>Bereft and Unquestioning</i><br />
<br />
The night she told me you were<br />
not only delivered in the dark<br />
of night, convulsing and screaming<br />
the house down, but, worst of all -<br />
"poor little babe - he had no name"<br />
I remember having to strain to hear<br />
her, lean in close, right near her<br />
mouth; and I made her repeat it.<br />
"What?" my voice sounded ultra-<br />
loud in the quiet of her bedroom<br />
"What did you say ..."<br />
She was crying then, but spoke<br />
a little louder, "He had no name,"<br />
she whispered, "When the Children's<br />
Aid women were leaving, we asked<br />
them - what should we call him?"<br />
And they told us, "...whatever you<br />
want ... nobody's named him yet..."<br />
Then we both wept, hugging.<br />
Is it possible she never saw your<br />
birth certificate herself? I want<br />
to believe this, I do.<br />
<br />
<i>Things I Knew, But Didn't Share</i><br />
<br />
In common knowledge realms,<br />
it's said that our memories don't<br />
reach back to babyhood, but I<br />
remember the night I was dropped<br />
at my adoptive parents. I do. And<br />
clearly. Maybe it's because the<br />
story has been told so often, I<br />
just think I remember it, but I<br />
don't think so. There are too<br />
many sensory details that are<br />
beyond the scope of anyone else's<br />
memory, that I can recall ...<br />
Like how the dark felt wet even<br />
though it wasn't raining.<br />
How hot my skin was - I could<br />
feel the heat through the skimpy<br />
blanket I was wrapped in.<br />
(I didn't find out 'til later, I was<br />
running a high fever - an<br />
almost fatally high fever.)<br />
The business about my name?<br />
I remember that too - being<br />
called something at the foster<br />
home - it had two syllables<br />
and they weren't "hey you".<br />
<br />
<i>A Mother's Regrets</i><br />
<br />
She's going now. I hear her locking my door, so careful.<br />
I wish I could let her know how much I love her; I know<br />
she never believes me, I can see it on her face, in the way<br />
she so gingerly hugs me and then pulls away.<br />
<br />
What did I do tonight that was so upsetting? It's so hard<br />
for me to remember what I did, or said, from one minute<br />
to the next. This getting old is such a tiresome event.<br />
I am wracking my brain trying to think what we talked about.<br />
<br />
Somehow, we always reminisce about things. I guess that's<br />
natural, to be expected, at my age, and even at hers. Oh,<br />
oh, I remember! We were talking about her brother, my son;<br />
since he died, she's been thirsty for information about him.<br />
<br />
Oh yes, now I recall. I told her about his unlucky naming or<br />
non-naming, I guess is closer to the truth of it. I thought I'd<br />
told her this ages ago, but I could tell by the shock on her face,<br />
she either had no recollection or had not heard it before.<br />
<br />
It is awful, if you think of it, having a baby over a year - and<br />
never naming the child! Never? I remember his father and I<br />
just staring at each other, saying in sync - we'll call him<br />
"William, John" as if we'd decided it before hand<br />
<br />
We hadn't, but it seemed so important and just felt right<br />
Of course, William was a pretty large handle for such a wee<br />
boy (he was big for his age, but still) and we all started calling<br />
him Billy and Bill right then, that night, and from there on.<br />
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The prompt was supplied by Harold Abramowitz and is described below, as is more about this interesting poet.<br />
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Write something you cannot remember: a memory of something – a story, an anecdote, a song, another poem, a recipe, an episode of a television program, anything, that you only partially or imperfectly remember. Write multiple versions, at least 6, of this memory.<br />
<br />
I did do six versions of this maybe memory, and they are from these points of view ... (even thought four versions are from my point of view - one in the third person - they're all from different times.)<br />
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#1 - third person, mine, #2 - first person, mine #3 - first person, mine #4 - first person, mine<br />
#5 - first person, my brother #6 - first person, my mother<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<br />
More from Harold Abramovitz<br />
Much of my work focuses on trauma. In my work, I attempt to use innovative narrative and poetic techniques and forms to work around the felt experience of trauma. For example, my book Dear Dearly Beloved consists of a series of love letters in which the narrator tries, and fails, and tries again, to make sense of an incredible loss. In my novella Not Blessed, an unmentioned public trauma—war—disintegrates a shifting narrator, as he idealizes an idyllic childhood memory that cannot possibly be true. My hope is that my work will challenge the reader to rethink—both emotionally and intellectually—our relationships to what we believe we know.<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com2Kilkenny, Edmonton, AB, Canada53.610897500000007 -113.456688853.592056500000005 -113.4970293 53.629738500000009 -113.4163483tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-24437495550458246992016-04-06T20:24:00.001-06:002020-07-23T14:34:40.890-06:00THE FRAGILITY OF HORSES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The appaloosa takes the jump effortlessly<br />
How did they know to bring a cup of tears?<br />
There is no need to tip-toe about quietly<br />
I will tell you when to shut up - have no fears<br />
- oh - not another fracture; they're absurd -<br />
The appaloosa running at dusk is barely seen<br />
Shall I go out now and round up the herd?<br />
- it might cripple more the horses who've been -<br />
I don't think I can bear to take down the jump<br />
The tears must have been included in the RSVP<br />
Now it's imperative there be no noise, kill the pump<br />
- another fracture might cripple horses that will be...<br />
No - not if I don't go out there and round them up.<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-31558926340799742062016-04-04T15:52:00.000-06:002016-04-04T15:53:12.657-06:00PEACE<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> APPEASE </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">ACCORD CARE</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> AMICABLE<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">ESCAPE </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> CALM</span><br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"> P E A C E </span><span style="font-size: x-large; font-weight: normal;">EASE</span></h2>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> PLACID <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> AMNESTY<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">PACT </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">PACIFIC </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> CIVIL</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> CONCILIATE </span><br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-77956768042954496602016-04-03T17:49:00.004-06:002016-04-03T17:49:56.799-06:00RARE DAYS AND GRACE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Speak to me of rare days filled with grace<br />
and phrases rich. Endless words for poems<br />
you'll weave with threads sensual,<br />
but rooted in the real, in all there is to witness.<br />
Write no empty lines, none that you will not<br />
wish to lay claim to - even if only briefly.<br />
In the end, remember the sensuous and erotic<br />
do not necessarily feed the same hunger.<br />
Speak to me of all of these, rare days, and grace.<br />
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S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-16547535700349308522016-04-03T14:24:00.000-06:002016-04-03T14:24:05.341-06:00BASHAD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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BASHAD<br />
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old, little-known;art-l trap<br />
nes eeled lined appled<br />
bo ewn hen ton, oder<br />
best serve ovower<br />
sage red signer<br />
stoned<br />
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Found Poetry Review’s Day 3: Nico Vassilakis wrestles letters to free them of their word scrum. Stare at a word until the letters start to discorporate. You will find that letter cohesion, the letter glue that keeps letters stuck inside a word, is disrupted and dissolves. Fragments of letters will dislodge too. You are then free to visually interpret or document the life of letters outside their word existence as loosely or succinctly as possible.<br />
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(I was having trouble with this prompt and visited Vassilakis' blog site to see what else he'd done with this type of constraint (or "freeing") - I loved the idea of staring so long that letters began to fall off places and used one of my photos from last year's FPR project, and the poem beneath it for the "staring" part of the prompt. My result is bizarre, but I quite like it.)<br />
S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0Edmonton, AB, Canada53.544389 -113.4909266999999953.2425465 -114.1363737 53.8462315 -112.84547969999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-1618205540015446502016-03-13T20:39:00.000-06:002016-03-13T20:39:31.652-06:00DON'T YOU JUST<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuj4hJuJso90ceY9TKDBTLTJtwsJTm74GYsFQEc7dq7Hetz5X2m2fShRtB7NrkzlZNAC8Boxc-cagC8OKnafCOTPsIzN6gDGmoUArVsZR3uf8CsOKswRtVvToKZZALy3uSgXhXiewIF-g/s1600/Sunset+from+plane+at+Pearson+Airport.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuj4hJuJso90ceY9TKDBTLTJtwsJTm74GYsFQEc7dq7Hetz5X2m2fShRtB7NrkzlZNAC8Boxc-cagC8OKnafCOTPsIzN6gDGmoUArVsZR3uf8CsOKswRtVvToKZZALy3uSgXhXiewIF-g/s200/Sunset+from+plane+at+Pearson+Airport.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Don't you just<br />
love days<br />
that flower<br />
full of song<br />
and lack regret?<br />
The ones where<br />
you awaken,<br />
as if<br />
still dreaming,<br />
inexplicably<br />
delighted?<br />
You stay<br />
still,<br />
hold your<br />
breath,<br />
listen<br />
hard before<br />
you ease<br />
like Sol into<br />
the shining sky.<br />
<br />
No words<br />
can portray<br />
days like these,<br />
none adequately<br />
explain<br />
the gift<br />
of them,<br />
a present you<br />
construe<br />
ephemeral.<br />
<br />
Wonder<br />
how to<br />
transform<br />
into something<br />
permanent.<br />
Know<br />
the folly of<br />
trying to<br />
objectify<br />
or water<br />
flowers unreal;<br />
the wilting<br />
of dreams<br />
other<br />
than lovely.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com6Edmonton, AB, Canada53.544389 -113.4909266999999953.2425465 -114.1363737 53.8462315 -112.84547969999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-74616979090239465552016-03-11T17:01:00.001-07:002016-03-11T17:01:36.923-07:00WEATHERED UNDER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5gYZuatJnrtjQCyjl3c8CFTGXWnWt5WE028qkvBs0BMBwlcqHEXqcXFq7IB-p4kmXrtCzoLBf5xzBYb-CrqAKwom5geSUkHJ43eUYYmilgBQgtZfl_H3QaLm1OsEljDpbu7x5aiY_T_8/s1600/Wolf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5gYZuatJnrtjQCyjl3c8CFTGXWnWt5WE028qkvBs0BMBwlcqHEXqcXFq7IB-p4kmXrtCzoLBf5xzBYb-CrqAKwom5geSUkHJ43eUYYmilgBQgtZfl_H3QaLm1OsEljDpbu7x5aiY_T_8/s200/Wolf.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(in memory of Farley, the wolf - died 2015)<br />
<br />
How difficult to say the truth<br />
You know the way it is<br />
Your beloved pet - a soul-mate who<br />
shared your life for decades:<br />
more than two<br />
Became ill, weary of living, had to<br />
be put to sleep yesterday<br />
<br />
But when someone asks you how<br />
you're doing, how you are ...<br />
You say - oh, not too bad<br />
Or - I've been better -or, covering<br />
your pain with a pseudo-ailment<br />
I'm a bit under-the-weather today<br />
<br />
Nothing serious, your friend hopes<br />
and you reply, you're sure not<br />
Probably just the twenty-four hour<br />
flu - not to worry - and you hurry off<br />
Just making it back to your car<br />
to hunch over the steering wheel<br />
as you let grief pour from your eyes.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0Edmonton, AB T5C 3L3, Canada53.615621999999988 -113.4606863000000253.614444499999991 -113.46320780000002 53.616799499999985 -113.45816480000002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-70033506796684714972016-02-29T22:27:00.001-07:002016-02-29T22:27:43.326-07:00UNDER THREAT OF DREAMS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Under threat of dreams destroyed<br />
or another run of terrible times<br />
I am going back through my memories,<br />
skipping over the ones that are hard<br />
to think about now<br />
Letting them dissolve in mists of scarlet<br />
Trying instead to touch those that mean<br />
the most, the ones that jump forward,<br />
chiming clear as a church bell<br />
on a Sunday morning<br />
It's not enough to try and remember<br />
the kiss of a child crossed with the tears<br />
of yesteryear<br />
Group it all together and maybe, just maybe<br />
I'll have more left than expected.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com5Canada53.748710796898969 -106.17187534.200921296898969 -147.480469 73.296500296898969 -64.863281tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1360171536053320397.post-49349875192776074492016-02-27T12:44:00.002-07:002016-02-27T12:44:48.689-07:00THE WEIGHT OF THE WRONG SADNESSESIn memory of KJN (Jan. 1968 - Jan.2016)<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
The sky is matted with unshed tears<br />
and the air thick with winter writhing<br />
A friend buries one of his children<br />
as the planet spins gravely out-of-control<br />
She feels selfish wishing for anything<br />
when so much loss shrouds so many<br />
Instead makes her mind as blank<br />
and empty as a death-row convict's stare.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0Edmonton, AB T5C 3L3, Canada53.615621999999988 -113.4606863000000253.614444499999991 -113.46320780000002 53.616799499999985 -113.45816480000002