A PA Day in November

At 3:00 PM this afternoon, the temperature went up to 17C (or 62F for my American friends). That was according to the Weather Network in my little corner of SW Ontario. It is mid-November and that has got to be pushing some kind of record (Yup, just checked the Weather again and we haven't seen that temperature on this day since 1964). I remember plenty a day when the world has been covered in white in years past. I know that Ms. C will slap me silly claiming I am jinxing the world, but I am still in a little bit of disbelief. It was just gorgeous with nary a cloud in the sky!

Ancient dinosaur wandering the woods

So rather than sit inside and cook, clean or tackle the never-ending laundry pile, we packed into the van and went a'wandering with friends in tow. It was a PA day for the girls, so a special treat to have such glorious weather to enjoy. We headed to a local park for the girls to play, then explored the forest surrounding it. My idea of a perfect day and these smiles give proof of the fun that we had.

The girls tamed the beast into a ride

Everywhere we went, we found giant stumps that I couldn't help but snap another picture of. The little hams were only too willing to climb up for their photo op.

After the woods were conquered, they ran back to the playground 

for one more round of swinging fun

Before calling it a day,

 noshing on dinner

and climbing into bed

 for sweet, sweet dreams

 of a day spent under a magnificent, clear blue November sky.

Remembrance Day - Lest We Forget

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

by John McCrae 1915

No Words of my Own

Just my poppy offered up

for those gone before

for my freedoms

...

Leaving the Light on

I sit in the silence of my own creation. 

for  this,

Today

I am grateful. 

I have peace in my little space.

My tears, a dear memory

held close to my heart.

They are a piece of my ever- following soul,

but they do not own me 

anymore.

 ~

Now,

tears of dismay 

flow heavy.

Too many shattered ghosts

treading through carefully crafted worlds

fallen apart

from false promises.

Lo, 

fine spirits spun out in flux 

on yesterday's prayers forgotten

~

I held love in my hand,

not perfect,

not always soft, kind or cuddly,

but steadfast and strong.

Is it so hard to believe

that my lumpen love

was the rarest golden ember

that others beseech,

reach for its flawed facets

when that ember speaks to all?

~

I hear the echo.

I see the waves that ripple 

through times turbulent

remember well my "enough?"

and feel

whimpering for those lost

that I cannot help

or point the way for,

but know

 that I will hold my light out to forever.

~

***

Swirling winds of separation

seem to be the norm in my friendship circle at present.

It makes me thoughtful and sad

for those walking that path of thorns

~loving thoughts sent to you all~

maybe...

It all started with a look;
first tentative glances
hidden under smiling brows and
my heart strung out on adrenaline's maybes
   oh yes, baby,
   maybe, maybe...


You looked at me
and my smile grew wider.
My soul tripped over clumsy feet
forgotten how to walk
  just want to talk
  and maybe walk...

A finger brushed,
then explored my waiting hand
while exploding senses
lit fire to the world.
   my sanity unfurled
   to maybe step in your world...

Now steps fall soft
and periphery cartoons
fade to tucked away corners
of my mind with a kiss;
   for this little miss,
   maybe just a kiss...

Swept into nevermore
on first love's bliss
memories shine and blur.
Was it really like this?
  heaven in a kiss
  or did I maybe dream this?

I hold the light
of fairy tale bright,
yet know that love's breath grows old
and shrugged shoulders cold,
but still I dream
love exists yet, I scream!
   the world echoes back
   Maybe, maybe...

()

I  believe in  fairy  tales and  lover's  eyes. 

My  heart sings poetry with every beat

& I live to hear those words resound.

Speak to me of love

and poetry.

Sing to me your OneShot

The Voice of Africa

    Bob crooned in my ear.

“One love, one heart. Let’s get together and feel alright.

As it was in the beginning! One love…”

    Ah, Mr. Marley; the voice of Africa. Everywhere we went we heard his songs played on tinny ghetto blasters. Arnie’s stereo was no better and you would think the monotony of the same 2 tapes over and over again would push one over the edge, but it just became the soundtrack of our journey. When I needed a break, I could always slip on the headphones of my walkman and disappear in the dark whining of Robert Smith from The Cure or John Waite’s sad lament in “Missing You” that reminded me of friends far from arm’s reach. Mostly though, I just sat back and hummed along to Bob Marley as the miles passed under our wheels in the pursuit of life and adventure.

    With time, our journey, like Arnie, was beginning to show the wear and tear from our travels. In Masvingo, we had patched the hole that was torn in the muffler from the road from hell in Mozambique. The patch was a temporary fix, and as the miles stretched out ahead of us again, the putty found it could not hold its muster. There were other signs that Arnie was getting tired of our constant pilgrimage as well; our starter motor was now completely done, our fuel efficiency was slowly slipping, the slider door no longer sealed easily, often requiring two, three or more shoves of the door to shut it tight. Yes, it was almost time to say goodbye.

    Goodbyes loomed large for more than just the van though, as our group steered along on the last leg of our journey. In a week’s time, the gift that had been presented to me by Fate’s own hands many months before, in the Johannesburg airport, would drift away from me, from us. It was time for Miki to go home. In a mere week and a half, she would be back in Canada, far from the dry landscape of Zimbabwe. Oliver would go his own way again. Brett and I would have to decide how much further we could push Arnie, before we propped a For Sale in his window.

    Today was not yet that day though. Today, we pushed on along twisty, turny roads. We claimed victory at another petrol station reached, and shoved off towards Bulawayo where a taste of city life would encircle us again. The roads were getting shorter though and Bob’s voice seemed poignant, as I stared at my travelling companion’s heads in the front seat.

Sing it Bob…

“No, woman, no cry;

Good friends we have,

Oh, good friends we’ve lost

Along the way…”