It's another poem.

Give me nothing,

and I will take what I can.

Exhaust your empty well.

Drink deep from the dregs.

Take my meal from your barren

table,

And pay you back in kind.

Two-thousand Twelve.

This will be *the* year...

the year I finally learn how to spell the word, "twelve." Seriously. Beyond that, I have no clue as to what the life will show me.

With the exception that life will show me how to fall in love again.

Come February (another word I will most likely learn how to spell without thinking) my first grandchild will enter the world. A little girl. I know whenever I am in her presence, I will be looking at life through a little one's eyes. I will live my life vicariously through her.

I am told by others who have traveled this path, my life will never be the same.

Counting

i scream out the numbers

of the sheep as they pass.

in my mind, behind my eyes

that have seen too much.

the sounds I try to drown,

five-fifty-five, five-fifty-six...

the numbers rise each and every night,

the flock increases in size.

i'm losing count,

i'm losing my voice.

still the leaping sheep bleat

in response to the rhythm,

of my desire to forget.

Posting Poems Until Further Notice.

I need to go on sabbatical,

a pilgrimage to find myself.

My soul, my heart

have gone missing.

Posting "Lost" signs everywhere

in poems and prose...

and silence.

I've exhausted the in-between,

the merged time of alert and asleep.

I'm tired of the obscured,

brought on by Bacchus.

To drink, to dream

to slip away...

A coward's folly.

Autumn leaves fall like confetti

in a ticker tape parade.

Summer being sent off,

Winter being ushered in.

And in that brief time in-between

the hazy days

and the hibernation,

are moments

of reflection

as each leaf touches down.

More From the Poetry Corner of My Mind.

I feel the nip of an upcoming winter

blowing through my open window.

It settles upon me with an icy feel of melancholy.

My thoughts tumble down like the dying leaves of trees

preparing for slumber.

I wish I could prepare for sleep.

Shake my arms, let things fall to the ground.

Close my eyes until I feel the call

to grow again.

Transitory Travels

I am never without a camera of one kind or another. If I don't have a digital camera tucked in my purse, I always have my iPhone to snap shots whenever the thought moves me. Today I was out on this sunny day after a weekend of icy roads and blowing winds. I drove down to one of my usual stopping places, a boat ramp along one of the rivers that grace the town where I live. I was hoping to spot some bald eagles, but this particular place in the river had already succumbed to the frigid temperatures. The river was a sheet of ice. Slow-moving current and shallow depths prevented an open oasis for the eagles to fish. I stepped out of my vehicle and snapped a few pictures; a study in grey and white, blue and silver, as the sun gave false warmth to a frigid December day.

Closing my eyes, I recalled the same scene, months past. The river was flowing free. Green overwhelmed the eye in the height of summer. The sun-baked ground only reflected back the heat of the sun. The air smelled of an impossible perfume of warm grasses. Bird-song was a consonance, bordering on cacophony. As the bitter wind buffered my fur-trimmed hood, I opened my eyes to find myself transported back to the tundra-like view before me.

My memories left me as quickly as I opened my eyes, but reality, too had left me just as swiftly when I shut out the scene before me.

Life is transitory. It had seemed, like everyone says, "just yesterday when..." and soon enough I will find myself in this very same spot, taking snapshots of a flowing river, abundantly green trees, impossibly blue skies, bird-song as a soundtrack and the warm essence of sun-baked grass. I will recall that day when, on a whim I stopped to take a snapshot of an icy river on a cold day in December. It seemed like just yesterday...but it will once again return in a blink of an eye.

Close your eyes, and we become travelers in time.

Poetry Time

habit creature

reacting with my jerking knee.

dealing with my bi-tropical

depression.

leave something

in the lost foundry.

brain-panning for gold,

foolishly.

take need

of my carelessness.

wanting for nothing,

selfishly.

Less Traveled

To me, one of the more thought-provoking images is one of a path. Paths signify different ideas to different people. They bring up varying thoughts and emotions. Maybe some people see a path and it brings up feelings of uncertainty and fear. "What lies at the end of the path?" they may think, even before stepping foot upon it; they turn around and walk away, back to their known world. Or perhaps the uncertainty is a pulling force, causing one to run, arms outstretched, as if to take flight, their feet never touching the ground. Paths do go in both directions, though. A wanderer can, at any time turn around and walk back from whence they came.

But, there could have been something waiting at the end of the path. The "what is" becomes the "what might have been". Those who never venture will always be left with questions.

Yes...this "path" is allegory. If it were a real path, there could be monsters lurking at the end...or angels. Sorry, still waxing allegorical. I mean, there could be grizzly bears, or perhaps an ice cream stand. That is the thing about paths...they all lead to somewhere. Is the finding out worth the unknowing journey?

For me, paths and images of, hearken to the familiar poem by Robert Frost, which was about "roads", but the idea, the feeling is the same:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by...

Will I take the path, or is it the path I am on now?

Will it make all the difference?

This didn't start out as social commentary...

I decided to go shopping today, which for me entails logging on to the computer and navigating over to the online store that sells just about everything...you know, the one that just isn't a river in South America. Stumbling along the Internet, I came across an article about a book that sounded like an interesting read, so off to Amazon I went.

On the home page sits the Kindle. The newer, smaller version with wi-fi is beckoning me with it's "under $200"price tag. I have been fighting the urge to buy a Kindle since it's debut. It's not because I don't feel that a digital download is less real because I can't hold the item in my hands. I have been downloading mp3s for years now. It shocks me when I see the number of purchased songs on my iTunes...ninety-nine cents at a time over the course of a few years. Let's just say it adds up.

Back to the Kindle...in my life as it stands now, a Kindle (or any e-book, let's be fair here) just makes sense. The past few weeks I have been bagging up old paperbacks that I will never read again, due in part to a period in my life when I ate up romance novels like chocolate bonbons (Godiva, mind you). I know I have blogged about this subject before, how there is just something about holding a book in your hands. Also there is a joy, a sense of pride I tend to feel when I look at the many shelves of books that clutter my house. Shelves of books I have read more than once, books I have yet to read. Books that are scattered throughout...a book on my bed-side table, a few books in a wicker basket next to my couch. A book in my "library", you know, the library with the porcelain seat? They all have bookmarks slid between the pages. All in different stages of being read. Right now, I have Contact by Carl Sagan, A Literate Passion: Letters of Anais Nin (pardon my lack of umlaut) and Henry Miller, 1932-1953, and A Movable Feast by Ernest Hemmingway...all in the process of being read.

Okay, I admit, I am somewhat showing off. One mark against the Kindle. It's not like I can walk up to someone and say, "Hey, wanna see my reading list?" without sounding like a total puffed up peacock.

But, as time goes by, and the older and obviously more practical I become, being able to carry my library with me begins to have it's appeal. Less stuff cluttering my house, and by extension, my life is appealing, also.

But what appears to be the center of it all, the heart of the matter, the big selling point to a Kindle (or Nook, or Sony's e-reader) is the ability to have whatever I want to read in a matter of minutes. I want it, and I want it now.

And there in lies the inherent danger. Society has collectively lost it's patience because of the Digital Age. Books, music, answers to nagging questions...they are just a click away. Computers, the Internet, technology has possibly turned society into people who feel that everything they ever wanted, ever needed is as close as their laptops. It's even there with email, instant messaging and social networks like Facebook. The anticipation of a reply has gone from days to sometimes seconds. Wondering where that old boyfriend ended up? Search his name....chances are you will be reliving old times within the hour. Instant gratification.

We have become impatient. We have forgotten how to wait.

We have also become society of hermits with no need to leave the house, but I will leave that for another post.