A Vagabond Song

In October I leave home, headed home. Seven hundred and forty one and a half miles lie between my yellow brick house on a hill in this city and the white farmhouse which still holds my roots and my heart. In October the leaves begin turn to flame and in the dark before the dawn I load my children into the van and set off, bound on a vagabond journey back to where I began.

As we drive across the green rolling hills of Ohio as they begin to turn golden, we read this poem:

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood-

Touch of manner, hint of mood;

And my heart is like a rhyme,

With the yellow and the crimson and the purple keeping time.

 

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry

Of bugles going by.

And my lonely spirit thrills

To see the smoke of asters like a frost upon the hills.

 

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;

We must rise and follow her,

When from every hill of flame

She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

-Carman Bliss 1861-1929

 

 

 

Winter’s Mantle

by Kate

In the city, snow subsumes stone. Winter has stolen softly and shifted the surfaces of the world.

Yesterday I wrapped my baby in warm wool and wandered through the snowscape to the nearby Allegheny Cemetery, which is part castle…

part postcard…

and part Narnia.

The statues of the cemetery are stark and stone, blackened by the ages and bespeaking grief…

But winter had wrapped her icy mantle around them, quite literally in this case, imparting a strange sense of warmth and a definite flair for couture.

There is a softness and an elegance and flair about these wintry stoles that I imagine makes it much more comfortable for this young woman eternally reading high in the sky.

And an amusing jauntiness about Justice’s new hat.

All in all, I wouldn’t mind possessing a few items designed by the icy hand of winter…

but for all their soft elegance they may be a bit chilly… so I’ll stick to my warm woolens and downy furs.

One Misty Moisty Morning

by Kate

I have been reading a lot of nursery rhymes of late. One of my favorites is…

One misty moisty morning

When cloudy was the weather

I met an old man clothed all in leather.

He began to compliment, and I began to grin.

And how do you do, and how do you do, and how do you do again?

Post Wedding Revelry

by Colleen

There is so much more I should be doing in my study hall right now other than a blog post.  But, I haven’t written in a while and couldn’t resist sharing this.  This is my bit of wedding nostalgia:

I loved the wedding, every minute of it.  From the rehearsal dinner to the end of the reception, it was beautiful and perfect.  But, my most favorite part of the whole Oklahoma trip was not the wedding ceremony or even the reception following (although I did end up catching the bouquet!).  My most favorite part was spending time with my older brothers and sisters after the reception, just talking and laughing out in the night air in a gazebo behind our hotel.

Being the seventh of nine children, I have always been considered one of the “little kids”, and that night was the first time that I did not feel “too little”.  I got to spend time with my older brothers and sisters and be considered, at least for that one night, part of the “older kids”.  This was an amazing experience for me, and like the dork I am, I loved it.  I went to bed that night feeling so very loved by all my family and loving them with a ferocity that surprised myself.  The poet in me knew that this was perfect fodder for a poem and so the following was created.    

Laughter in their eyes, green, brown, and hazel, all around me

It sparks against the soft, warm-taffy night air from mouths wide in smiles,

More precious to me than any of the brilliant stars that dot the skies.

The long, festive day is done, but the happiness, joy, excitement, lingers on,

Sweeter than the chocolate wedding cake that still lingers on my tongue.

The wedding finery has been laid to rest in heaps and piles on hotel room floors,

And white cotton shirts and jeans now relax upon relaxed figures.

As the night deepens, tongues loosen, and stories come pouring out,

faster than the amber liquid sliding lazily from glass bottles into mouths.

Words clamber happily over each other and fill the night with sound,

The best and brightest of all these sounds is the laughter,

Which spreads out from my brothers and sisters in pools of happiness,

In their eyes, green, brown, and hazel, there is laughter

And timidly, I join in, my own eyes alight and glowing in the knowledge of their love.