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My little book, caught up in this time of national furor-- a turbulent start, for sure

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I've been thinking, it is truly stressful to try to promote my book in the midst of all this angst. Seriously, I have not mailed out the announcement postcards because they would be caught up on in the stacks of political mailers. And asking people to buy a book of poetry feels almost silly, given the national chaos that looms. But yet, the title of my little book, What to Keep , is really what I mean-- what, after all is said and done, can we, should we, be keeping? What do we reserve just for ourselves? What are we willing to discard? What do we need to leave behind?  Maybe after tomorrow, I can do a better job of putting my little book out into the world. In the meantime, if you have ordered a copy, I thank you. I am offering zoom sessions for teachers as a bonus with purchase, and every copy sold before December 20th will also get a signed broadside of the title poem as my little gift. The publisher has a pre-sale quota, and I have to meet it in order for them to go forward wit
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What is it we are asking for?

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How nice to borrow back an hour of sleep!  I'm having a hard time forming any sort of cogent thoughts, though. Mostly, it's anxiety about the election. I'm praying hard that we still have a country that we can function in on Wednesday.  Today, I will finish my cup of coffee, take a shower, and get ready for church. I'm the lector again this week; I've been on an every other week cycle for months, due to there being (apparently) no one but me and an elderly woman who can or will read at church for 8am. I can't help but wonder, as my prayers are formed and sent aloft, if those prayers I send up for my community, country, and the world are countered or canceled by those of other people sitting in the pews around me. It's a fanciful but depressing thought. I'll keep praying. I don't feel composed or serene about anything, but I don't know what else I can do. And I know prayer works, at least it has been that way for me. It just depends on what I'
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What do I read and listen to when things get a bit wiggy?

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I'm sure I'm not the only one feel increased dread and agitation as Tuesday approaches. I am finding I struggle to focus. That I'm avoiding the news cycle as much as possible. That I just cannot imagine the devastation that will be wrought upon our country if things go poorly. The nightmare scenario plays out in my head, and I am losing the ability to stop it.  So what do I do? Coffee. Poetry. Music. Pray a lot. These three poems keep running through my head, kind of like a mantra. I've often told people that poetry is important, because it gives us words when we can't find our own. It helps us shape our chaotic emotions. It reassures us, as much as anything can.  So, here they are: " The Peace of Wild Things " by Wendell Berry " When I Have Fears " by John Keats and  " Wild Geese " by Mary Oliver I'm sure there are more, and maybe you've got your own. Share them with me, with others, if you feel like you have a panacea for the
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All Saints Day and the very real threat to the economy--

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All Saints Day "O, you're a saint!" is a common-enough phrase, often tossed around when someone does something for you, even something as simple as reaching a box off a high shelf. But that's not what today commemorates, even for someone as short as I am. Sainthood, at least in the Catholic Church, takes time, a lot of investigation, and a boatload of faith. And then, an extensive process of voting, praying, and finally, the reigning pontiff needs to make it official.  To be like a saint requires a lot of self-sacrifice, in order to do as much practical and spiritual good as possible for the most people. I don't know too many people who would qualify, but to follow the acts of saints is commendable. I don't think we need to martyr ourselves (both literally and figuratively), but acting out of a sense of compassion for the good of others is a laudable thing.  We had a discussion in class the other day about whether an act is a moral thing or if it achieves it&#
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All Hallows, 2024--

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Cutting the Harvest Home. Samhain. All Hallows' Eve. The night that the veil thins and spirits can walk among us.  The weather promises to be good for little ghosties and ghoulies, small princesses and knights, super heroes and tramps... and they'll all come to my door, bags or buckets outstretched, hoping for candy. I'll make sure they each get something, and I'll keep count. I always do.  Halloween is not my favorite holiday, but the joy and fun of it here in our small town above the Notch is palpable. Given how uncertain the world is, how tenuous our hold on our own realities can seem, a night of fun and trickery seems to be just what we might need. Yes, a few pumpkins may be smashed, and someone's house may get tp'd, but seriously-- there are war zones, bigotry, doctrines of hate encroaching on the little ones' lives. Death is not funny, and too many children in too many places face that daily. For today-- and this evening-- I will suspend my fears as be
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Pumpkins with faces, and a poem of mine from a while back...

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  All Hallows Eve   Kissed but not cut by the combine, solitary cornstalks rustle in wordless laments. Crows bicker and feint,   sparring over slim leavings, gathering seed in the cold. Pumpkins guard our doorsteps, lined up with precision,   or clustered in tight little groups, barring any wayward shades. Tendrils of cold seep around sagging gray weather stripping, finding   warmth in the kitchen. Wool-wrapped, we huddle around the fire, ghost stories haunting the edges of conversation, too real, too likely, to speak of.   Published in the Aurorean , Fall-Winter 2018
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Carving pumpkins and a poem by Sandburg-

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I'm going to take a break from all the gloom...  This is supposed to be a fun week, right? Today, maybe just before dinner, we'll be carving our pumpkins that we grew into silly or spooky faces. I always let the pumpkin tell me what it wants to be. I study the shape, imagine its face, and then release it from the squash. (Apologies to Michelangelo.) G will pick up a few more for the rest of the crew.  Photos tomorrow, if all goes well! In the meantime, please enjoy this fun little poem by Carl Sandburg, and have a great day! C Theme in Yellow I spot the hills With yellow balls in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins. On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon; I am a jack-o'-lantern With terrible teeth And the children know I am fooling.
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