Sunday morning very bright came in and I made pictures
Made pretty window pictures
Made pretty pretty pictures

While in the streets, while in the streets
Still jagged ice and soldier boots
Still icy icy clutching fear
Still salted shards, still tears like sleet

Still blue-cold songs, still fall-down-slick hope-crusted trampled streets.

Still pretty pretty light came in, still I made pretty pictures.

 





  

(From Hymn by Peter, Paul & Mary. Bright colored windows at our church but Sunday I stayed home.)




 





Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Image
Where do Trumpies go when they die? It’s a question. One I knew is in a box now, in crumbs, covered over with plain graveyard dirt. The stone doesn’t say Here Lies a Man Who Voted for Bully. But it’s true. He grinned—this was maybe 2016—when Bully’s name came up at the dinner table, and I snapped, “Don’t you ever laugh about him again.” Something like that—I forget what, exactly. It wiped the smile right off his face. But not for long. Then, that a proud pussy grabber could be running for president was what dominated the headlines. We weren’t talking pardons for insurrectionists, techie DOGE boys accessing government information (old news, yes yes), a police-run society . Obviously, nobody burned to a powder can ever again cast a ballot in favor of a lecherous narcissist, but voting as the man reduced to crumbs did, twice, is now his spiritual legacy. Tuesday, Heather Cox Richardson posted this: “While the Senate considered the [Big Beautiful Bill] today, President Donald J. Trum...
Read more
Image
Friday Afternoon     En route to cousin Ann’s house, relegated to the back seat, I keep clicking clicking, trying to catch perfectly son and mother. But what’s more telling is the visit. We’re met by Ann at her front door. I’m right behind Mom, ready to grab at her if she topples. “Now you’re a spring chicken!” I announce to Ann, because it’s Mom, not Ann, who’s 95. Spring chicken relatively speaking, I mean, because being around somebody ancient makes you suddenly young. I’m practically a chick today. But right away Ann, her round eyes a-sparkle, lets out that she’s 91. Oh my. Paulson and I didn’t realize. As we navigate past her, what else flies out of her mouth is a Bible verse, although for all I know it’s Ben Franklin. “They that compare themselves among themselves are not wise,” she chortles. Paulson loves it. I love it. We laugh and laugh. She’s always been a wit. Clearly she still has it in her. Circumlocution is such a bear at this age. An outing like this, aw...
Read more
Image
The final installment in our haircut trilogy, for which I actually hired Grandgirl, for her help, we bickered, some, over her pay. I thought $20. She emailed back, noooonononono thats way too much lol … how about 15? Okay, and your tip is $5. Now stop arguing. But then my husband objected. I had to back down. Granddaddy says I’m railroading and I should honor your suggestion. Haha, she wrote. $10, $5 tip. That was for the  Xavier-and-The-Cowsills assignment. I’d not offered her cash for the Ray Stevens job. That one, when I  asked what she wanted for payment, she  said peanut butter cups. I had a whole unopened bagful in the pantry, the salacious Aldi kind I use for ramping up chocolate cakes . Well sure, I said. Grandgirl was thrilled. We stored them in the fridge. Every time she came over she could help herself. A bunch are still in there shivering, tantalizing, beckoning. For the Lady Gaga bit, the first video, I’d promised Grandgirl a tomato sandwich, somet...
Read more
Image
Before this, I belabored our posters . Even using fat, chisel-type Sharpies, it took me forever. But a couple of days ago, lecturing myself on slobbiness’s advantages, I simply patched and pasted and Scotch-taped together enough pieces of paper with words on and put them in the car. An oldish fellow—one of the regulars, which I’m not—was already there when I turned into the parking lot next to Representative Cline’s office. You’d think Oldish has a degree in law or maybe political science. He’s precise about his knowledge, genteel, yet blunt. His posters are never spectacular. When I got out of my car with my poor excuse of a billboard, he was photographing a man in an orange T-shirt. Orange looked at me. “You can’t park here.” “Who are you?” I asked, in my best belligerent good-Christian voice. Between the two of them, something unpleasant was going on. In front of Cline’s office, all over the sidewalk, lay construction-worker equipment. “The owner. You have to move your car....
Read more