I am still intimidated by posting myself to the world. There is no fear of criticism; I take the truth and leave the what does not resonate. The fear is in potentially and unknowingly hurting someone I know. And in knowing whether to post or publish. That particular murk gets thicker by the day.
I came across this post today and felt serious resonance. I dare not list all my hobbies and I’ve determined I have to cull the space-intensive ones as there is no opportunity to put a new Sandra’s Hobbies wing on the house.
I’m strongly curious. Often I can’t settle for admiring a hobby; I must put my hands in it and on it.
At the risk of adopting more for myself, what are some of your hobbies?
He supposes I have the patience of a saint. Let me tell you about the meal I burned in saintly impatience today.
Keeping others as safe as we keep ourselves is a topic on my heart for years. Good read.
My friend told me a creepy story this weekend. A clean cut man with a clip board knocked on her door and asked her questions about one of her neighbors. He asked my friend if she knew the neighbor, and when my friend demurred because something about it felt off – “I just moved here, don’t know anyone that well” – he pulled out a picture of the neighbor from a manila envelope and was like “are you sure?” My friend held fast and eventually he went away.
She asked the neighbor (who she does know) about it later, and the guy is a stalker. Fun!
So, safety reminder time:
- Just because someone knocks on your door it doesn’t mean you have to open it or engage with whoever it is. If you’re not expecting anyone, and they sort of catch you out as being home, “It isn’t…
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We cope with waiting. Some people have religion. Some people chew their hair or bite their lip. I have words, sometimes writing. For the little blue-eyed blonde we both love so much, and to you, [edited].
Taller than you, her shoulders are broader too. Tears in her voice leave no time to measure the blue since her eyes first saw you.
©2015 Sandra R Davidson
The pant legs of his jeans are drawn darker with gravity down to the black punctuation of each sports shoe. His shuffle is ancient along the algae-slicked tiles of the local Pizza Hut’s famous red roof as the heavy pressure washer hose edges its way waterward. Winter in the Pacific Northwest is sluiced free while spring becomes the crisp logic of hard lines.
©2015 Sandra R Davidson
The Lackawanna Valley Digital Archives have made available videos of a number of poets reading at the Scranton Public Library . These poets visited Scranton from the late 1970s through the 1990s and were filmed as part of the Friends of the Scranton Public Library Poetry Series. You can watch poets such as CK Williams, Belle Waring, Bruce Weigi, Elaine Terranova, Susan Stewart, Henry Taylor, Gerald Stern, Gary Snyder,William Stafford, Charles Simic, Len Roberts, Susan Ray, David Ray, Jean Pearson, Carol Oles, Naomi Shihab Nye, W.S. Merwin, Heather McHugh, William Matthews, Thomas lux, Etheridge Knight, Galway Kinnel, Paul Kelly, Collette Hiestand, Willian Heyen, Emon Greenan, Michael Heller, Robert Hass, Carolyn Forsche, Tess Gallagher, Lawerence Ferlingetti, Lynn Emanuel, W.D. Earhart, Cornilius Eady, Jim Daniels, Stephen Dunn, Robert Creeley, Gerald Constanzo, William Bonk, Robert Bly, Marvin Bell and Dennis Brutus. If you click the link, scroll down and you will see the…
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Nature within, or in this case beneath, modern constructs. Nice texture contrast. The concrete edge points one to the subject and still stands apart because of the groomed lines of focus. There is a sense of history also with the layers of clay and concrete.
Blue rectangles framed silver to black, shadow to light.
I’m humming an old hymn in the kitchen.
My grandmother used to sing as she worked about the house. There were times in my life when she served as my grandmother and mother, and she sang. Words came about, or just a melody through concentrating lips.
I’m humming in my own static today. Though I follow the hours and dates from my point A to my current point on a timeline, I feel some areas of my life have stretched thin and other areas of my life have stretched long. Life isn’t linear.
In addition to my linearly calculated life, my life topography is varied, as any living place should be.
I have to admit I’m airborn, aloft of my own tension. The turbulence isn’t comfortable within twenty feet. The male dog startles when I stand and the female gives a stress yawn if I sit long. The deaf cat pats my arm with his left forepaw, standing upright with me as his brace; he’s asking me to rest a while with him.
And in the kitchen I sing, “This is the day that the Lord hath made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.” My ears hear my own voice and my heart hears my grandmother’s. I am not in a rejoicing mood. Nor am I religious.
Perhaps words set to the tune of voice were a reminder at times of duress. I am alive to sing and in some way I–Will–Be–Glad.