WHERE'S THE CHICKEN?

This isn't about chickens at all.
It's about finding my own weblog.

Or maybe it's about --

WINTER!

Too much of it. It's fweezing cold here.
The ole' bod is caving in under it all.

"Snow mixing with sleet and rain" = "snice".
36F, feels like 17F! SE wind: 22mph.

If the cold doesn't get you, the snow will,
if the snow doesn't get you, the shoveling will.

Wish I were in Nice.

~ MY YOUNGER SELF ~



A crewcut pillowed in the silvery sands
on the shores of a nearby lake.
A yellow ribbon bobbing perilously in an
auburn ponytail, as carefree as the wearer herself.
A pair of white bucks wrapped around
a stool in the malt shop.
Bronzed legs clad in faded denim comes alive
to the beat of the latest Rock 'N Roll hit.
And when these become but a memory, one faces
the grim realization: One has grown up.



(c) Gwen Beauregard - 1959 - All Rights Reserved

RELEFECTIONS ON THE ARTIST

REFLECTIONS ON THE ARTIST

The thoughtful expression of Raphael,
The silent contemplative response to great music.
Knowledge of love and life obtained in literature.
In all, truth and beauty,
Love and life, are portrayed.

The true greatness of mankind is revealed.
This is the essence of great art.
The Creator is mirrored,
The workings of his Grace are shown.
Man - the artist; reflecting God - the Creator.


(c)Gwen Beauregard - 1957 - All Rights Reserved

THE DREAMER

The night was misty like a vale of tears,
Then suddenly I saw in aging years
Hair that was dark and shining bright
Had turned to silver through the night.

Hands so white, calm and pale
Rested in her lap like a snow white veil,
Eyes that had once twinkled bright and blue
Were now closed in sad adieu.

I thought of this woman in her rocking chair.
My thoughts did wander here and there.
Lingering on the subject had made me cry.
Came the dawn, this woman was I.



(c) Gwen Beauregard - 1959 - All Rights Reserved

TO SEE A WAVE

If only I could see the waves
Which dance upon the sea.
With graceful leaps and playful pranks
As children they would be.
I picture them with silvery hair
That's tossed against the shore.

If only I could see one wave
I would not ask for more.
It seems a foolish wish,
If blind I will always be.

But then my dream would be complete
One tiny wave to see.
If only I could see a wave.
If only I could see.


Gwen Beauregard - 1956 - All Rights Reserved


I wrote this poem for school chum who had
been blind her entire life. Her greatest wish
was to be taken to the ocean so she could
watch the waves.

THE JURY

Shall I compare life to a deep regret,
A flower that blooms, or one that fades away?
Or should it most effectively be set
As a trial which lingers day by day?

The world is but a courtroom life creates;
Where weary wanderers plot their common case;
Where will is judge and conscience often dies
And decisions are made at a hurried pace.

But life enthralls a greater deal than this.
For is it not our goals and attitudes
Which brings us to our day's enlightened bliss
And makes us wiser in the fortunes viewed?

If jurors of our cases we could be
Then surely life's fulfillment we could see.



(c)Gwen Beauregard - 1956 - All Rights Reserved

NIGHTS IN A CITY

Slowly it sneaks
Like a monster it crawls,
And silently it snatches
All in its claws.

It covers the sun
And shadows the streets.
Night has come
To the city that sleeps.


(c)Gwen Beauregard - 1956 - All Rights Reserved

THEME IN YELLOW

A ray of sunshine
Danced on the tawny veal
And made
Saffron acorn squash
Placed beside the buttered corn
Appear sallow by comparison


~*~*~


HUNTER'S DAWN

Brilliant gold slashing through the
blue mist of morn'
Dispersing the dew-stoned gray of predawn
Vibrant streaks of blinding yellow
Slash through the overhang of trees
And the world is born
Anew to light


~*~*~

(c) Gwen Beauregard - 1957 - All Rights Reserved

OH MY GOD


Oh my God, look around this place
Your fingers reach around the bone
You set the break and set the tone
Flights of grace, and future falls
In present pain
All fools say, "Oh my God"

Oh my God, Why are we so afraid?
We make it worse when we don't bleed
There is no cure for our disease
Turn a phrase, and rise again
Or fake your death
and only tell your closest friend
Oh my God.

Oh my God, can I complain?
You take away my firm belief
and graft my soul upon your grief
Weddings, boats and alibis
All drift away, and a mother cries

Liars and fools; sons and failures
Thieves will always say
Lost and found; ailing wanderers
Healers always say
Whores and angels; men with problems
Leavers always say
Broken hearted; separated
Orphans always say
War creators; racial haters
Preachers always say
Distant fathers; fallen warriors
Givers always say
Pilgrim saints; lonely widows
Users always say
Fearful mothers; watchful doubters
Saviors always say

Sometimes I cannot forgive
And these days, mercy cuts so deep
If the world was how it should be,
Maybe I could get some sleep
While I lay, I dream we're better,
Scales were gone and faces light
When we wake, we hate our brother
We still move to hurt each other
Sometimes I can close my eyes,
And all the fear that keeps me silent
Falls below my heavy breathing,
What makes me so badly bent?
We all have a chance to murder
We all feel the need for wonder
We still want to be reminded
That the pain is worth the plunder

Sometimes when I lose my grip,
I wonder what to make of heaven
All the times I thought to reach up
All the times I had to give in
Babies underneath their beds
Hospitals that cannot treat
All the wounds that money causes
All the comforts of cathedrals

All the cries of thirsty children
- this is our inheritance
All the rage of watching mothers
- this is our greatest offense

Oh my God
Oh my God

~*~*~*~

Lyrics and music by
Dan Haseltine, Charlie Lowell,
Stephen Mason, Matt Odmark
all of Jars of Clay group.

Wounded Child

FROM MY DESK

I tell you, these weblogs are not for
the squeamish. Not for nothing that this
rank amateur has not worked Cold Press I & II
since 2004-2009. It is now 2011.

Who actually reads these things anyway? (Me?)

It seems to me that most people, outside the
professional bloggers who write *serious* stuff,
are more likely to read themselves than to read other
people. That's been my personal experience of things
as they are.

I think it requires a bit of mashochism or conversely
narcissism, or a bit of both, to even begin to
entertain the thought that anybody ought to give a
hoot what one thinks, or does, or says and still take
oneself seriously.

I do not.

I learned far more than I ever wished to learn via
Stumbling into and onto StumbleUpon in the intervening
years between 2007 and 2011 about the good, the bad and
the ugly side of *blogging* in general.

Anathema to my personal friends and nothing short of
hideous to any members of my extended family who look
aghast at such matters as blogging and bloggers.

Smartly, none of them do it. "We don't like blogs and
especially don't like bloggers." "They aren't *real*"
Such public displays of hubris is unseemly.

I must therefore have loads of hubris to spare, and not
a little exhibitionism thrown in for good measure.

Wonder how long I can keep this up?

Making an appointment tomorrow to see my Analyst.

Could be far more productive.

SOUP, OH WONDERFUL SOUP



Mushroom and Whiskey Soup

Whiskey gives this mushroom soup the
little kick it needs
to make it really interesting.

350g (1 lb) mushrooms, sliced
2 large onions, chopped
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
1 litre (2 pints) stock
150g (5 oz) ham, finely chopped
375ml (12 oz) powdered milk
2 tbsp whiskey

Cook the mushrooms, onions, mustard in the stock
and gently simmer.

After 20 minutes, add the ham, powdered milk and
whiskey and heat through, being careful not to boil.

Serve with brown bread and sweet unsalted butter.

Serves: Two

Quotes

~*~*~*~


Time wounds all heels
and not a few bloggers too.

~ Gwen Beauregard


~*~*~*~

Quotations

~*~*~*~

Only themselves understand themselves
and the like of themselves,
As souls only understand souls.

- Walt Whitman

~*~*~*~

Dreams

Dreams


All people dream, but not equally.
Those who dream by night,
in the dusty recesses of their mind,
Wake in the morning to find
that it was vanity.

But the dreamers of the day
are dangerous people,
For they dream their dreams
with open eyes,
And make them come true.

- D.H. Lawrence

The Dreamer and I

No comments:

BE

Lost
On a painted sky
Where the clouds are hung
For the poet's eye
You may find him
If you may find him

There
On a distant shore
By the wings of dreams
Through an open door
You may know him
If you may

Be
As a page that aches for words
Which speaks on a theme that's timeless
While the sun God will make for your day
Sing
As a song in search of a voice that is silent
And the one God will make for your way

And we dance
To a whispered voice
Overheard by the sould
Undertook by the heart
And you may know it
If you may know it

While the sand
Would become the stone
Which begat the spark
Turned to living bone
Holy, holy
Sanctus, sanctus

Be
As a page that aches for word
Which speaks on a theme that is timeless
While the sun God will make for your day
Sing
As a song in search of a voice that is silent
And the one God will make for your day


- Neil Diamond
[Jonathan Livingston Seagull]

LIVE LIGHTLY

"LIVE LIGHTLY" came to me one day whilst making dinner...
I didn't understand it at all...it just surfaced from
somewhere deep of inside me and wouldn't go away. I
toyed with it, whispering to myself over and over again:

Live lightly
LIVE lightly
Live LIGHTLY

..putting the emphasis at different places.
Was I being channeled? What did it mean? How strange.
It took me weeks to figure it out for myself as it kept
resurfacing into my daily consciousness.

This is what I concluded:

Wear your life lightly on your shoulders.
Try not to carry the weight of the world
on them. I tend to do that, and at those
times that little phrase comes back to bite
me in the bum and puts some perspective on
things that tend to bother me most.

'Live lightly' can mean whatever you want
it to mean.

Quotations

"The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes.
If you foolishly ignore beauty, you will soon find
yourself without it. Your life will be impoverished.
But if you invest in beauty, it will remain with
you all the days of your life."

~ Frank Lloyd Wright

Fly Away Home

FLY AWAY HOME


She waits there all through the day
Weaving endings before you are aware
No matter how hard we pray
Seems to make no difference in what’s fair
I can see it in her soul, I can feel in on her skin
And the story that’s been told, had no reason to begin
It’s a tale to yet unfold

Chorus:

Cause I just saw, what couldn’t be
What wasn’t meant for me to see
Gates that locked the day before
Are now just like an open door
The walk has turned into a roam
And now it’s time to Fly Away Home…
Fly Away Home…

He is a master of chance
So aloof that he doesn’t know you’re there
And when he does cast his glance
You wonder if you can withstand his stare
He can roll the dice and win,
You can lose more than you know
Place a bet on just a whim,
and then see your spirit grow
Even though your hopes were slim

Chorus:

Cause I just saw, what couldn’t be
What wasn’t meant for me to see
Gates that locked the day before
Are now just like an open door
The walk has turned into a roam
And now it’s time to Fly Away Home…
Fly Away Home…

Instrumental

Flip a coin and you’ll see
That she is waiting right there around the bend
Heads or tails can’t agree
On how she’s gonna make the story end
Fate is older now than time,
Yet it blooms life all anew
And the chances left are mine,
Even though they may be few
All that’s left is there to climb

Chorus:

Cause I just saw, what couldn’t be
What wasn't meant for me to see
Gates that locked the day before
Are now just like an open door
The walk has turned into a roam
And now it’s time to Fly Away Home…
Fly Away Home…

Music, Lyrics, Guitars, Bass & Vocals
by Don Rudnickas

http://soundclick.com/share?songid=9752580

The Thief That Knows No Bounds

THE THIEF THAT KNOWS NO BOUNDS, ALZHEIMER

Be Gentle with Those in Your Care

Did you ever wake up feeling confused and out of place?
It's not a feeling that is very nice.
Not knowing where you are or what day it would be.
Struggling with your thoughts...trying to see.

Try to imagine that feeling...never going away.
Trying to find your place every single day.
Trying so hard to remember why
and the only answer you get is a sigh.

Daylight is here and it's not so bad
but then...why oh why are you so sad?
No one around you seems to know.
They don't seem to know you have places to go.

If only you could find some face you knew
Just what would you do if this happens to you?
Step into my shoes for only a day
Perhaps you will know why I run away.

What would you do if you could no longer tie your shoe
And when it's time to dress you don't know what to do
What if you didn't know when or how to shower
A task so great that perhaps you too would cower.

If I strike out and seem to be mean
Perhaps it is over things that can't be seen
Step into my shoes for only a day
Maybe then you will see why I act this way.

So please remember as you care for me today
To treat me with kindness and love in every way
Be patient and tender as you guide me along my way
Step into my shoes for only a day.

Copyright 1999 Brenda Race

~*~*~*~

Used with permission of the author.

Brenda was caregiver to her mother for a year
until her mother was placed in a nursing home in
December 1998. This poem was written almost three
months later on March 6, 1999. Brenda continued to
visit her mother and to share hours with her until her
mother's death in December 1999.

Into The Light

INTO THE LIGHT

From out of Darkness I stumbled upon Light.
Out of Light I found Knowledge.
Out of knowledge I found Freedom.
Out of Freedom I found Hope.
Out of hope I found Dawn.
Out of Dawn I found Tomorrow.
And Tomorrow was good.
In the Darkness and Light
Knowledge and Freedom
I stumbled upon a tiny miracle called Joy.
And I was happy.

(For Dawn Laurens)

Gwen Beauregard - )2010 - All rights Reserved