London - THE LAND OF WONDERMENT AND TEA PARTIES

To London, To London - to celebrate the birthing of my life - in grand style and wonderment.

In London, the gates are high and wide, strong and stately - mostly closed.
The gates to my hopes and dreams, though, are high and wide but flung open for me to wander through to my heart's content.     A scribbler from way back, I am prone to pen poetic notions when I get fidgety and dismayed.     So I write about what on my mind - ageing and other aggravations.    The rhythmic feel of words poring through my brain (that just turned seventy as well) soothes away the alarming news that I am now considered golden - part of the graying of America, over-the-hill.  as some say.   Nonsense, I ponder as I readjust my glasses to get another glimpse of Big Ben.   I'm fairly certain but I feel he smiled back at me.   This year I notice things like high closed gates and the ever-ticking eternal clocks.    I wonder if the Pearly Gates will be as massive as the Brits'.

Some days
I wander through cavernous
art museums
and sit at the feet of masterful artists and
marvel at their gifts.
I snap photos of most pieces but
pull out my sketch pad when
I come to Matisse and his at-home pictures.

No bother that the day is dark and gloomy; for me it is a light-bright banner day - I am thrilled to travel to London, mostly because I am there to visit my youngest daughter and her growing family.   Rain trickles down, soft and kind; I close my umbrella to allow the cool water to run down my  cheeks -much better than hot tears I think.

Verse after verse I toss words to the page and  swirl little drawings between lines.   They seem to come from as much my imagination as my intake of the majestic architecture of this grand Lady called London.    Rich with history, she has withstood the grind of time, war and fire.   She's rebuilt, renewed herself, and she's kept her dignity despite the threats against her.    I like that!  

The hours click away and I taxi by royal castles and cathedrals, monuments and museums  and I wonder - do queens
and princes and princesses
really have blue blood and why must I bow to
them if I were ever invited to tea with the queen
and her entourage of stoic folk who speak properly
and remain keenly aware of their heritage and their crowning duties?

"Shall I supply the cakes and crumpets for our tea party?"
I asked my princess-like  granddaughters who live in the heart of London town.
"Yes," they reply as they prepare tea in their tiny plastic  pots.
We don't feel the need to bow to one another -
we do hug and hold hands, though.

Good Morning November

November throws flames high among the oaks, the maple's limb - such a brazen artist. I've found

She believes it's Her job to change up our moods
And washes red and orange and yellow across
the landscape of our grounds and thoughts
and as we look up, we sigh and try
to hold November in our minds and gather her in our hearts because
She is oh so beautiful, brief, brazen, and bathed in Holiness. I walk
across the lawn and praise and pick up Her golden leaves and cherish them, for in moments
they will crush into the earth just like memories and melted maybes. lw

Merry Messes On My Mind

I glance into my dressy living room and yearn for an old fashioned messy Christmas where tangled tree lights and kids and tacky tinsel make for a hilarious tree trimming get together. Where pine needles stick into sofa cushions and the jingle-jangles of bells blend perfectly with the squeals of little girls. "Look, I just found baby Jesus and Joseph! Oh no, Mary's missing, Oh, here she is, wrapped up with the camel."


Now, the room glows with a kind of quiet sophistication, the look of dolled up adults,, mixing small talk with champagne and well-chosen Christmas carols. I wonder . . . do others, like me, still ache from the lingering effects of the tidy empty nest? Peace and Quiet are finally mine and I ache for chaos, the Christmas kind where giggles and silly memories create havoc and outrageous joys.
Oh yes I want a big full-blown mess -- loud and wacky, where mismatched dirty socks and angelic tree toppers mingle with twisted light cords.

Bring out the musty boxes of re-glued spindly ornaments and scribbled, Santa letters, many chocolate stained, all cherished masterpieces


I am a hopeless case for I feel like an old rose preserved between the pages of The Night Before Christmas. I thumbed through the classic tale, the same story I memorized as a child, read to my daughters and now to my eight grandchildren. I closed the book but not the memories for they linger still. I held the book squarely across my breasts as if embracing the last forty years as a mother. No clatter on the lawn, though, just the sound of a mother's quickened heart.


I light a scented candle- pine, I think, lean back on my wide sofa and allow the familiar words dance through my head - - " not a creature was stirring .. . . not even a mouse," well, at least not this year

Jump and Your Wings Shall Appear

Up With Reading

A friend suggested a book to read this winter. It's titled Radical and it is. . . well, radical, real and risky. It's a book that shouts "Jump and your wings shall appear." My pal and I think alike, share a common faith, so I raced to Borders. So, how can a darling grandmother-type suggest such a read as Radical? You see, we are both daring and dangerous when it comes to our Art, our Truth, our Purpose.

So, here I am wrestling with this paperback that is changing the fiber of my being and lifting me skyward in my thoughts, my path, my commitment to the Good Life. These 220 pages will scrub your soul, erase your mental debris and outrageously awaken your Love Life. And, that's just the first chapter. Perhaps I sound simply like another book reviewer, but actually I am just a reader who, when I find a message that I feel must be digested by all, jump to the occasion.These few pages has opened wide the doors to another Land, a space where I see more clearly, feel more deeply, live more and love more lavishly. Oops, I forgot about the rule, "no adverbs please".

Now, I feel comfortable to share a tea bag with Tagore, pull up a chair at the C. S. Lewis dining table, and walk the beaches with Maya Angelo and perhaps . . . Moses.

I am now graciously blessed, caressed by the words of David Platt. And certainly more grateful than I'd ever dreamed possible. Why, because I now know that yesterday my world was a tea cup, now a globe.

DREAM - CREATE - CELEBRATE: Minding Monday and Her Mandates