Your assignment:
1. create a poem, story, or article based on this photo.
2. Post it on your blog.
3. Cut and paste the photo onto your post (leaving the Monday Meme text).
4. Put a link to your post in the comments to this post below so we can visit your blog.
I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with! (I will leave a comment on your blog post itself, rather than posting in response to your link here).
I was telling someone this yesterday- how funny that it came up on my random post generator today!
I talk.
I talk a lot, actually.
I was glad to discover when I did a Meyers Brigg’s Personality Test that this is because I’m an extravert. That doesn’t just mean I’m noisy; it means that I process my thoughts by speaking them aloud and I gain energy from interacting with other people. I come to an understanding of issues by talking them through, and after a meeting people I am wired and alert. This makes it sound so much better than a label like “blabbermouth,” doesn’t it?
But to be honest, sometimes I amjust a blabbermouth. If I’m nervous or excited, I will ramble like crazy.
I was mentioning this today, and was given the most wonderful quote. I think I may have to make it onto posters and hang it on walls wherever I go. The person who was telling me about this thought it was…
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Warm home
Great job
Good friends
Cute shoes
Rewarding avocation
Healthy kids
Dependable partner
Old dogs
All parents
Your visits
.
.
Happy Thanksgiving, Canada.
Drive safely.
They said
short stories were out of fashion
but you wrote them any way
They said
women didn’t make good
subjects for novels
but you wrote them anyway
They said
Canada doesn’t have a literary voice
along with Margaret, Hugh, Leonard, et al
you wrote one anyway.
They said
Alice is Nobel and you said,
‘I forgot that was today.’
.
.
Congratulations to Canada’s Alice Munro who today received the Nobel Prize for Literature. Interviewed this morning on CBC she said that she’d forgotten today was the announcement, and when her daughter woke her at 4:00 to tell her she’d won, she said, “Won what?”
Of course, any way.
The leaves grow brown and fall
but between petals drenched with rain
blossoms still smell of summer sweetness.
So many sad poets
with melancholy eyes
savaging at their sanity
Life is brevity,
chemistry,
my sensitivity.
incredibly
lacks pleasantries.
When brains strain
against levity
it is time to
press the anti-depressants.
Broken leg,
ruptured spleen,
brain in pain,
medicine for all.
Equal opportunity
of healing for spleen,
leg or brain.
Poets, find joy
in the rain.
I breathe in a poem
inhaling words and images
savouring the rhythm, colour, and aroma
flowing through lungs, heart, veins,
capilliaries and arteries.
I exhale the moment
and the poem,
it goes
free.
This was me:
curls briefly permanent,
my pen poised on your promises
recording adoration,
lists of lingering longings,
the angst of my adolescence,
my imaginary reality,
of dreams carved from your
calls and letters.
Feeling freely at fifteen,
that was me.
..
I had written a lot of poetry for and about a boy I admired, and for his 18th birthday, I compiled them all into a book, in calligraphy, each was recorded in a blank red ‘leather’ book. In the top left photo you see the calligraphy pen I used. In the top right you see the book itself on my lap. The photo on the bottom left ended up as the ‘author photo’ in the book.
These portraits were taken by a young woman who worked for my mom. Her name was Lindy, and she was from Nova Scotia. I often wonder what she has done since returned to the East Coast.
In the bottom right you can see a bit of the 4″ wedge canvas Candies I wore to death that summer. Always a shoe girl. I loved those suspender jeans (by Pulse, my favourite brand). They’re probably still in a box around here somewhere, waiting for me to be 106 lbs again. Oh, those innocent teen years when I was still a brunette! 😉
PS. The more I think about this, the more I’m sure I lied in this poem. I got that perm after a dare from Mark, whom I met the summer I was 16, so this must have been the spring / summer that I was 17. Hmm. With necessary poetic licence, I’m going to keep the ‘fifteen’ in there. But you’ll know it’s not factual, okay?
Shawn L. Bird 