I stepped on the clouds
Climbed to the stars
Felt the warmth of the Sun
Looked down
Saw God’s most wonderful creation
You.
Monday, January 30, 2017
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Do We Ever Know? by Terry LeFeber
“I’ll take a three pound ham, dear Sir,” proclaimed the
happy businessman.
“That will be very expensive,” commented the butcher.
“ ’tis but a trifle,” the businessman responded, pushing
more than enough money across the counter.
“Please, excuse me, gentlemen,” Mrs. Schmidt said,
interrupting the two men.
“Yes?” The butcher answered.
“You see,” Mrs. Schmidt continued. “My Herbert…. Well, my
Herbert is dying. And..and…he wants one good last meal before he leaves this
Earth. And…I fear it shall be before the cock crows in the morning.”
“Ah”, the butcher sighed. “And what is it I can do for you,
Madam?”
“I…I only have a few coins to spare. Perhaps a pound of sausage or two?” Mrs. Schmidt implored.
“Of course, dear lady. Of course.” The butcher responded and
turned to his meat locker.
Shortly the butcher returned with two equally wrapped
packages, handing one to the businessman and the other to the soon-to-be widow.
Smiling, he collected the coins from Mrs. Schmidt and the bills from the businessman.
Later that evening, the businessman opened the package
containing the prized ham only to discover a package of sausages.
Whereas, Mrs. Schmidt was able to see her husband pass away
following the grandest ham dinner he had ever tasted.
Sometimes you get a wiener for a ham while others
miraculously receive a ham instead of a wiener.
We need to recognize those “Ah-Ha moments”.
Memorial Day by Carol Creswell
A stirring tribute fills the air.
The sky is blueness everywhere.
The marchers snap a crisp salute
And all the bandsmen resolute.
The cheering crowds, the fire truck’s din
Precedes the cruising mayor’s grin.
Floats reach the park, with flags a-wave,
The speakers mount the podium, grave.
The shining marksmen flash the sky
Saluting heroes, trumpets cry.
A pretty student won the test
To state the Gettysburg Address.
A Speech is given, TAPS is played
This special Day brings flowers laid
On graves of soldiers, sailors, gone
Our troops are left to carry on.
The sky is blueness everywhere.
The marchers snap a crisp salute
And all the bandsmen resolute.
The cheering crowds, the fire truck’s din
Precedes the cruising mayor’s grin.
Floats reach the park, with flags a-wave,
The speakers mount the podium, grave.
The shining marksmen flash the sky
Saluting heroes, trumpets cry.
A pretty student won the test
To state the Gettysburg Address.
A Speech is given, TAPS is played
This special Day brings flowers laid
On graves of soldiers, sailors, gone
Our troops are left to carry on.
Friday, April 29, 2016
April Musings on Poetry by Diane S. Jones
It’s almost the end of April, and I’ve lost another
month. It’s National Poetry Month, and I
had intended to do something on our Canandaigua Writers Group blog to tell
people about it. For myself, I started
an email subscription to The Writer’s Almanac after the first week in April,
and one poem is now sent to my email every day.
For several years, usually on Saturday mornings, I have listened to the
poems being read by Garrison Keillor on WXXI, but my schedule the rest of the
week does not permit that. So, I
subscribed, hesitantly, to another email.
Poems began arriving the same day, once a day, and have continued
without fail. I view their arrival with
mixed feelings.
Sometimes the poem of the day is an imposition when I
consider all of the other emails that require my attention and my other long
list of things “to do.” But then I
remember that life is short, and I never make enough time to do the fun things,
like writing or reading what other writers write. And so I click the mouse to open the poem of
the day.
For a moment, as I wait for it to appear, I am in
suspense. Like an adventurer about to
take the first step of an important journey, I am suspended for a moment in
time, wondering. What will I see along
the way? How will it make me feel? Will it touch my soul or my funny bone? Will it
make me laugh or cry, or recall some event long-forgotten? Will I feel safe and secure, or will I feel
nothing at all? There’s no way to
predict what will happen, and in some ways, I enjoy being held captive by these
moments of forced waiting, slowing down, watching carefully for the apparition
on my screen, suspense building.
Finally, the poem appears. What does it say? Does the title give me a clue? Do I like or recognize the author’s
name? Does the first line capture my
attention? As I let myself fall into the
words, I absorb them and the writer’s emotions.
I join that writer on a journey, hoping that we shall remain on the same
trail until our journey’s destination.
I enjoy some poems more than others. I prefer rhyming poetry over free verse. It took me a long time to believe that free
verse is poetry. I would classify some
poems as essays or something else entirely.
Nevertheless, I enjoy reading the thoughts of other writers. I enjoy being reminded that I am one of
countless members of an ever-increasing and remarkable group. I enjoy being reminded of who I am: I am a writer!
Mine is one of the many voices in the Universe. . . .
Voices in
the Universe
Inspired and inspiring,
Giving voice to thoughts circling
like planets,
To words traveling like stars in the
galaxies of our minds:
Always there,
Moving and gathering,
Varying in speed and intensity and
visibility,
Sometimes elusive,
But, given enough time,
Able to be caught and flung out to
the world,
Ready or not,
A scattering of brilliance into
eternity.
©29 April 2016 Diane S. Jones
Monday, December 14, 2015
Mom's Springerlies by Sally Crosiar
When I was
growing up, baking cookies was a very big part of holiday preparations. Mom would
make a batch of chocolate-chip- oatmeal-raisin one day, butterballs the next,
and her famous melt-in-your-mouth sugar cookies on the day after that. And then
she’d repeat the whole process with thumbprints, Brazil-nut cookies, something
with candied fruit, and seven-layer bars whose coconut (yuck!) made them safe
from my marauding appetite.
As she
finished each batch, she’d leave a dozen or so in the cookie jar and pack all
the rest away in whatever freezer containers she could find. Her favorite
containers were gallon-sized buckets that had held ice cream and which were not
at all hard to collect since we all liked ice cream just as much as we liked
cookies.
Mom was
definitely in charge of baking, but for one cookie, the whole family was
enlisted. The recipe for springerlies had been handed down to Mom from her
mother and hers before that, stretching back through generations of German
women – hard-working German women because making springerlies is a complicated
and arduous process.
One of the
very first stumbling blocks is to locate a key ingredient.
Mary's Bethlehem Journey by CC Bodnar
“…and she kept all these things, pondering them in her heart.”
There are some things a woman never forgets. The memories of the first time I met Joseph still keep their sweetness after all these years and the last time I kissed him goodbye is still so sad.
I remember the visit of the Lord's messenger as well as I remember the consequences of my “yes”. I learned much about Joseph's great kindness, his faith in the Lord, and his commitment to his promise the day he met with my family to discuss his decision about my pregnancy. To say that “Joseph was troubled” is a bit of an understatement; I was thrilled that he chose to stand by his promise to me. One who would protect my life as an act of faith was surely worthy of my love lifelong.
Memories of joy and grief are mingled throughout my life as they are for everyone. One memory will sound at least a little familiar to any woman who has ever given birth and to any man who has every been with a very pregnant woman far from home.
When the order came for all those descended from David to travel to Bethlehem, Joseph and I were terribly worried. The journey is long, hard, expensive and, for me, dangerous. At the time we were ordered to go, I would be nine months pregnant with the child God's messenger had told me would be God's chosen, Jesus. As you know, we women rarely left home when pregnant except to visit relatives in our village or attend to necessary household work. Childbirth is dangerous at best, and the result is never certain.
We had no choice. We put our faith in the Lord, packed our donkey with as many helpful things as we could, leaving room for me to ride if I could not walk. Even now, I remember discussing what to take and what to leave behind. I was terrified for my child, but hopeful that the Lord who created this child would protect his mother as well.
You know my back was already achy and my ankles swollen at the end of the day. I was young and strong, but now I tired easily and was often absent minded as if my brain were elsewhere. Joseph was more than willing to help; however, men know so little about what is needed at times like these, I was more dependent on the few women of the other families who traveled with us.
It took us four long days to walk to Bethlehem. In December, the days are shorter as you know, and the nights are very cold in the dry land of Galilee and Judea. No one could walk except in the middle of the day, or alone at any time, as the roads were dangerous. Two nights we managed to find space near an inn to feed our donkey and shelter ourselves. There were so many people traveling to be counted that, as we got closer to Bethlehem, all the inns were full or far more money than we could spend. We were such a little group.
People were often very kind and let us stay in the animal shelters built on the outside wall of the house. The shelters were set up out of the wind and the clean hay was softer than the ground. Some of the shelters were open to part of the inside of the house. In the winter we often kept our animals close for their body warmth.
I had been walking part of the first days, but after that, it was just a blur. Joseph and the men helped me onto our poor little donkey who patiently carried me in the most uncomfortable seat I have ever known. By this time, my back ached unmercifully, I felt too tired to eat, and my legs were so swollen I was glad they were hidden by my burka robes. I began to fear that Bethlehem was too far for my baby and me. I prayed all day for strength and patience and tried to be grateful for the gift of God's beloved son. I will admit his mother was having a hard time being grateful for this journey.
On the fourth day, I had to tell Joseph I simply could not go on. I was very afraid as the baby had not moved inside me for almost two days. Joseph left me with the women of our village group and went to look for some shelter.
He returned late that afternoon, triumphant. “Mary, he said, “We are blessed indeed. I have found the home of a cousin of my father who will help us. He has a stable that is almost completely enclosed. Their cow has weaned her calf and so the manger place kept for the calf is empty and clean.”
I realized then that, even though I thought I was in the habit of being grateful for whatever the Lord sent to me, I had never felt anything like the relief I felt in that moment.
“It is even better, Mary,” Joseph went on, “Aaron's wife will contact their community midwife and she will come as soon as we can get there! I am so happy someone will be there for you—and me!”
And so the story goes on. You all know that Jesus was actually born, and I really did survive—although there were moments when I was not sure I would. Holding that child made my difficult journey fade quickly. Far more urgent was the experience of caring for my first-born. But you know about that.
Now, so many years later, I realize that the journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem was only the first of many travels—out in the world and into my own soul—that the Lord would send me on. It is good to remember that I, a very ordinary woman, brought the Savior of all humanity to meet His people.
©Cecilie Bodnar 2013. Permission granted foruse by Canandaigua Writers' Group
December 12, 2015
There are some things a woman never forgets. The memories of the first time I met Joseph still keep their sweetness after all these years and the last time I kissed him goodbye is still so sad.
I remember the visit of the Lord's messenger as well as I remember the consequences of my “yes”. I learned much about Joseph's great kindness, his faith in the Lord, and his commitment to his promise the day he met with my family to discuss his decision about my pregnancy. To say that “Joseph was troubled” is a bit of an understatement; I was thrilled that he chose to stand by his promise to me. One who would protect my life as an act of faith was surely worthy of my love lifelong.
Memories of joy and grief are mingled throughout my life as they are for everyone. One memory will sound at least a little familiar to any woman who has ever given birth and to any man who has every been with a very pregnant woman far from home.
When the order came for all those descended from David to travel to Bethlehem, Joseph and I were terribly worried. The journey is long, hard, expensive and, for me, dangerous. At the time we were ordered to go, I would be nine months pregnant with the child God's messenger had told me would be God's chosen, Jesus. As you know, we women rarely left home when pregnant except to visit relatives in our village or attend to necessary household work. Childbirth is dangerous at best, and the result is never certain.
We had no choice. We put our faith in the Lord, packed our donkey with as many helpful things as we could, leaving room for me to ride if I could not walk. Even now, I remember discussing what to take and what to leave behind. I was terrified for my child, but hopeful that the Lord who created this child would protect his mother as well.
You know my back was already achy and my ankles swollen at the end of the day. I was young and strong, but now I tired easily and was often absent minded as if my brain were elsewhere. Joseph was more than willing to help; however, men know so little about what is needed at times like these, I was more dependent on the few women of the other families who traveled with us.
It took us four long days to walk to Bethlehem. In December, the days are shorter as you know, and the nights are very cold in the dry land of Galilee and Judea. No one could walk except in the middle of the day, or alone at any time, as the roads were dangerous. Two nights we managed to find space near an inn to feed our donkey and shelter ourselves. There were so many people traveling to be counted that, as we got closer to Bethlehem, all the inns were full or far more money than we could spend. We were such a little group.
People were often very kind and let us stay in the animal shelters built on the outside wall of the house. The shelters were set up out of the wind and the clean hay was softer than the ground. Some of the shelters were open to part of the inside of the house. In the winter we often kept our animals close for their body warmth.
I had been walking part of the first days, but after that, it was just a blur. Joseph and the men helped me onto our poor little donkey who patiently carried me in the most uncomfortable seat I have ever known. By this time, my back ached unmercifully, I felt too tired to eat, and my legs were so swollen I was glad they were hidden by my burka robes. I began to fear that Bethlehem was too far for my baby and me. I prayed all day for strength and patience and tried to be grateful for the gift of God's beloved son. I will admit his mother was having a hard time being grateful for this journey.
On the fourth day, I had to tell Joseph I simply could not go on. I was very afraid as the baby had not moved inside me for almost two days. Joseph left me with the women of our village group and went to look for some shelter.
He returned late that afternoon, triumphant. “Mary, he said, “We are blessed indeed. I have found the home of a cousin of my father who will help us. He has a stable that is almost completely enclosed. Their cow has weaned her calf and so the manger place kept for the calf is empty and clean.”
I realized then that, even though I thought I was in the habit of being grateful for whatever the Lord sent to me, I had never felt anything like the relief I felt in that moment.
“It is even better, Mary,” Joseph went on, “Aaron's wife will contact their community midwife and she will come as soon as we can get there! I am so happy someone will be there for you—and me!”
And so the story goes on. You all know that Jesus was actually born, and I really did survive—although there were moments when I was not sure I would. Holding that child made my difficult journey fade quickly. Far more urgent was the experience of caring for my first-born. But you know about that.
Now, so many years later, I realize that the journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem was only the first of many travels—out in the world and into my own soul—that the Lord would send me on. It is good to remember that I, a very ordinary woman, brought the Savior of all humanity to meet His people.
©Cecilie Bodnar 2013. Permission granted foruse by Canandaigua Writers' Group
December 12, 2015
Monday, December 7, 2015
CHRISTMAS WISHES 2015 by Carol Creswell
In every home at Christmas
May dwellers there within
Know only joy and happiness,
Share love of kith and kin.
May windows reflect laughter,
With friends at every door.
May rafters throb with singing,
A dance on every floor.
May babies wave fat fingers,
May kittens purr with mirth.
May kitchens smell of cinnamon,
May all have Peace on earth.
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