IWSG, A New Direction, Being Thankful

Posting the First Wednesday of every month, the Insecure Writer's Support Group, is the brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh. YOU can sign up HERE to participate.

Every month a question is posed that may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience, or a story. The question is optional. You can write about anything that relates to your writing journey. In fact, you can write about anything at all.

Let's give a warm welcome to our co-hosts:  Joylene Nowell Butler, Chemist Ken, Natalie Aguirre, Nancy Gideon, and Cathrina Constantine!

This month's question is: It's holiday time! Are the holidays a time to catch up or fall behind on writer goals?

If you have a lot of family or friends, the holidays can be a difficult time for any creative person who requires time alone to do their thing. If you don't have the warm distraction of people, well then, the holidays can be a lovely time to get some "work" done, or give your muse a rest, or brainstorm ideas. 

***

A New Direction

So, I've been getting a tiny bit of writing done playing around with Dribbles (50 word stories, two of which, so far, have been accepted by Vine Leaves Press) and this has led to the idea of changing my blog a bit. I really haven't put much effort into it for several years, so it's in need of a facelift. I've sort of been slithering along lazily not really saying anything or expressing myself. Playing with Dribbles has caused me, once again, to realize how very much I love words. I think I love words more than I love writing them into sentences. You see every word we use has it's own story. And this fascinates me. So, starting in January 2023, I will highlight a word (or two?) and tell it's story. That's only 12 (or a few more?) words a year if I stick to posting once a month. 

I've also cleaned out and organized my collection of three-ring binders and spiral notebooks, which was quite an undertaking as some of the contents go back to the 1970s. One of the things I've discovered (aside from the goldmine of ideas and... words) is that over the course of my life, I've collected hundreds and hundred (maybe thousands and thousands) of inspirational quotes. They are written down all over the place and I am slowing transferring them into one notebook. (She laughs manically, aware of the delightful insanity of this endeavor.) My intention is to include a quote or two with each post.

If the post isn't too long, because my intention is to keep them short, maybe I'll write a Dribble or a thoughtful sentence or a poem using the word whose story I've told. Or maybe I'll use a quote that has the word in it.

That's my plan, anyway. We'll see how well I stick to it. :D

***

Being Thankful

Today I'm thankful for the dribbles of inspirations that have been coming to me. 

Cypress on the River

Along the banks

the towering cypress

                          stretch their branches

                                               toward the sky

                          sink their roots

                                          into

                                               the 

                                                    river bed.

Their small, slender needles

are starting to turn from

                         green to

                                   yellow to

                                               rust to

                                                      brown.

The needles will carpet

                            the paths 

                            and float

                            in mats on the water.

Their fragrance will fill the air.

Fall is quietly approaching,

almost as if trying to

not be seen.

It is playing hide and seek,

a fairy flitting in and out among

the leaves.

                          Teasing. 

(Winter isn't really coming.)

But I have eyes

and will not be fooled.

          

What are you thankful for? Do the holidays hinder or help in your creative endeavors? Are you ready for 2023?

MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY HOLIDAYS, 

AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!

SEE YOU IN JANUARY.

IWSG, I'm Back-I Hope, and other news about what I've been doing the last eight months, Being Thankful

Posting the First Wednesday of every month, the Insecure Writer's Support Group, is the brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh. YOU can sign up HERE to participate.

Every month a question will be posed that may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Remember, the question is optional. You can write about anything that relates to your writing journey.

Let's give a warm welcome to our co-hosts:  Diedre Knight, Douglas Thomas Greening, Nick Wilford, and Diane Burton!

This month's question is:  November is National Novel Writing Month. Have you ever participated? If not, why not?

Yes, I have participated and written full 50,000 word books. And there they sit in their files waiting to be further worked on. Only one of them is really worthy of my time and perhaps next year it will come out of the closet, perhaps not...

***

So, am I back? Did you miss me? My answer to both questions is, I hope so.

At least now I can explain the reason for my absence. My sister, Erva Denham, was in need of a new aortic heart valve. It was up to me to find the right doctors, to make our home ready for her to come up to Texas from the Virgin Islands, and to take her to all her appointments. We didn't know if she was going to require open chest surgery or if they would be able to replace the valve by going up the main arteries in her legs. 

Within two weeks of her arrival in February she saw the first heart doctor and by May she had a new valve implanted. She was eligible for the latter. It was an incredible experience to get her to the hospital one morning and have her discharged the next day in the afternoon. From May until this month she has been in a state of recovery as her heart adjusts to this foreign object in her heart. It is made out of metal and has bovine tissue for the valve cusps. Just last week she was finally released to return home to the islands and she will be leaving next week on the 9th. 

It's been quite a journey and experience. The doctors and the three hospitals involved have been fabulous and we couldn't be happier with the results.

***

In other news, two friends - one of them a high school classmate - have died, which makes me ever more acutely aware of my own mortality and that I'm definitely on the downward side of this journey called life. I'm not particularly anxious or fearful about it, that's just the way it is. But it does make me think about what I want to do with whatever time I have left. 

On that note, I was asked again to contribute an article in the prestigious travel magazine, Destination. My third article for them will be published in January and is called, The Little Pre-Fab that Could.

I have also been writing some dribbles - 50 words short stories. I'm finding them a nice way to ease back into writing.

Here is the first one I wrote.

Hangry

I didn't realize playing with the Conjuring Wheel would cause such torrential rainfalls. Ok, Grammy had warned me, but she was gone now, so it was her fault. That made me angry, which made me hungry.

I wandered into the empty, silent kitchen. Undoing the wheel would have to wait.

I have submitted, so far, two of these dribbles to Vine Leaves Press because...why not? (And as of this morning have learned that my first submission has been accepted!)

***

I've also written my first poem in a gazillion years. It was written in the aftermath of Hurricanes Fiona and Ian and the death of my classmate, Ronnie Lockhart. Ronnie was well loved on St. Thomas, with a wealth of knowledge about the history of the islands and a great sense of humor. He was also very active in Rotary and several other organizations. He will be greatly missed.

Ronnie, as the Candy Man, during Carnival a year or so ago.

On Hurricanes and Death

Flooding emotions -

A torrential rain of tears

                           of fears

                           of years long gone.

Nature does not care about

    what gets in her path

                         her wrath

                         her bath of sorrow.

She is innocent and indifferent.

We are pulled, pushed along

whether we would go or not.

We can, like being caught in an ocean wave,

    fight against being thrown about

    and come away battered

                              bruised

                              dead.

Or...we can relax into the tumbling

emerging from the ocean like Venus

                                                  Radiant

                                                    Glowing

                                                       Alive

Being Thankful

Today I'm thankful for the excellent doctors, nurses, hospital and office staff who took such good care of my sister and who were always upbeat and positive about her prognosis. 

What are you thankful for? Have you ever participated in National Novel Writing Month? Have you ever written a dribble or a drabble, which is a 100 word story?

Constellations

It was Dad's doing. He's the one who put names and recognizable shapes to certain groups of stars. I learned to recognize the Big Dipper (Ursa Major) and Orion early on. Orion is such a show-off, so big and obvious while the Dipper's shape is familiar. Other constellations followed. Torus was a big V, Cassiopeia's Chair kind of like a big W and in between them was a cluster of stars called the Pleiades or the Seven Sisters. But Scorpio eluded me. I just couldn't see it.

One night when, I was maybe 10 or 11, Dad put large black dots on a piece of white paper. Then he took me outside and held up the paper next the constellation and WOW, there it was! 

Scorpio. 

In the late 1950's, up at Gifft Hill, the sky was filled with stars, no light pollution. Sometimes I'd lie outside and stare into the heavens trying to comprehend infinity. I understood, from Dad, that infinity meant it went on forever, that there was no end. My little girl brain couldn't comprehend the idea. I'd lie out there and stare at the sky studded with stars and I'd drift out and out and out trying to find the edge. There HAD to be one. I'd go so far out I'd become scared I'd get lost and never come back to earth. Somehow I'd pulled myself back, feel the safety of the ground under my back, and see warm friendly glow of yellow lantern light through the windows. Infinity would have to wait for another night when maybe I'd be braver.

It still eludes me. 

Though I've never thought of myself as a poet, two constellations inspired "poems." There is, in both of them, the common theme that nothing, not even the constellations, last forever. Everything is finite, ephemeral. Nothing stays the same, everything changes. The first one I wrote in high school, the second one about 10 years later. In a way, they are also poems to my father.

ORION

He is silent, strong,
and patient.
He hunts the bear.
And until Time herself
scatters his stars
he will continue to 
hunt the bear
unafraid, and,
without success.

SCORPIO

And when I gaze 
into the south southwestern sky,
do you see Scorpio as I?
There lies the great sweep,
the curve of tail,
the grand array of stars eternal...
I am reminded of my finiteness,
of numbered days,
but know it is not too late
to relate
the thoughts and feelings 
locked deep within the heart.
And I know too
that Scorpio will have his day,

when all his stars will blow away.

Then he and I 

will understand infinity

and dance 

the cosmic dance

one hundred million million times

as molecules of space dust,

as atoms of ethereal air,

as star, as human,

as all things

both great and rare.

***

Have you ever contemplated infinity? Are you a star gazer?  How many constellations can you recognize? Has your writing ever been inspired by the heavens?

Random Thought Thursday

Today's quote is from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I think most of us recognize the old man from many wonderful photos. But here he is as a young man looking rather dashing. I see a bit of mischievousness lingering at the corner of his mouth. And there is a look in his eye...as if he knows something he's not telling us about.

Perseverance is an element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.

Here is a voice from the past (by 1850 he was already well known) telling us the same thing that so many keep telling us:

Keep sending out those manuscripts.
Keep sending queries.
Don't give up, don't give in.
Someone will hear you.

As it is Christmas, here is a favorite poem, it is also a favorite Christmas song, though two of the verses are left out when singing the song. This poem was written when the end of the Civil War was still months away. The north, as well as the south, were weary with war. I love how Longfellow expresses his own despair at the bloodshed ever ending, and then how gloriously hope rings out at the end. Gives me chills every time I read it, sing it. LOVE that last verse.

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"



Merry Christmas everyone!

Like, You Know?

Lest we forget the importance of speaking and writing properly. Check out this great poem by Taylor mali.

Poems by Rilke

It would be nice to at least be able to read German so I could read his poems in their original form. I wonder what is lost in translation?

Years ago, in my early 20s, I copied several of his poems into a spiral notebook. I did not take note of who the translator was. Something I regret, for in the intervening years I have read other translations of some of the poems I copied and have not liked them quite so well. As an example I have given two versions of one poem. Even the titles are different. The second version is from my notebook.

Entrance

Whoever you are: step out into the evening
out of your living room, where everything is so known;
your house stands as the last thing before great space:
Whoever you are.
With your eyes, which in their fatigue can just barely
free themselves from the worn-out thresholds,very slowly, lift a single black tree
and place it against the sky, slender and alone.
With this you have made the world. And it is large
and like a word that is still ripening in silence.
And, just as your will grasps their meaning,
they in turn will let go, delicately, of your eyes . . .

Initiation

Whoever you are, go out into the evening,
leaving your room, of which you know each bit;
your house is the last before the infinite,
whoever you are.
Then with your eyes that wearily
scare lift themselves from that worn-out door-stone
slowly you raise a shadowy black tree
and fix it on the sky: slender, alone.
And you have made the world (and it shall grow
and ripen as a word, unspoken, still).
When you have grasped its meaning with your will,
then tenderly your eyes will let it go.


Here are two more from my notebook.

Solitude

Solitude is like a rain.
It rises from the sea to meet the evening;
it rises from the dim, far distant plain
toward the sky, as by an old birthright.
And thence falls on the city from the height.

If falls like rain in that gray doubtful hour
when all the streets are turning toward the dawn,
and when those bodies, with all hope foregone
of what they sought, are sorrowfully alone;
and when all men who hate each other, creep
together in on common bed for sleep;

the solitude flows onward with the rivers...


A Woman's Fate

Even as a king out hunting seized a glass,
something to drink from - any glass, no matter -
and someone after that in a sure place
put the slight thing away, to guard it better:

thus destiny, which also has a thirst,
picked up this woman, drank of her till slated,
an afterward some trivial fellow durst
not put her to her use, for fear she break,

and stuck her in that careful cupboard where
one cherishes all costly things and rare
(or things that people fancy have some worth).

And there she stood, as strange as something loaned
slowly growing merely old and blind,
and was not prized and never rare on earth.

Summer and Sand

I've written about Charlotte before. Here she is with a bunch of us kids. I'm sitting on her lap.
Notice I'm the only one who's barefoot.


Charlotte was a long time family friend. She's on the left, with my mother. Mom was about 17 or 18 years old. They are holding doves.



Charlotte, who was several years older than my grandmother, was my first best friend. She had been a Suffragette, had written book reviews for the New York Times, and was their first female poetry editor. She was part of the famous Algonquin Round Table, hanging out with the likes of Dorothy Parker and company.

She introduced my sister and me to books: The Secret Garden, the fairytales of Oscar Wilde, Little Brother and Little Sister (a collection of Grimm fairytales illustrated by Arthur Rackham which was given to her in 1919 and which I have) Irish Fairy Tales by James Stephens and A Doorway to Fairyland by Laurence Housman (I have these books too) to name a few.

She introduced us to music: Gilbert and Sullivan comes immediately to mind, memories of all of us singing along with the H. M. S. Pinafore...

And she introduced us to poetry. Below is probably our all time favorite. It was so true for us, who lived near the ocean, who went almost daily to the beach. And I thought, since summer is almost on us, I'd share it, because some of you might get to (or have been to) the beach and you'd identify with it.

Enjoy.

SEASON AT THE SHORE
by Phyllis McGinley


Oh, not by sun and not by cloud
And not by whippoorwill, crying loud,
And not by the pricking of my thumbs,
Do I know the way that the summer comes.
Yet here on this seagull-haunted strand,
Hers is an omen I understand -
Sand:

Sand on the beaches,
Sand at the door,
Sand that screeches
On the new-swept floor;
In the shower, sand for the foot to crunch on;
Sand in the sandwiches spread for luncheon;
Sand adhesive to son and sibling,
From wallet sifting, from pockets dribbling;
Sand by the beaker
Nightly shed
From odious sneaker;
Sand in bed;
Sahara always in my seaside shanty
Like the sand in the voice
of J. Durante.

Winter is mittens, winter is gaiters
Steaming on various radiators.
Autumn is leaves that bog the broom.
Spring is mud in the living room
Or skates in places one scarcely planned.
But what is summer, her seal in hand?
Sand:

Sand in closets,
Sand on the stair,
Desert deposits
In the parlor chair;
Sand in the halls like the halls of the ocean;
Sand in the soap and the sun-tan lotion;
Stirred in the porridge, tossed on the greens,
Poured from the bottoms of rolled-up jeans;
In the elmy street
On the lawny acre;
Glued to the seat
Of the Studebaker.
Wrapped in the folds of the Wall Street Journal;
Damp sand, dry sand,
Sand eternal.

When I shake my garments at the Lord’s command,
What will I scatter in the Promised Land?
Sand.

A Random Thought

I must be feeling a bit misanthropic, therefore, I need a little poetry.

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven - by William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


And because it will be a full moon tonight...

To the Moon- by Rainer Maria Rilke

Moon, svelte person,
who makes you pregnant
every month?
And who makes you always
engrossed in your pregnancy
--almost terrestrially?

You attract the blood
of our pubescent virgins.
But what do you mother
twelve times a year?

Shall we raise your light
offspring in ourselves?
Inside me I found a soft
candle decorated with gilt
which I think suits your taste.

Mystery Poet Revealed

I could just give you his name, but I won't.

He was born in Edinburgh, Scotland on November 13, 1850. He was a sickly child who spent a good deal of time in bed and was taught by tutors. He wrote stories (dictating them) before he could read, which he didn't learn to do until he was 7 or 8 years old.

He was ill off and on most of his life.

He was suppose to follow in his father's footsteps and become an engineer, but he had no interest in it.

He fell in love with an American divorcee, and though it nearly cost him his life, he followed her all the way to California. He married his soul mate in May of 1880.

For the next 7 years they lived around Europe and he was ill a good deal of the time. Despite this these years produced his most famous and beloved works.

In 1887 he began the journey that would eventually land him on an island in the Samoas.

Surely you know who he is by now....

He died suddenly on December 3, 1894. He was only 44 years old.

On his headstone, is this beautiful verse, which of course, he penned.

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Robert Louis Stevenson. The poems are from his collection called A Child's Garden of Verses.

Poetry Friday

Kelly Polark is hosting Poetry Friday. So I thought I'd join in. Because I do not consider myself a poet, I will instead post two poems I particularly like. Can you name the writer of these poems? It can't be that hard! (Erva, you don't get to play, 'cause I know you know.)

The Wind

I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass -
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all -
O wind, a-blowing all daylong,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

Keepsake Mill

Over the borders, a sin without pardon,
Breaking the branches and crawling below,
Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,
Down by the banks of the river, we go.

Here is the mill with the humming of thunder,
Here is the weir with the wonder of foam,
Here is the sluice with the race running under -
Marvellous places, though handy to home!

Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,
Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;
Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,
Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.

Years may go by, and the wheel in the river
Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day,
Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever
Long after all of the boys are away.

Home from the Indies and home from the ocean,
Heroes and soldiers we all shall come home;
Still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion,
Turning and churning that river to foam.

You with the bean that I gave when we quarrelled,
I with your marble of Saturday last,
Honoured and old and all gaily apparelled,
Here we shall meet and remember the past.

Creative Writing - An Update

April being Poetry Month, the creative writing class I'm taking at the university, participated in a poetry slam last week. In preparation our professor showed us a film (video tape, DVD, whatever you want to call it) showing people at poetry slams reciting their poems. It was all very impressive.

Our guest poet was Thom the World Poet also known as Thom Moon 10. Originally from Australia, he travels all over the world reciting his poems and handing out chap books of them for free. If you go to his web-site and email him he will send you a daily poem as he writes at least one a day. He is quite entertaining, humorous and madly in love with poetry. At the beginning of the evening he handed out plastic eggs filled with rice so we could provide rhythm and "applaud" the performers.

Here's a little "poem" about it.

Easter eggs filled with rice
- shaken, not stirred -
applause for the spoken word

Not considering myself a poet and unable to "do" poetry off the top of my head, plus the fact that I didn't have a poem to memorize and recite, I did the next best thing. I hauled out my dusty guitar case and sang an original song.

I did practice for several weeks before the night of the performance. I had to toughen up my finger tips, I have no calluses left! I haven't played or sung in front of any kind of audience in at least 10 years, so it was quite the deal.

I didn't do too badly, considering how rusty I am, and got an enthusiastic round of applause plus a peace sign flashed at me from a long-haired male student.

All of the above is a lead-in to this: One of the reasons I decided to take the class was to stretch my boundaries. This I am doing. What I have discovered, what I didn't realize, is that I have been basically treading water when it comes to my writing. I've been in a comfortable place and have been on cruise control.

But a writer and her writing needs to be fed. I don't know where I'm going. In fact, I don't have any kind of goal in sight. What I know is that I'm beginning to swim slowly in an outward moving spiral. I'm in no hurry. It's not the goal that's important, it's the leisurely swim. Right now the waters are warm and calm and welcoming. No doubt I will encounter stormy seas, but I intend to ride the waves, laughing (or crying) all the way.

A Garden Moment

For the first time in several years we have garden. Granted, it’s small, but still, it’s a garden. We have harvested two batches of spinach and the snow peas are starting to really show up. The broccolis have heads and the tomatoes are starting to form tiny green fruit. The bush beans have a way to go yet, but no doubt they too will have their day.

Here I am in the garden with Ursa, picking snow peas. It's a wonderful thing. Ursa concurs. I caught her pulling a snow pea off the vine and eating it. I’m sure she has done this on more than one occasion!

We've had bumper crop of yellow irises this year. They came from California, brought to us by my mother. Over the years the original clump has been divided and divided again until now we have them all over the yard. Behind them is another row of snow peas.

This is a Columbine with a happy bee gathering pollen and nectar. I had to wait for her to appear as she completely disappeared into the flower.

And here are Rose Campions. In the back is another clump of yellow irises.

The Flowers

by Rober Louis Stevenson

All the names I know from nurse:

Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,

Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,

And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy place, fairy things,

Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,

Tiny trees for tiny dames --

These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs

Shady fairies weave a house;

Tiny tree-tops, rose and thyme,

Where the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people's trees,

But the fairest woods are these;

Where, if I were not so tall,

I should live for good and all.

A Random Thought

So, we’re supposed to “spring forward” sometime tonight or in the wee hours of Sunday morning.

I wish “they’d” make up their friggin’ minds! What time is it? Oh, you want an extra hour of daylight at the end of the day? Well then, get up an hour earlier, cause that’s all we’re doing when we set our clocks an hour ahead, which means, for someone like me who is up between 4 or 5 AM every morning that I’ll now be up between 3 and 4! GAK.

I so don’t like this messing with the clocks. I experience jetlag er…timelag for days. Here it is going on 7 AM and we’ve got this nice sunrise going on but tomorrow morning we’ll be waiting around till like 8 AM before it starts to get light! Jeeze! And then as the months go by I’ll have to be deal with it still being light out when I’m ready to go to bed.

Which reminds me of this poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

Bed In Summer

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
Still going past me on the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

The only good thing about it is now there will be a one hour difference between where I live and where my sister lives instead of two. So when I call her at seven PM my time it will be eight PM her time instead of nine.

A Random Thought

Another favorite Poem from Silver Pennies

The Elf and the Dormouse
By Oliver Herford

UNDER a toadstool crept a wee Elf,
Out of the rain to shelter himself.
Under the toadstool, sound asleep,
Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.
Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yet
Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.
To the next shelter — maybe a mile!
Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile,
Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two.
Holding it over him, gaily he flew.
Soon he was safe home, dry as could be.
Soon woke the Dormouse — " Good gracious me!
"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented.
And that's how umbrellas first were invented.

How I used to giggle every time I read/recited this poem! I loved it then, I love it now, particularly the line, “Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two.” That’s probably the line that introduced me to alliteration. If feels so cool tumbling off the tongue.

A Random Thought

I was thinking about the full moon...and the eclipse last night (which we didn't get to see because of cloud cover) and that got me to trying to remember a poem I used to know as kid. I looked it up (the internet can be sooooo wonderful) and I found it. Not only that, I found the book it was in, a collection of poem edited by Blanche Jennings Thompson. It was the same book I had as a kid. Alas, it is one book from my childhood that did not survive. It was called Silver Pennies.

Here is the poem.

Yet Gentle Will the Griffin Be

by Vachel Lindsey

The moon? It is a griffin's egg,

Hatching to-morrow night.

And how the little boys will watch

With shouting and delight

To see him break the shell and stretch

And creep across the sky.

The boys will laugh. The little girls, I fear, may hide and cry.

Yet gentle will the griffin be,

Most decorours and fat,

And walk up the Milky Way

And lap it like a cat.