Sunday, March 27, 2011

Silly Heart

Many, many years ago, I purchased a Hallmark greeting card for which I finally got a frame, because I fell in love with the poem inside and always want to be able to look at it to cheer myself up:

I just love the photo of the happy, white-haired lady and hope that can be me some day!

I want to have a silly heart
when I grow old someday
a heart that still does somersaults
and runs outside to play

a heart that won't forget to dream
and can't remember facts
and thinks of birthday candles
as just sticks of wicks and wax

I want a heart that's been around
and knows a thing or two
but still can laugh
I want to have
a silly heart
don't you?

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Open Season

No, I will not fear you anymore
I'm through hiding in the house
I'm outside to do my gardening like a woman
Not run and squeal like a mouse

You sting my skin and make it itch
Ok, it's quite impressive
But I am tougher than a bug
And probably just as obsessive

So, bring it on!
Is that the best you can do?
I'll smack myself as hard as I can
just to be rid of you!

(by Doris Sturm)

 ...and that's how we do it down South! (bzzzzzzzzzz - whack!)

Yep, it's that time of year again....

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

The Dear Little Shamrock

by Andrew Cherry 
There's a dear little plant that grows in Ireland.
'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it.
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile.
And a tear from his eyes oft-times wet it.
It grows thro' the bog, thro' the brake, and the mireland,
And it's called the dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
That dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, and whose eyes can command,
In each climate they ever appear in:
For they shine thro' the bog, thro' the brake, and the mireland,
Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland.

That dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes from the stalk we together should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended.
And still thro' the bog, thro' the brake, and the mireland,
From one root should branch, like the Shamrock of Ireland.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Early Spring

I've been spending a lot of time outside lately, knowing that these pleasures won't last much longer for summer time in the South has become my dreaded season of heat, humidity and I stay mainly indoors in the summer with the air conditioner humming day and night. Poor me - poor Gizzy!

I have always enjoyed walking for when I walk I often get my best ideas. It's a good time for day dreaming, pondering and musing. Seeing nature around me, observing wildlife and watching my own little Gizzy dog as he investigates every single blade of grass fills me with joy and gratitude for life and being alive. I can't help but wonder what happened to us - meaning man, in general - when did we become so superficial and self important? If that's progress, I don't want it.
I found this bitter-sweet poem very appropriate for the way I feel sometimes:
Lines Written in Early Spring
by William Wordsworth 

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played:
Their thoughts I cannot measure,
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

(Photo Credits: Google Image Search)

Monday, March 7, 2011

My friend and fellow hooker (crocheter) Pam of Bags and More by Pam, has reminded me of Haiku, a form of Japanese poetry that I want to share here today:

Haiku is a form of Japanese poetry.  Each poem consists of three lines with five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line.   

This is what I came up with:

MY BEST FRIEND (by: Doris)

Short, fluffy and stout

walking, sniffing all about

Outside, he and I