TUESDAY "SPANISH PHRASES"

By Debbie Bulloch



A long time ago, in a far away galaxy, I contributed to a blog by submitting a list of common, and sometimes whimsical, Spanish phrases. From my list the blog’s editor would select one phrase to publish each day in the “Spanish Phrase of the Day” section of the blog. Sadly, one day the blog disappeared and I lost touch with the editor.

The other day, while cleaning out my computer’s hard drive I came across files with many of the phrases that I had submitted, but were never published. On the principle that, “waste not, want not,” I have decided not to let all that work go to waste.

So here is the first installment of BH’s very own version of Spanish Phrase Of The Day. On each installment I will include up to five phrases. I will publish the translation of each phrase at the bottom of the blog’s entry.

Your assignment is to figure out the meaning of each phrase. (Don't cheat by looking at the translations without first trying your hand at figuring out each phrase).

I would also encourage the many of you who speak a foreign language (well, foreign to me, but native to you) to submit a list of phrases (with translation) to be included together with the Spanish phrases.

1. ¿Hay algún hotel por aquí?

2. ¿Tiene alguna habitación libre?

3. Desearia reservar una habitación doble

4. ¿De dónde sale el barco?

5. ¿Cuándo sale el primer barco?

Buena suerte. A todos les deseo, “Amor, suerte, fortuna y tiempo para disfrutarlo!” ( I wish you all, Love, Good Luck, Fortune and time enough to enjoy them all.)

1. Is there a hotel here?

2. Do you have any vacancies?

3. I'd like to book a double room.

4. Where does the boat leave from?

5. When does the first boat leave?

TUESDAY'S CORNER - PHOTOGRAPHY AND POETRY

By Debbie Bulloch



The other day I was listening to Jackson Browne’s FOUNTAIN OF SORROW. As I listened to Browne’s carefully crafted lyrics it occurred to me that photography and poetry share much in common. A photograph captures that special moment in time when the photographer clicks the shutter's release and freezes time forever. A poem, on the other hand, captures the mood of that moment in time when Muses breathed inspiration into the poet's heart.

When reduced to their most essential element, both photography and poetry are efforts to capture the mood of a moment. Look at one of your own favorite photographs and then close your eyes; you will be transported to the moment when the photograph was snapped. If you try hard enough, you will hear the sounds and smell the odors that were there when you took the photo. Do the same with a favorite poem and soon the rhythms of the words will evoke the mood of the moment captured by the poet.

Music is the bridge that brings together the words of the poet and the images of the photographer. The best songwriters use words to bring out feelings in the listener; they use those same words to paint mental images. Jackson Browne has written beautiful songs that can both evoke emotions and paint beautiful pictures.



In FOUNTAIN OF SORROW, Browne goes one step further and uses the device of a lost photograph to lead the listener into an exploration of the sorrow caused by a lost love:

Looking through some photographs I found inside a drawer
I was taken by a photograph of you
There were one or two I know that you would have liked a little more
But they didn’t show your spirit quite as true.

Of special note is the reversed image in this line: I was taken by a photograph of you. Normally, we take photographs, we are not taken by them. Browne then goes on to describe the moment when the photographer releases the shutter and captures an image that will live on, even after the moment has passed:

You were turning round to see who was behind you
And I took your childish laughter by surprise
And at the moment that my camera happened to find you
There was just a trace of sorrow in your eyes.

The rest of the song develops parallel themes of sex and nothingness, fantasy and realism, as Browne, looking at the photograph of a former lover, recalls: When you see through love's illusion, their lies the danger/And your perfect lover just looks like a perfect fool/So you go running off in search of a perfect stranger." In the chorus, highly romanticized sexuality becomes a "fountain of sorrow, fountain of light."

For all of you who love photography, for all of you who enjoy reading a good poem and for all of you who have loved and lost, and loved again, here are the entire lyrics to FOUNTAIN OF SORROW. Enjoy!

Looking through some photographs I found inside a drawer
I was taken by a photograph of you
There were one or two I know that you would have liked a little more
But they didn’t show your spirit quite as true

You were turning round to see who was behind you
And I took your childish laughter by surprise
And at the moment that my camera happened to find you
There was just a trace of sorrow in your eyes

Now the things that I remember seem so distant and so small
Though it hasn’t really been that long a time
What I was seeing wasn’t what was happening at all
Although for a while, our path did seem to climb
But when you see through loves illusions, there lies the danger
And your perfect lover just looks like a perfect fool
So you go running off in search of a perfect stranger
While the loneliness seems to spring from your life
Like a fountain from a pool

Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light
You’ve known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight
You’ve had to hide sometimes, but now you’re all right
And its good to see your smiling face tonight

Now for you and me it may not be that hard to reach our dreams
But that magic feeling never seems to last
And while the futures there for anyone to change, still you know its seems
It would be easier sometimes to change the past
I’m just one or two years and a couple of changes behind you
In my lessons at loves pain and heartache school
Where if you feel too free and you need something to remind you
There’s this loneliness springing up from your life
Like a fountain from a pool

Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light
You’ve known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight

You’ve had to hide sometimes but now you’re all right
And its good to see your smiling face tonight

Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light
You’ve known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight
You’ve had to struggle, you’ve had to fight
To keep understanding and compassion in sight
You could be laughing at me, you’ve got the right
But you go on smiling so clear and so bright

MONDAY AFTERNOON POETRY

By Debbie Bulloch



Enjoy another installment of MONDAY AFTERNOON POETRY. Catch you on hte flipside!

IF YOU CANNOT

If you cannot find
The same pleasure in my arms
That you once felt
Then go
I don’t want you.

If you cannot laugh
Aloud with me
Like we once did
Then go
I don’t want you.

If you cannot look
Into my eyes
And share with me
The mysteries of life
Then go
I don’t’ want you

If you cannot be
The person you once
Promised me you’d be
Then go
I don’t want you

If you cannot find,
I will find for you.
If you cannot laugh,
I will laugh for you.
If you cannot look,
I will look for you.
If you cannot be,
I will be for you.

Don’t go,
Stay for a moment.
I still want you.

03.30.2009

Copyright © 2009 DB. All rights fully reserved.

IF YOU CANNOT - French translation.

Below is a French translation of my poem IF YOU CANNOT. Monsieur Odriscoll, a poet and prolific writer himself, was kind enough to translate my words into French. M. Odriscoll is my SL French language teacher and he knows that I have an affinity for French cinema. (A country where Jerry Lewis is revered as a comic genius cannot be all that bad, even if they eat slimy snails). When I watch a French film I listen to the dialogue and try to figure out what is happening without looking at the sub-titles. French, like Spanish, Italian and the other Romance languages has a lilting, almost musical flow that is very pleasant to the ear. Merci infiniment, M. Odriscoll, de votre traduction de ma poesie.


Si tu ne peux pas trouver
le meme plaisir dans mes bras
que tu as ressenti une fois
alors pars,
je ne veux pas de toi

si tu ne peux pas rire
avec moi
comme nous l'avons déjà fait ensemble
alors pars
je ne veux pas de toi

si tu ne peux pas voir dans mes yeux
et partager avec moi
les mystères de la vie
alors pars
je ne veux pas de toi

si tu ne peux pas être
la personne
que tu m'as promis que tu serais
alors pars
je ne veux pas de toi

si tu ne peux pas trouver
je trouverai pour toi
si tu ne peux pas rire,
je rirai pour toi
si tu ne peux pas regarder,
je regarderai pour toi
si tu ne peux pas être,
je serai pour toi

ne pars pas
reste pour un moment
je te veux encore

SUNDAY MORNING PHOTO GALLERY

By Debbie Bulloch



KODACHROME
By Paul Simon

When I think back
On all the crap I learned in high school
It's a wonder
I can think at all
And though my lack of edu---cation
Hasn't hurt me none
I can read the writing on the wall

Kodachrome
They give us those nice bright colors
They give us the greens of summers
Makes you think all the world's a sunny day, Oh yeah
I got a Nikon camera
I love to take a photograph
So mama don't take my Kodachrome away

If you took all the girls I knew
When I was single
And brought them all together for one night
I know they'd never match
my sweet imagination
everything looks WORSE in black and white

Kodachrome
They give us those nice bright colors
They give us the greens of summers
Makes you think all the world's a sunny day, Oh yeah
I got a Nikon camera
I love to take a photograph
So mama don't take my Kodachrome away

Mama don't take my Kodachrome away
Mama don't take my Kodachrome away
Mama don't take my Kodachrome away

Earlier this afternoon I was listening to the radio when this old Paul Simon song came on. The lyrics to the song reminded me of how even though we place a great value on a formal education, sometimes a school-education is not enough to make a person smart, "And though my lack of edu---cation/Hasn't hurt me none/I can read the writing on the wall."

The song also reminded me of how much I love to take photogrpahs, "I got a Nikon camera/I love to take a photograph/So mama don't take my Kodachrome away."

I have taken many photographs in SL, and especially around the grounds at Between Homes. Most of the time I take photographs of BH residents. I usually use the "save to hard disk" option, then use Photoshop Elements (I am too cheap to buy the high-end version of Photoshop) to edit the photos. After I edit the photograph in my computer, I download it back to SL. Linden Labs charges $10L per photo, which is not a bad deal (free would be an even better deal).

Today I will share with you (in no particular order) some of the photos that I have taken of BH residents. Hope you enjoy them. And if your photo does not appear here, don't worry; I plan to do a follow-up so sooner or later i will add your picture to my gallery.

BH Chief Builder and all-round fantastic friend - Yucca Gemini!



Gloeing Ember, Canada's finest and BH's generous Guardian Angel - a man very close to my heart. (Who is the readhead sitting on his lap?)



Tet is a big Dr. Who fan (you may have seen him pop in and out in his Tardis machine) and one of BH's original residents.



Matilda (Tilda) Little - I met her under unusual circumstances, but we have been close friends ever since.



Xanadu Dominquez, another long-time friend - Xana is very dear and close to my heart.



Rogers Albatros, BH Security Guard and a complete gentleman.



Baby Tess on her trike playing in the snow. Notice the two Newfies, Sherlock and Holmes, standin guard over Tess.



SanPaul Held a long-time RL friend and knight in shining armor type of guy.



Rachel Brimm, another long-time BH resident and fellow VKC dog owner.



Monsieur Arcabulle Odriscoll, aka "Jerry Lewis." A frequent contributor to the BH blog.



Finally, BH's spiritual guide and Jedi Knight trainer - Yoda!



Look for more Photo Galleries, featuring more of your fellow BH residents. If you see me lurking around with my trusty Canon (unlike Paul Simon, I've never owned a Nikon) relax, smile - you're on candid camera.

Now enjoy Paul Simon's KODACHROME

FRIDAY MORNING POETRY CORNER

By Debbie Bulloch



In this installment of FRIDAY MORNING POETRY CORNER I will feature American poet Emily Dickinson. Dickinson’s lifestyle, experiences and poetic style stand in sharp contrast to last week’s featured poet, Walt Whitman. Where Whitman was loud and gregarious, Dickinson was quiet and reserved; where Whitman traveled extensively, rarely hanging his hat for very long at one place, Dickinson never ventured far from home, spending the last few years of her life as a near-recluse in her own home; where Whitman’s poetry was big and expansive, Dickinson’s poems are concise and focused. Dickinson was well read, and was familiar with the work of her contemporaries; she, however, never read Whitman because he was too “crude.”

These two poets; Whitman, a man who sometimes wrote of “feminine” themes and was suspected of being gay or at least bi-sexual; Dickinson, a woman, who sometimes wrote about manly objects, provide a nice point-counter point to FRIDAY MORNING POETRY CORNER.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was born on December 10, 1830, in Amherst, Massachusetts. Her father was a successful lawyer and her family had strong community ties. Dickinson lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life, she never traveled far from her birthplace. She studied at Amherst Academy (later re-named Amherst College, a well-known American liberal arts college). Dickinson also spent time studying at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, now Mount Holyoke College, the “oldest continuing institution of higher education for women in the world."



After completing her formal studies, Dickinson returned to her family’s home in Amherst. There, the local residents thought of Dickinson as something of an eccentric. She had a penchant for white clothing (a white dress is Dickinson’s only surviving article of clothing) and was reluctant to greet guests or, later in her life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.

Dickinson was a prolific private poet, though fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime. Dickinson's poems are unique for the era in which she wrote; they contain short lines, typically lack titles, and often utilize slant rhyme as well as unconventional capitalization and punctuation. Many of her poems deal with themes of death and immortality, two subjects which infused her letters to friends.

Dickinson was keenly aware of the ways in which poetry can move people. “If I read a book,” she observed, “and it makes my body so cold no fire can ever warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the way I know it. Is there any way?” Historian and critics have often tried to make a big deal of Dickinson’s “retreat” from society. But as Marianne Moore (another American poet of fame) once remarked, “For a poet there is society in solitude.” Dickinson herself once wrote to a friend, “I find ecstasy in living. The mere sense of living is joy enough.” Clearly Dickinson was not lonely, nor was she without joy in her life; she simply sought out the solitude that enabled her to craft such exquisite poetry.

The extensive use of dashes and unconventional capitalization in Dickinson's manuscripts, and the idiosyncratic vocabulary and imagery, combine to create a body of work that is "far more various in its styles and forms than is commonly supposed.” Dickinson did not write in traditional iambic pentameter, and did not even use a five-foot line. Her poems typically begin with a declaration or definition in the first line ("The fact that Earth is Heaven"), which is followed by a metaphorical change of the original premise in the second line ("Whether Heaven is Heaven or not"). Dickinson's poems can easily be set to music because of the frequent use of rhyme and free verse.

It was not until after Dickinson’s death in May 15, 1886, that the depth and breadth of Dickinson's work became apparent. Fortunately for her legions of fans, Emily’s younger sister, Lavinia, discovered her cache of poems. Dickinson’s first collection of poetry was published in 1890 by personal acquaintances Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd, both of whom heavily edited the content. A complete and mostly unaltered collection of her poetry became available for the first time in 1955 when The Poems of Emily Dickinson was published by scholar Thomas H. Johnson. Despite unfavorable initial reviews, critics now consider Dickinson to be a major American poet.



Here then, for your reading, and listening (poems are meant to be read aloud and never, ever, to be speed-read through), pleasure are a few of Ms. Dickinson’s better known poems.

Notice how Dickinson uses words and imagery to describe a steaming locomotive’s journey through the countryside in terms that any horse lover can recognize. The horse becomes a metaphor for something bigger and more powerful - a steam locomotive.

I like to see it lap the miles,
And lick the valleys up,
And stop to feed itself at tanks;
And then, prodigious, step

Around a pile of mountains,
And, supercilious, peer
In shanties by the sides of roads;
And then a quarry pare

To fit its sides, and crawl between,
Complaining all the while
In horrid, hooting stanza;
Then chase itself down hill

And neigh like Boanerges;
Then, punctual as a star,
Stop--docile and omnipotent--
At its own stable door.

In the following poem, Dickinson describes the Zen-like notion that to appreciate “good” one must also experience “bad.” Thus “bad” becomes a necessary part of life – without bad we would never know “good.”

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition ,
So clear, of victory,

As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear.

Dickinson often wrote about death. To her, however, death was not the end of a journey it was more like a way-station on the road to a new adventure.

I died for beauty but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth,--the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.

And here is more....

The dying need but little, dear,--
A glass of water's all,
A flower's unobtrusive face
To punctuate the wall,

A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret,
And certainly that one
No color in the rainbow
Perceives when you are gone.

Hunger, of the soul and heart, was another of Dickinson’s themes.

I had been hungry all the years-
My noon had come, to dine-
I, trembling, drew the table near
And touched the curious wine.

'T was this on tables I had seen
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own.

I did not know the ample bread,
'T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's dining-room.

The plenty hurt me, 't was so new,--
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.

Nor was I hungry; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.

There are several online collections of Dickinson’s poems. This one is one of my favorite:

DICKINSON’S POEMS – LISTED BY FIRST LINE

Apropos to today’s FRIDAY MORNING POETRY CORNER, I just read an article in Newsweek magazine about the imminent death of poetry. IS POETRY REALLY DEAD?

Is there anyone who really thinks that poetry is finally “dead?” As long as there are individuals who need to connect with their inner emotions, can poetry be really dead?

Personally I don’t think so.

Let me know what you think.

Enjoy!

WEDNESDAY NIGHT MUSIC

By Debbie Bulloch

Now that summer is just around the corner, my thoughts turn to long drives on Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). Roaring down what has often been referred as one of the world's most scenic drives, all the car's windows down, sunroof open, the mighty Pacific Ocean on one side, mountains on the other and my favorite iPod play list blasting on the stereo.

This song, by Stephen Stills (of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young fame) reminds me of one of those fabulous drives. And really, if for whatever reason you can't be with the one you love, then love the one you are with!



Love the One You're With
Stephen Stills

If you're down and confused
And you don't remember who you're talking to,
Concentration slips away
Cause you're baby is so far away

CHORUS:
Well there's a rose in the fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love honey
Love the one you're with, Love the one you're with,
Love the one you're with, Love the one you're with.

Don't be angry - don't be sad
Don't sit crying over good times you've had
There's a girl right next to you
And she's just waiting for something to do

CHORUS:
Well there's a rose in the fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love honey
Love the one you're with, Love the one you're with,
Love the one you're with, Love the one you're with.

Doo doo doo doo doo doo do-do
Doo doo doo doo doo doo do-do
Doo doo doo doo doo doo do-do
Do-do-do - do-do-do
wo-o o o o o, wo-o o o o o,
wo-o o o o o, a a a-o
wo-o o o o o, a-o
Love the one you're with,Love the one you're with,
Love the one you're with,Love the one you're with,

Turn your heartache right into joy
Cause she's a girl and you're a boy
Get it together, make it nice
You ain't gonna need anymore advice

CHORUS:
Well there's a rose in the fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love honey
Love the one you're with, Love the one you're with,
Love the one you're with, Love the one you're with.

Doo doo doo doo doo doo do-do
Doo doo doo doo doo doo do-do
Doo doo doo doo doo doo do-do
Do-do-do - do-do-do


For more info on California's world famous PCH, click here:

PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY

For more information on Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, click here:

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON COMICS

By Debbie Bulloch



Good morning! Someone recently sent me a link to xkcd.com, a website that bills itself as: A webcomic of romance, sarcasm, math, and language.

With a name like that, I couldn't resist the temptation to look around. What I found was an amazing collection of some of the funniest, most ironic and intellectually challenging "comics."

Here are a few samples of the humor I found at xkcd.com. (NOTE: For better viewing, you may need to click on each image and you will get a full frame version.)




FOR THOSE OF YOU BORED WITH THE INTERNET AND SECOND LIFE AND WISH TO VENTURE OUT ON THE GREAT OUTDOOR



FOR THOSE OF YOU LIKE POETRY IN ALL OF ITS FORMS



FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE OVERLY CONCERNED WITH YOUR INTERNET PROFILES



Here is a link to the webcomic. Click on the link and enjoy some of the funniest stuff in the Internet. All the drawing posted here are copyrighted by xkcd.com and the author reserves all rights. They are reproduced here by permission of the author.

FUNNY & INTELLIGENT COMICS



Enjoy!

SUNDAY AFTERNOON MUSIC...

By Debbie Bulloch




I recently saw a television advertisement for the VISA credit card. Normally, I am not very fond of credit card companies and their rapacious business ways. But this commercial brought back sweet memories of trips to the Aquarium with my Daddy. He would hold my hand tight as we walked around, perhaps afraid that he would lose me. When we stood in front of an exhibit he would put me on his shoulders so I could see over the crowd (Dad was a tall 6’2” footer).





Dad was very well-read and he had a special love for sea life. Whenever we went to the Aquarium he would take time to carefully explain to me all about the animals and the fishes in the aquarium. I must admit that sometimes I found his explanations to be, well a tad long. Amazingly enough, however, even when I thought that I was not paying attention, in fact I did learn a lot from Dad’s “boring” explanations.





The first time I took my daughter to the Aquarium I felt as if I was journeying back in time. As my daughter and I walked from one exhibit to the next, I was again a little girl – except this time there was no Daddy’s hand to hold mine and there were no Daddy’s broad shoulders to carry me above the crowd. When my daughter and I stopped in front of a tank filled with brightly colored tropical fish my daughter asked me about the fishes in the tank. I then launched into a detailed explanation of the fish, their coloring and their habitat. As I told my daughter all about the fishes I realized that my Daddy was still there with me, holding my hand, as I re-told his lessons to my daughter – his granddaughter.





Coincidentally, one of Dad’s favorite groups was the Moody Blues. He would spend long, lazy Sunday afternoons listening to his old vinyl records. I can almost hear the sound of the music coming from the speakers in his study – I can also still hear the hiss and pop of the needle as it journeyed over the grooved, vinyl surface.

The first time that I saw and heard the VISA commercial it felt as if my Dad was speaking to me. I could sense his presence next to me - I could once again hear his words.

Thank you Dad for all the fish lessons and thanks for the Moody blues; this post is for you!





TUESDAY AFTERNOON

Tuesday afternoon.
I'm just beginning to see,
Now I'm on my way.
It doesn't matter to me,
Chasing the clouds away.
Something calls to me.
The trees are drawing me near,
I've got to find out why.
Those gentle voices I hear
Explain it all with a sigh.
I'm looking at myself, reflections of my mind.
It's just the kind of day to leave myself behind.
So gently swaying through the fairy-land of love,
If you could just come with me and see the beauty of
Tuesday afternoon.
Tuesday afternoon.
Tuesday afternoon.
I'm just beginning to see,
Now I'm on my way.
It doesn't matter to me,
Chasing the clouds away.

Something calls to me.
The trees are drawing me near,
I've got to find out why.
Those gentle voices I hear
Explain it all with a sigh.

All photographs taken at the Monterey, California, Aquarium. Copyright © 2008 DB. All rights fully reserved.

LA VIE EST UN LONG FLEUVE TRANQUILLE--Free English translation

At the request of many, and with Arcabulle's permission and approval, here is my attempt at translating ARC's poem into English. In the translation I used my own knowledge of Latin and Spanish. It is not a literal translation. Rather, I attempted to capture the essence of the poem. Hope you enjoy it!

LIFE IS LONG LIKE A QUIET RIVER

Life is long like a quiet river
What is life?
What is our life?
Is life like a long, quiet river?
As we wish it very deeply
And that's why we fight

Life is in fact a succession of tumults and emotions
Of ruptures and fightings
That we either manage or not
To surmount and overcome

Life brings us much sadness and sorrow
And it is sometimes unjust
Because some have better fortune than others.

Some others are strong victims
of a lot of pressures
Of disappointments, of ruptures
They have to be strong , to fight
To overcome the darkness
In which they are

Life deserves to be lived,
No matter how it is,
Because one day the light will come.
Life offers us instants
It offers us flashes of happiness
Puffs of oxygen

Life sometimes offers us
These moments of happiness
That are vital for us
To appreciate and taste like a good cabernet.

Even if in our interior
The darkness is always there
It lives with us
It watches us
And it is always with us.

Life is a battle
That we must fight
That is necessary to carry out
For us to overcome the darkness.

And finally to see the light
That is just there.
We just have to take stepsto get there.

One step, two steps
Do not stop
The hardest is already behind you
Because you already took the first step.

It is still an effort
To take the second step
That certainly will deliver you
To the happiness that you deserve
At all hours of your life.

Life is a long quiet river
Because in spite of the tumults,
The joys, the sorrows.
We are always there
Life is always there
Life continues
Full of desires and of joys.

From a little crazy Frenchman.
Maybe even very crazy.

Kisses to all and to you
All the goodness of life.
Seize the day my friends

SATURDAY NIGHT POETRY

By Debbie Bulloch



Here is an original poem by our very own Monsieur ARCABULLE Odriscoll. M. Odriscoll accepted my challenge, or was it a request, to contribute poetry to our blog. M. Odriscoll has previously contributed other posts for this blog. The poem is in French; some of you may not be able to read it in the original French. I have attempted a very free translation into English. If you request it, I will post the translation but only after ARCABULLE reviews. I think, however, that the poem flows better in its native French.

Here, without further ado, is ARCABULLE’s La vie est un long fleuve tranquille

LA VIE EST UN LONG FLEUVE TRANQUILLE

La vie est un long fleuve tranquille
Qu'est-ce que la vie ?
qu'est-ce que notre vie ?
est-elle un long fleuve tranquille
comme nous l'espérons
et ce pourquoi nous nous battons

la vie est en fait une succession
de tumultes et d'émotions
de ruptures et de combats
que l'on arrive ou pas
à surmonter et à dépasser

la vie nous apporte beaucoup de tristesse et de peine
mais elle est parfois injuste car
certains ont plus de chance

d'autres subissent de plein fouet
enormement de pressions
et de déceptions,de ruptures
ils doivent s'accrocher, se battre
pour sortir du noir
qui les habitent

la vie mérite d'être vécue
quoi qu'il en soit
car un jour la lumière vient
elle nous offre des instants
des éclairs de bonheur
des bouffées d'oxygène

la vie nous offre parfois
ces instants de bonheur
qu'il nous faut apprécier
et déguster tel un bon cabernet

même si en notre for intérieur
le noir est toujours là
il nous habite
il nous guette
il est toujours à l'affût

la vie est un combat
qu'il nous faut mener
il faut nous accrocher
pour sortir du noir
et enfin voir la lumière
qui est juste là
elle est à 2 pas

un pas, deux pas
ne t'arrête pas
le plus dur est derrière toi
car tu as déjà fait le premier pas

encore un effort
fais le deuxième pas
qui certainement te délivrera
et t'offrira le bonheur
que tu mérites à toute heure

la vie est un long fleuve tranquille
car au final malgré les tumultes
les joies, les peines
nous sommes toujours là
la vie est toujours là
la vie continue
pleine d'envies et de joies

un français un peu fou
voire très fou

Bisous à toutes et à tous
profitez de la vie
carpe diem mes amis

Copyright © 2009 ARCABULLE Odriscoll. All rights fully reserved.

FRIDAY NIGHT POETRY

By Debbie Bulloch



Today a friend sent me a link to a Cat Stevens song, Sad Lisa.

Cat Steven's haunting lyrics and soulful melody inspired me to write the poem below.

I hope you enjoy my poem and Cat Stevens's song.








THE SEA WALL

One after the other
The waves crash against the old seawall
Sending up a salty foam
High up over the wall.

I put my hand out and touch the wall
And I can feel the power of each crashing wave
That like battering rams
Pounds the ancient wall.

I walk along the sea wall
Looking for an opening
To the sandy shore below
Finally, through a secret crevice I sneak down.

I find a hidden corner,
A safe place.
Away from the noise
Away from prying eyes

I strip out of my clothes
And lay down on the soft, white sands
Closing my eyes
I feel the sun's warm embrace.

Soon, I feel my lover
Going inside me.
Deeper and deeper
I feel his love move.

He presses his weight against me
His lips touching mine.
Sweeter and sweeter
His lips upon my face.

He touches me and
I hear my lover's words,
Closer and closer,
His words upon my heart.

I lose time
While wave after wave
Washes over my body
Making me weak, draining me of my strength

When I finally open my eyes
I see his face
Silhouetted against
The white moon floating above.

Deeper and deeper
His love moves inside me.
Sweeter and sweeter
His lips brush against my face
Closer and closer,
His words stir my heart.

03.20.2009

Copyrigth © 2009 DB. All rights fully reserved.

Have a wonderful Friday night and an even better weekend!

FRIDAY MORNING POETRY CORNER

By Debbie Bulloch



It has been often remarked that poetry is “the music of our life.” In poetry’s measured lines, whether in the form of free verse or iambic pentameter, we can find a rhythm that gives meaning and context to our daily existence. Literature, and especially poetry, has the power to make us look into our soul at the very same time that we are looking at the outside world. With poetry we can both find ourselves and lose ourselves, all in one line, one stanza.

Poetry, like music, is the rawest and most pure form of communication. Most of us have at one point or the other, read a poem, or listened to a piece of music, that made our imagination soar and perhaps even taken on greater flights of fancy. It is because of this raw power that over 400 years later we still quote passages from Shakespeare for inspiration, purpose or guidance.

The writer C. S. Lewis once remarked, “In reading literature one becomes a thousand men and women and yet remain oneself. Like a night sky in the Greek poem, I see with myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself and am never more myself than when I do.” (NOTE: C. S. Lewis was an Irish writer, poet, philosopher and essayist. His most famous literary works include, The Screwtape Letters, The Chronicles of Narnia and The Space Trilogy. Why does it seem that the best English writers were mostly Irish? ERIN GO BRAGH!).

It is no secret to my friends that I love literature. It is also no secret that I love writing, especially poetry. I once heard someone comment that we should all read poetry everyday, even if it is just a few lines. I would like to go one step further and encourage everyone to everyday write some poetry, even if it is only a few lines of verse.

In order to write good poetry, or any poetry for that matter since there is really no such thing as “bad” poetry, we also need to read poetry. We should read poetry not in order to slavishly copy other poet’s styles; we must al develop our own style and find our own, unique voice. We need to read poetry simply for the delicious pleasure of savoring the words on the text.

With that in mind, I would like to start a new feature of the Between Homes (BH) blog. I will call it FRIDAY MORNING POETRY CORNER. Every Friday, (or as time permits) I will choose a passage, or passages from some poet. I will post the passage and I will encourage each of you to read it, savor it. I also invite you (if you are feeling very ambitious or just want to make me happy) to post your comments about the poem. What did it mean to you? How did it make you feel? What do you think the writer was trying to get across to her audience? Actually I was kidding about the part of wanting to “make me happy.” You should write comments about your reaction to the particular poem for your sake; to help you open up your heart and mind.

For today’s FRIDAY MORNING POETRY CORNER I would like to feature two selections from Walt Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892). Whitman was an American poet, essayist, journalist and humanist. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. His work was very controversial in its time, particularly his poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sexuality.

The two selections below are from Whitman’s Song of Myself. The poem was first published without sections and appeared as the first of twelve untitled poems in the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass. Today it is one of the best-known poems in the book. The first edition was published by Whitman at his own expense. (Whitman, like Ben Franklin before him, was one of the first blogists. If the Internet had been in existence in Whitman’s time, he would surely have his own poetry blog.)



What do you think of this particular passage?

Through me forbidden voices,
Voices of the sexes and lusts, voices veil’d and I remove the veil,
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur’d.

I do not press my fingers across my mouth,
I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,
Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.
I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.

Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from,
The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

It is almost too funny to read the outrage expressed by Whitman’s contemporaries when they read the passage above. Whitman was accused of being vulgar, over-sexed and worse. And yet, all that Whitman was trying to tell us, I think, is not to be ashamed of our feelings, not to be ashamed of our bodies and to understand that our basic, raw (and even smelly) humanity is far greater than all the churches in the world. Perhaps Whitman was telling us that God, however you may conceive him or her to be, lives inside each of us and cannot be found in churches or temples. I am almost sure that Christ would agree with that.

What do YOU think?

The next passage, also from Song of Myself, became very popular after the 9-11 attack on the USA. Newspapers across the world carried haunting images of firefighters, police officers and other first responders marching into burning, crumbling buildings, looking for victims to rescue, and coming out covered in dust and ashes. Many of these brave heroes never made it out alive and were forever entombed in the collapsed debris.

Whitman’s verse seemed so appropriate at the time, conveying in a way that only words can convey, what it is like to be a rescuer, to be trapped by debris, and to then wait to be rescued himself.

I am the mash’d fireman with breast-bone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have clear’d the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.



(Image from http://www.nyc.gov/html/fdny/html/home2.shtml all rights fully reserved by the copyright holder or holders.)

I hope that you enjoyed these selections. I hope that they made you think, made you feel and made you connect with your humanity.

Please feel free to post your comments or, better still, post your own poetry here.

HEROES IN THE BATTLEFIELD AND ON THE BASEBALL DIAMOND

By Debbie Bulloch



I am not a big fan of baseball. Unlike basketball, baseball is just not all that exciting to watch. I am however, a big fan of college football and I am an even bigger fan of my beloved USC Trojan football team. GO TROJANS!

Occasionally, however, I will follow our two local baseball teams - the L.A. Dodgers and the California Angels. This usually occurs only when they make it to the playoffs. One of my closest friends was born in Cuba where baseball has near cult status, and so I listen to him go on about all the Cuban players that have played in the Major Leagues and how, if there had been no Castro and no embargo, there would be a lot more Cubans playing baseball in the USA. Other than that, however, baseball is a big yawner for me.

But there was something about Sgt. Feliz Perez story that caught my attention, even if it was baseball related. There is something about a “feel good” story that just makes you feel…good. In the current political and economic climate there are few stories that can elevate our mood; in fact, most of the current news is not just bad, some of it is REALLY bad (have you been following the story about the obscene bonuses paid to executives from bailout-welfare-recipient AGI Insurance).

So this morning when I read about Sgt. Perez’ experience during the USA vs. Puerto Rico baseball game my mood was automatically elevated. Yes, the USA team facing a must-win situation beat Puerto Rico’s team in the ninth (last) inning of the game. But what really uplifted my spirits is what happened to Sgt. Perez and his little sister Jessica at the end of the game.

Sgt. Perez is one of the many unsung heroes who at a very early age volunteered to go and fight our country’s war. For his trouble, Sgt. Perez was wounded in battle and must now use a wheel chair. (NOTE: All of you pacifists and other opponents of the war please put aside your sentiments about the war; instead, take a moment to think about the brave men and women who are willing to march into battle just so that we may all sleep safe at night. There will be other opportunities here to discuss the relative merits of the current war. I promise.)

Apparently, Sgt. Perez is also a big baseball fan. On Tuesday night, he and his little sister Jessica were in attendance when Team America engineered an improbable come-from-behind victory over the Puerto Rican team. At the end of the game Sgt. Perez maneuvered his wheel chair down to one of the stadium’s gate. Once there, he sought to have an American flag that he was carrying him during the game, signed by a few of the players. This American flag has very special meaning for Sgt. Perez. You see, Sgt. Perez’s American flag has traveled half way around the world. Sgt. Perez carried the flag when he fought in Afghanistan and he carried it when he fought in Iran. After he was wounded in combat and sent back to the States for medical treatment, Sgt. Perez brought the flag back with him as a reminder of where he had been. Last Tuesday night Sgt. Perez carried the flag with him when Team America won.

What happened after Sgt. Perez made his simple request to have the flag signed by the players is the kind of stuff that can bring tears to one’s eyes. For thirty short minutes Sgt. Perez found himself in the middle of a dream that even he could not have imagined when he was carrying his flag into battle in Afghanistan’s dry deserts or Iran’s burning valleys. Of course, this is not just a story about what happened to Sgt. Perez and his flag. This is also a story about what a bunch of baseball jocks did, in one magical night, when they won a very tough game and afterwards filled with joy and hope the heart of one young American war veteran.

Sgt. Perez’s sacrifice, at an age when most young people are still thinking about fun stuff such as going out on dates with friends, is remarkable and helped keep us safe. (He enlisted at age 17; I look at my own 17 year old daughter and I cannot even begin to imagine her in a uniform and going into battle carrying a rifle in her hands). Team America’s generous gesture brings a smile to all of us. Both Sgt. Perez and Team America are part of a great American tradition of sacrifice and generosity. At a time when most of the news is filled with negativity, the story of Sgt. Perez and Team America make me proud to be an American.


(Photo courtesy of the Perez family. Published by Yahoo Sports. All rights fully reserved by the individual copyright holders.)

For a complete account of what happened to Sgt. Perez on St. Patrick’s Day, please follow the link below and read the wonderful story by writer Jeff Pasan.

http://sports.yahoo.com/mlb/news?slug=jp-perezteamusa031809&prov=yhoo&type=lgns

ERIN GO BRAGH!

By Debbie Bulloch


Happy St. Patrick's Day to my Irish friends and to everyone who is Irish today!

For more information and fun facts about St. Patrick's Day go here:

http://www.history.com/minisites/stpatricksday/

Or here,

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Patrick's_Day

FRIDAY THE 13TH AND THE KNIGHTS TEMPLAR

By Debbie Bulloch



Today is Friday the 13th, the second Friday the 13th in 2009. If you are superstitious, or even if you are not, Friday 13th conjures up images of black cats, walking under ladders, broken mirrors and “bad” happenings. To many, Friday the 13th is a day of very bad “mojo.”

Apparently, the number of people who are negatively affected by a fear of Friday the 13th is substantial. According to the Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute in Ashville, North Carolina, an estimated 17 to 21 million people in the United States are affected by a fear of this day. World-wide figures are not available, but it is believed that a similar percentage of the world’s population suffers from fear of Friday the 13th.

So when or where did the fear of Friday the 13th start? Experts who spend their time studying such things cannot come up with one, single rational (no pun intended) explanation to account for our collective fear of Friday the 13th. We will probably have better luck finding Einstein’s unifying theory of relativity.
The fear of Friday the 13th can probably be traced to two converging and equally irrational fears. People in Western society already have a fear of the number 13. For many, the number 13 is considered to be the unluckiest of all numbers. The fear of the number 13 is so pervasive that worldwide many high rise buildings, including hotels, do not have a 13th floor. (This is rather silly. If you are going up an elevator in a building where the 13th floor has been “deleted” you know that the floor right after the 12th floor is not the 14th floor. It is the 13th floor. So what is the point?)

People in Western society also have an irrational fear of Fridays. Friday was the day when Christ was crucified. Many historically “bad” events have happened on a Friday. Directors of Human Resources departments advise executive to fire or lay-off employees on a Friday. (As the theory goes, the fired employee has the entire weekend to “cool down.” I was laid off from one job, many years ago, on a Friday. The weekend did not provide me with a cooling off period. Come Monday I was just as upset as I had been the previous Friday).

It seems logical (again, no pun intended) that the combination of these two fears, fear of the number 13 and fear of Fridays is enough to leave some people so paralyzed by fear that they avoid their normal routines in doing business, taking flights or even getting out of bed.

There have been many theories that try to account for the powerful sway that Friday the 13th seems to have on so many otherwise rational individuals.

One theory states that it is a modern amalgamation of two older superstitions: that thirteen is an unlucky number and that Friday is an unlucky day.

• In numerology, the number twelve is considered the number of completeness, as reflected in the twelve months of the year, twelve signs of the Zodiac, twelve hours of the clock (of course if you are using an hourglass, or if you are using the digital clock in your computer, this would not apply to you) twelve tribes of Israel, the twelve Apostles of Jesus, etc. There is a superstition, thought by some to derive from the Last Supper or a Norse myth that having thirteen people seated at a table will result in the death of one of the diners.

• Friday has long been considered to be an unlucky day. Many individuals regard Friday as an unlucky day to undertake journeys or begin new projects. More recently, Black Friday has been associated with stock market crashes and other disasters since the 1800s. Also, as previously mentioned it has been suggested that Friday has been considered an unlucky day because, Jesus was crucified was crucified on a Friday.

Another theory about the origin of the Friday the 13th superstition traces the event to the arrest of the legendary Knights Templars. According to one source:

The Knights Templar were a monastic military order founded in Jerusalem in 1118 A.D., whose mission was to protect Christian pilgrims during the Crusades. Over the next two centuries, the Knights Templar became extraordinarily powerful and wealthy. Threatened by that power and eager to acquire their wealth, King Philip secretly ordered the mass arrest of all the Knights Templar in France on Friday, October 13, 1307.



A more speculative theory, attempts to link the Friday the 13th superstition to the Battle of Hastings. On a Friday the 13th, October 1066, the decision was made by King Harold II to go to battle on the Saturday 14th October, rather than allow his troops a day of rest. The decision to go to battle before the English troops were rested, further established Friday the 13th as an unlucky day (the English lost and King Harold was killed).

But is Friday the 13th really an unlucky day? To the producers of the FRIDAY THE 13TH movies this day has been extremely lucky – they have made a bundle of money on that particular movie franchise.

The Dutch Centre for Insurance Statistics (CVS) has reported that "fewer accidents and reports of fire and theft occur when the 13th of the month falls on a Friday than on other Fridays. Some have suggested, however, that the results of the Dutch study are not statistically valid because people are preventatively more careful or just stay home on any given Friday the 13th thus causing fewer accidents. And in the Netherlands (are you reading this Yucca, but wait, you ride a bike) driving is slightly safer on Friday 13th. In the last two years, Dutch insurers received reports of an average 7,800 traffic accidents each Friday; but the average figure when the 13th fell on a Friday was just 7,500. OK, so 300 fewer accidents is not a significant enough difference.

So what did you do today, Friday the 13th? Did you stay home and hide under the covers? Did you go about your usual business? Did anything bad happen to you today? (I hope not.) Did anything good happen to you today? (I hope so.) Was this Friday the 13th lucky or unlucky for you?

Superstitions can be fun at times. At other times, however, they can paralyze us with irrational fear. So I have a suggestion. Look at the calendar and mark off every Friday the 13th for the rest of the year and for the next year. On that day, get together with your friends, have a beer, kiss someone you like, go dancing, have fun doing something totally random and unexpected from you.

Now you and your friends will be creating your very own Friday the 13th “superstition.” And now, if you will excuse me I am going to go and hide under a rock until this day passes by!

FRIDAY AFTERNOON POETRY

By Debbie Bulloch

TIME FLOWS LIKE A RIVER

A soft bed,
Fresh sheets.
The scent of summer jasmine,
Filtered through
White cotton curtains.

A small table,
By the kitchen window.
A glass of blood-red merlot,
A piece of crusty bread
And some cheese.

A cozy chair.
In the corner of the room.
The scratched table holding books,
The ancient brass lamp
Softly lighting the room.

Simple pleasures,
From well-used, simple objects.
Freeing my spirit,
Letting me soar far,
Away from life’s toils.

Time flows like a river,
Carrying us along with it
On a journey
That no one may refuse.

A soft bed to rest upon,
A small table to eat at,
A cozy chair to read books.
And you, waiting for me by the river
To journey with through life.

All the simple pleasures,
Of my simple life
With you.

03.13.2009

Copyright © 2009 DB. All rights fully reserved.

STRATEGIES FOR SURVIVING IN A RECESSION

By Debbie Bulloch




As the world’s economic systems continue their downward spiral it is incumbent upon each one of us to find strategies for dealing with a shrinking economy. That old American sage, revolutionary and man-about-town, Benjamin Franklin once wrote, “A penny saved is a penny earned.”

We may not be able to increase our income, or in some cases, replace lost income. But every dollar (a penny does not go too far nowadays) saved is truly a dollar earned. The more we save, the more we “make.”

My father was an immigrant from Europe. He and his family lived through, and actually flourished, in the difficult post-war years. As a result of his childhood experiences my father was a very frugal person. Fortunately for me he taught me, among many other valuable lessons, how to be frugal. He always told me, “Debbie, if you take care of your money, your money will take care of you.”

In the past, many of my friends laughed at my frugal ways; they would often call me a “cheap skate.” Now, those same friends are joining the ranks of the “cheap stakes” and living the “frugal life.” The recession is radically changing behavior among many different types of people, from the Wall Street bankers who are now waltzing into Wal-Mart for the first time to buy their groceries to teens who are now thumbing through the piles of status jeans at secondhand shops to save money. And experts say that such behavior could linger long after the economy recovers.

Europeans have often looked upon Americans as being big spenders, even wasteful. Europeans are far more conscious about conserving resources. A good friend of mine from the Netherlands tells me that she likes to eat lentils — which are cheap and nutritious — and she bikes everywhere to save gasoline. (Yucca, are you reading this, see I’ve listened to what you say to me).

In these difficult times, there are things that we can all do to make our dollars go farther. Here are a few steps that are simple to follow and can save money (as an extra bonus, the less resources that we consume, the less of a negative impact that we will have on our environment):

1. Buy only what you need at the moment. Look inside your cupboard and you will realize how much food you throw away every year because you bought too much and the food spoiled.

2. Eliminate “recreational” buying (you know that is when you go to the store just to “look around” and end up buying things, not because you need them, but because they were on sale).

3. Don’t throw away things, take care of your things and make the things that you own last you a long time. I have several pairs of shoes that have been resoled several times; why be a slave to fashion and buy the latest styles? If you have good shoes, they can last a long, long time.

4. On the subject of making things last, look at how you use your car. Most people never take proper care of their care opting, instead, to replace their old car with a new model every five years or so. That is wasteful and has a detrimental impact upon the planet. Change the oil and oil filter at regular intervals, rotate the tires to make them last long, keep up with regular maintenance. Better still, learn how to do some of these things yourself and you will save money and make your car last longer. I drive a car that is nearly 20 years old and is considered to be “high mileage.” Whenever I get the temptation to trade it in, I look at it and tell myself that the car is good for at least another 10 years and 100,000 miles. I have saved money by not buying new cars.

5. Save even more money by making your own detergent and other household goods. Did you know that you could make your own detergent by mixing Borax with a half bar of soap, baking soda and washing soda? Did you realize that you could replace store brand fabric softeners by using vinegar?

6. Simplify your life. Advertisers want to make us believe that we need the “latest and greatest” products. If you buy too many “objects,” you will not only spend money that should be saved for a “rainy day” but you will eventually become a slave to your possessions.

These are simple steps that we can all take, right now, to improve our chances of surviving this recession.

There is no doubt that these are hard economic times. After the war, my father and his family saw worse times than the ones that we are going through now. Yet they all made it through the hard times.

We too can make it through this recession. But first, we must re-think our strategies and live a more frugal life.

NOTE: For additional information on how to make your money go further, please click on the links below:

neverpayretailagain.net

beingfrugal.net

WEDNESDAY MORNING POETRY

By Debbie Bulloch


IN THE HOUSE

In the house where we spent our nights,
Hung a photograph.
It is a photograph of you and me,
Dancing to the music from an unseen band.
When we were young lovers.

In the house where we spent our nights,
There was a bed.
Dark wood and white covers,
And on that bed we wrestled as one.
When we were young lovers.

In the house where we spent our nights,
There was a small table in the kitchen.
A blue table and two yellow chairs,
Where we planned our future.
When we were young lovers.

In the house where we spent our nights,
The walls were alive with the echo of our sounds.
Sounds of laughter,
Sounds of words tenderly spoken.
When we were young lovers.

In the house where we spent our nights,
The walls are bare,
The bedroom is empty,
The kitchen is deserted,
The echoes are silenced.

No one lives,
In the house where we spent our nights.
When we were young lovers.

03.11.2009

Copyright © DB 2009. All rights fully reserved.

FOR AMY, WHEREVER YOU GO

In the still of the night,
When all is quiet,
And even the angels take time to rest.
I rise out of my warm bed
And on kitten’s soft paws
I tip toe down the long hallway.

The night’s air is chilly.
Everyone sleeps.
The three cats,
The colored fish in the aquarium,
Even our big dog,
All are asleep.

Quietly, not wishing to disturb your dreamy slumber,
I slowly open the door to your room.
On a soft bed,
Surrounded by the stuffed trophies
From countless trips to Disneyland
You sleep.

I watch in awe,
As your body steadily rises and falls,
In rhythm with your deep breathing.
Nothing disturbs you,
As you journey, along with your dreams,
Unto uncharted lands.

I close my eyes
And I too journey.
Back to the days when you slumbered,
Undisturbed,
In my expanding womb.

Back in those days,
I could feel,
Your brave heart
Beating deep inside me.

For nine months
You lived safe inside me.
Where heat could not burn you,
Where cold could not make you shiver,
Where the bright Sun could not hurt your blue eyes.
Safe inside me, no one could harm you.

For the past seventeen years,
I’ve held your hand when you were scared,
I’ve kissed you when you were hurt,
I’ve embraced you in my arms when you were lonely.
For the past seventeen years,
I’ve been the mother bear,
Keeping the outside world at bay.

Now the time has come,
When you must fly on your own,
The day when I must let go is at hand.
I look at the girl sleeping on the bed
And I can already see the woman she will one day become.

Slowly, on kitten’s soft paws,
I finally dare enter the room.
Kneeling besides your bed
I watch you dream.

Before I go
Before I must finally let go
I kiss the girl
Who grew in my womb.

03.11.2009

Copyright © DB 2009. All rights fully reserved.

TUESDAY MORNING POETRY

By Debbie Bulloch



IN YOUR ARMS

In your arms,
I find strength.
In your arms,
I lose myself.

In your arms,
I breathe again.
In your arms,
I know no boundaries.

In your arms,
I am a child.
In your arms,
I am free.

In your arms,
Time stands still.
In your arms,
Mysteries are revealed.

In your arms,
I feel the heat.
In your arms,
I am complete.

In your arms,
The past, the present, the future
Are one.

Hold me,
In your arms.

03.10.2009

Copyright © 2009 DB. All rights fully reserved.


This photograph was published by LIFE magazine. It was taken on August 14, 1945, at a Times Square (New York) celebration of the Victory over Japan in World War II. The picture says it all, doesn't?