Friday, November 27, 2009

Our Little Girl

Our hearts are broken
From one little girl
Whom we loved and whom we lived in
Smothering her with love
We could not tell the future
Or the brokenness we would then compose
Now the solitude they feel
At the emptiness which now is revealed
Will crumble our hearts at just the sight
The love in which we lent
To that one little heart, that one little girl
May-hap go far into the world that we do not know well at all

But who knows
Who dares to say
In which the wind will obey
It could blow in many ways
In our favor
Or in theirs
O wind please be ours
Be ours to blow
To blow away and back again
I want to see her -- yes please once again
To see her smile and hear her laugh
O what a joy would that be in
For that little girl
She is ours too
Yes she -- is Our Little Girl

Monday, November 23, 2009

Finally. I got a post out.

I sit down to write a post. To start again with this writing thing.
Who knew that it could be this difficult to just write a post. . . I didn't.
In the movies you watch people like Kathleen Kelly and Julie Powell sit down and write something -- even if it's on a food blog or in a message to an "over the internet" friend. Somehow they managed to get something out. Something out that didn't sound completely ridiculous because they didn't know what to say. They formed words that sounded good together and little phrases that never leave your mind like, "a bouquet of sharpened pencils..." and such like that. Of course, they had script writer's who formed the words for them, but someone still thought of it. Someone thought of, "I like Patricia. I *love* Patricia. Patricia makes coffee nervous" and all of those things that just make me laugh and want to hear that line said again.

They also have the benefit of living in a place like New York City, where they can write about the things that they see every morning that happen to be very good at repetition. Writing about bakery's opening up for the day, people's habits in grocery stores, and the every day conversations that you have in the same book store that you own.
And what could I write about? I could write about the school buses that pick up the children in our neighboring homes. The farmer's that eat at the local diner every morning. The same mail man that brings our mail. The two lady's that walk the same route every day, normally at the same time. And such like that.
But all those seam almost blase, if you will.
Perhaps I will try to make them sound as interesting as New York City's little habits. Who knows.

But not now.