The bookstore and a Sunday Whirl
Hello Sunday Whirl! Haven’t seen you in a while.
Actually it’s been a while for a lot of things round here.
Number one thing is Robbie is in Vancouver.
Number two thing, we need more books!
Isn’t that the way it always is. I can never bring enough books from our library in Vancouver to our library in Oxfordshire and vice versa. Robert is reading thru the Wheel of Time series and he’s on book nine. The speed he reads at he’ll blast thru the remaining five books by next Tuesday! The only practical thing is to visit Dalyce in her magical book store and stock up.
It’s lovely to hang out with Dalyce and chat for a while and find all the books our little hearts desire.
Number three thing: it’s been so, so incredibly busy round here that I’ve started my Sunday whirl poem three Sundays in a row and haven’t finished a single one to post.
Well, I’m proud to say that there is whirl for this week; the effort of a couple hours this morning. Thank you Brenda for the wonderful words to play with. Now to go visit all my whirly friends.
nebulous, bleak, cut, vision, timing, touch, hover
crush, opaque, blazing, torch, slab, breath
There was nothing said, there was no timing
You stayed in your room all day and wrote a “this is how I’m feeling” poem…this small and sacred piece of it… printed a hundred copies, and sold them at a “this is how I’m feeling” poetry stand out on the street for a quarter.
There was a summer day and there was your vision.
There were June bugs sunning themselves on the screen door. They hovered expectantly around the windows hoping to touch you in the cool of your room.
You read each cut of your intensity; your torch blazing undiminished even after multiple copies.
Virtue standing strong even as it was spat out of a slot over and over again in a mechanical burden that follows after you loaded the slab of paper and pressed one-zero-zero and the Print key
Your parents were proud holding their breath and peeking at you from behind the living room curtain.
“Our little girl breaks all the rules. How cute, how constructive” they said while you beamed optimism from your bleak little table where stacks of carefully arranged emotions gleamed under the sun.
You, to whom the answer came easily with only a bit of hair pulling and a few bitter post cards. You, who were all seeing and all knowing, who camped out by a stream in the heart of me until you knew your way around in the dark. You are still there, you are still made of that nebulous wilderness which cuts thru my darkness.
You looked down the road and saw the bends filled with a crush of sports cars and mini vans trickling in an opaque haze towards your emotional stand, pulled there by the magnetic force of your turbulence; your printed piece of art.
Quarter-filled hands hanging out of rolled down windows