HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
I am home from work today because the boy had a check up this morning and Kate's last Halloween parade at the elementary school is today. Jack is dressed as a banana and Kate is a video character named Link. Kate does not want me trick or treating with her because I am an embarassment. Guess she'll be embarrassed cause I'm going. Tempted to dress up as something really bizzare to humiliate her even further! Other mom who is going, Alison, is dressing as Sara Palin. Apparently other people's mothers don't embarrass little missy.
How fast my babies are growing up. The boy seems to have a girlfriend, although I'm not supposed to know about this. Her name is Ashley. Jr. insists the boy has probably kissed a girl by now. I refuse to believe he has done more than hold hands!
Ghostly tidbit: Jr. has a ghost, a new one, that clomps around upstairs in boots!
The Moon and the Yew tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy spiritious mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence."
Sylvia Plath
I am home from work today because the boy had a check up this morning and Kate's last Halloween parade at the elementary school is today. Jack is dressed as a banana and Kate is a video character named Link. Kate does not want me trick or treating with her because I am an embarassment. Guess she'll be embarrassed cause I'm going. Tempted to dress up as something really bizzare to humiliate her even further! Other mom who is going, Alison, is dressing as Sara Palin. Apparently other people's mothers don't embarrass little missy.
How fast my babies are growing up. The boy seems to have a girlfriend, although I'm not supposed to know about this. Her name is Ashley. Jr. insists the boy has probably kissed a girl by now. I refuse to believe he has done more than hold hands!
Ghostly tidbit: Jr. has a ghost, a new one, that clomps around upstairs in boots!
The Moon and the Yew tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy spiritious mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence."
Sylvia Plath