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
posted by MJ at 10:43 AM
4 Comments:
It might not be a new one, maybe Mr. Zeifle just changed out of his slippers into a pair of boots!
GHOST HOUSE
a poem by Robert Frost
I DWELL in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
Good one, Buddy. But don't you think he's talking about memories? Sort of shades of Mandalay and Rebecca?
linder loo: ghosts are memories that live in my head. and they don't even pay rent.
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