Postcard Friendship Friday - Happy New Year!

I chose this beautiful postcard because of the lovely forget-me-not's and because it celebrates a century old New Year.




The message fits the flowers. The mysterious "L" says to Miss Effie: "Don't think I have forgotten you because I have not. Have been out of town for some time."

This is a loaded message - or perhaps unloaded. Just where has "L" been? Is he in the Merchant Marines? Foreign Legion? Waylaid by pirates? Off to jail for embezzlement? Married someone else and on his honeymoon?

And what about Miss Effie. Had she set her hat for "L" when they were introduced at Miss Eugenia Monswatt's Annual Autumn Fest Dinner Dance? Did he write his name on her dance card? Did Eugenia intentionally seat them next to each other at dinner?

Perhaps Miss Effie has already hinted to a friend or two that she has a suitor. Watched the empty mail box for the past 3 months. Been making table cloths and pillow cases for her hope chest. Obviously "L" has said something to lead Miss Effie on.

According to Mapquest, "L" is only about 15 miles southwest of Effie's abode. If the ferry is running, and he gets an early start in his new automobile he can arrive in plenty of time to take her to dinner on New Year's Day. I think he should, don't you? Miss Effie awaits. Does he have reservations?

Happy New Year Bloggyfriends!

A New Years wish from me to you:

God bless your year
Your coming in
Your going out
Your rest
Your traveling about
The rough
The smooth
The bright
The drear
God bless your year

(Anonymous)


Thank you to Beth at The Best Hearts Are Crunchy for hosting our Postcard Friendship Fridays! Looking forward to another year of fun!

Poetry Bus Stops HERE. A Rare Gift

The Bus Stops HERE

Climb on board

Find a seat

And here we go!

Thank you to our own

TOTALFECKINEEJIT

for entrusting me with Monday's poetry challenge.

I'll make it as easy as possible, as most of you are in line at the (point of no) Returns Counter, being verbally abused by Misty Sue, Asst. Mgr. (Waddya mean dis ain't like the right size?)

So, while you're standing there, put your time to good use and write a poem - any style - about the worst, most useless, most disturbing, most painful, least wanted, most embarrassing, most inappropriate, or stupidest gift you ever received (or gave - if you're brave), all the while hoping that Great Aunt Mildew isn't reading your Poetry Bus blog. She'll disinherit you (again) when you complain, in verse of some sort, long or short, about the (yet another) Christmas sweater made of the yarn she's kept in the attic since 1887. Or perhaps you recall the little gee gaw that your new Mother-in-law

picked up for you while vacationing in Haus Frau, Idaho.

.It was, of course, nicely wrapped in reused (and used again and again (watch the tape, Dearie) and again paper.

You look up from the ( ?WHAT The F#%@* IS IT?) and attempt a smile (although your left eye is twitching) and see that she is waiting for a (I'm at a loss for words) (when's garbage day) response.

And say: " Uhm, ah, JustwhatI'vealwayswanted. Thankyoueverso (Benny, would you run and get Mumsie another drinkie-poo. That's a dear)"

That doesn't sound too difficult, does it? Sorry about the Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome that has suddenly surfaced.

Don't feel like the lone ranger. I haven't written mine yet. It's too painful to discuss. But I'll give my therapist a ring and have her bolster me up.

So write it all down, have a drink and I'll see you on the bus. When you're ready to board leave a note with your link and I'll post the list.

>>><<< >
And here it is. Not the "amusing rhyming whitty ditty I imagined, but a prose poem:

A Gift From Mother

Mother excelled in providing me with quality embarrassing moments. Seemed to enjoy and skillfully employ her craft like an inappropriate all occasion card. Moments that still prick at my skin like quills escaping from what could have been, should have been, a comfy down pillow. There was that birthday. I was an innocent uninformed twelve. Hard to imagine now what it was like to be twelve back then. Budding into young womanhood. In need of coverage and support. Surrounded by father and brothers all waiting expectantly for loosed ribbon and tape to allow escape of gifts from white tissue. I don’t recall now what they contained except for that last one. I wondered at it as it unfolded beneath my fingertips. Blouse or scarf or slip perhaps or… what…a bra? A bra. My first bra. Gifted. Lifted high as it unfolded in front of male eyes and the mirthful sounds of snorts and hoots and snickers. She’s no longer here. I cannot ask why she chose this public venue. Was she aiming arrows back at her mother? A kind of original sin explained and retained for another generation. Cake anyone?

Riding the bus today are these "gifted" gifted poets:

Peter Goulding

Doctor FTSE

Titus

Ann T

Dick Jones

Jinksy

Dave King

NanU

Mrs. Trellis

Domestic Oub

The Bug

Nuts4fruits

Kat

Argent

Helen

Totalfeckineejit

Lucy Westenra

Postcard Friendship Friday And Sepia Saturday - Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas Bloggy friends!

From me

and my Mister!


The story of these 62 year old pictures is right here

A Christmas Story

I've chosen my favorite postcard artist for these lovely Christmas postcards

Catherine Klien's beautiful Mistletoe with luminous berries and leathery fuzzy leaves.

.

A 99 year old Christmas wish

Catherine Klein's Pears with a Merry Christmas wish

Her pears look warm from the sun. If we touch them they will give slightly under the pressure of our fingers - juicy and ripe for picking.

An 85 year old Christmas wish and postmark that says British Goods Are Best.

Have a wonderful Christmas everyone!


Postcard Friendship Friday is hosted by Beth HERE

And Sepia Saturday, hosted by Alan is HERE

Poetry Bus Uncorked

Helen at Poetry Matters is driving today! I chose the first of two challenges - the essence vessel.

Essence

Challenged to fill

a vessel with my very God blessed soul

crushed rosemary and rain wind

come to mind and

dew beaded garden webs

lit by a fingernail moon

raked by clouds that light around the edge

as they fly by

and a hummingbird feather

a blue one that rhymes with sapphire

a piece of quiet

a pinch of penny

royal

wishful thinking

for souls are light and airy and scented of the earth

and poems and paint and paper butterflies

so unlike the outer shell that rarely cracks

enough to free the fanciful fireflies within

oh, and smelling salts for those

who deal with the often obtuse outer me

Cynthia Conciatu 2010

Poetry Bus - Living Water

Ooooh I am very late for the Poetry Bus! I was so busy painting yesterday I forgot to be at the bus stop on time for posting!

Dana at Bug's Eye View listed several prompts for this weeks poem. I chose the first:

In the first chapter of Isaiah God is having a fit. Quit giving me burnt offerings! Stop trampling my courts! Why do you even think I want that stuff? I am weary of bearing them… Wash yourselves! And then in verse 18 God says, "Come now, let us argue it out…" (NRSV) Now, you might not be a religious person, but I'm sure that even so you have wanted to argue with God (or Allah or the sun or your own super ego) in some manner. If you choose this prompt I'd like you to tell us about that argument.

Praying For Rain

My thoughts are as dry as the grass

They crackle underfoot and

Swirl about with the dust

While my eyes consider each cloud

For rain potential

The drought extends beyond the weather

And meager moisture is not enough to drink

The spirit begins to whither within me

It curls like parched leaves

And recedes with the water in the pond

Leaving an expanded beach around it

That only if I were not so thirsty

I might explore for revealed possibilities

Instead I listen for distant thunder

And test the wind for improvement

Until I finally reach out

To God

And discover yet again the

Living Water that falls like rain

Pouring hope upon the desert I

Have withdrawn to until in it’s fullness

It spills forth in streams that lead me back

To the knowledge that He will let it rain

When it is time

And all my thirst beyond my need

For Him

Is self induced

And ill advised

Cynthia Ann Conciatu

Stop by Dana's place for more Poetry Bus passenger presentations!