Coffee Time with Lyn

random topics I’m interested in and want to discuss.

Selling a home isn’t for the weak at heart part 3

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I know we’re not the only one facing the ordeal of selling their home during a pandemic to avoid a foreclosure. Cleaning the house continuously so it’s spotless is a pain in the ass. I don’t know about you about I’m a messy cook.

I miss sleeping…. the voices in my head, reminding me all the things still left to do. Where? When? How?

The stress of 2020 was bad enough with my cancer scare, and covid, but the stress hasn’t really diminshed in 2021 for us because Insurance companies don’t pay their agents commissions. Oh yeah, that gray area the big insurance companies don’t discuss. Heaven forbid you’re late with a premium payment, they’ll cancel you in a heartbeat but on the other hand they take forever to release the agent’s commission for selling or renewing a policy. Horizon is the worst offender but United Healthcare comes in at close second. They owe my husband his commissions from last November. They’re sitting on the money, collecting interest and keeping the ceo’s account healthy. They don’t care we have bills to pay. I’m not amused at all.

Macavity did much better in the car today. He didn’t stay hidden under the seat like he has other trips in the car. He laid on the blanket on the seat. That’s huge for him. Once, we’re actually relocating I have a carrier that has a seat belt restraint so he’s safe too.

The crocuses have already gone by here in Jersey. In the front yard, the daffodils and tulips are up but not open yet. The irises and hyacinths are up as well but no buds are showing. Some of the trees have leaves open and others don’t. I noticed the red tips on my roses today, they’re just beginning their spring growth. In the back yard, the peonies, and lilies have little tips showing. No sign of the hostas yet. I’m going to miss my garden but am excited to try new things when we move.

Life has twists and turns but thankfully my blueberry muffins were awesome with coffee today. There’s nothing better than the smell of baked sugar lingering in the air. Each muffin oozed streams of blue. Just what I needed to begin my day along with a game of cribbage before the insanity of people coming to see the house.

One step forward, one step backward

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Just a brief recap, Sept 30th, I fell down the stairs carrying a box that was going to my granddaughter in Maine. I got up and continued bringing the box to the car and fetched the rest. No big deal, who doesn’t fall. I checked it out before bed, no bruising but it was sore. We went to Maine the next morning and made the deliveries. The following week a dark discoloration/ bruise appeared and the pain level increased. So I thought, well I’ll get it checked out. Ex-rays showed the third metatarsal was broke but he was concerned about the extension of my achilles and the swelling that was appearing in my calf. Okay on to get an MRI. MRI showed the achilles was torn slightly so into this boot for 3 months. The break healed but the achilles was still causing my toes to curl and the back of my leg to spasm. So we began PT, and a home tens unit. Now, mind you we’re talking four months and I still can’t walk without pain.

That’s not going to work I have a house to pack, and painting to finish so we get the best possible selling price. So interest of doing insanity I found a way to work for a couple of hours, use the tens unit to manage the pain. It made the process slower than it needed but at least there’s progress. I go to the Doctor yesterday morning for a recheck. I ask why the outside of my foot has increased in pain while the rest has appeared to recover. He takes another ex-ray and I have a new break.

You have got to frigging kidding. I’ve worn the boot when I’ve had to be on my foot longer periods even after I was freed. I am beside myself with frustration. Now, another MRI appointment is for this afternoon. He said to wear the boot again to I see him on the 17th when he goes over the results.

I’ve got a realtor biting at the bit to show our house and I’m still trying to pack. Can we say timing sucks?

If that wasn’t stressful enough, Vic’s mother collapsed again. She’s in the hospital because of oxygen deprivation and disorientation which go hand in hand. She lives in the St. Louis area, easy enough to get to if you hop on a plane. If you have the money to do that or feel comfortable flying with all the covid issues. Timing again, yesterday was Vic’s 68th birthday.

These are some of the crochet projects I completed during my time out from writing. My granddaughter , Olyvia was very happy with her albino bat like the one in Roblox, Stitch, Mike and Sully, and Rudolph. I made a few of the Plague doctor and nurse with cards saying 2020 survivor. And of course, hats and scarves for family. I did make all the grandchildren a reindeer for their holiday decorations. I made productive use of my time in the boot and restricted walking.

I’m going to close this entry with one of my go to quotes when I feel overwhelmed.

“On your darkest days do not try to see the end of the tunnel by looking far ahead. Focus only on where you are right now. Then carefully take one step at a time, by placing just one foot in front of the other. Before you know it, you will turn that corner.”
― Anthon St. Maarten

Celebrating Joseph Brodsky

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A Russian/American poet that won the Nobel Prize in 1992.

“The surest defense against Evil is extreme individualism, originality of thinking, whimsicality, even—if you will—eccentricity.” ― Joseph Brodsky

I Sit By The Window
 by Joseph Brodsky
I said fate plays a game without a score,
and who needs fish if you’ve got caviar?
The triumph of the Gothic style would come to pass
and turn you on–no need for coke, or grass.
I sit by the window. Outside, an aspen.0
When I loved, I loved deeply. It wasn’t often.

I said the forest’s only part of a tree.
Who needs the whole girl if you’ve got her knee?
Sick of the dust raised by the modern era,
the Russian eye would rest on an Estonian spire.
I sit by the window. The dishes are done.
I was happy here. But I won’t be again.

I wrote: The bulb looks at the flower in fear,
and love, as an act, lacks a verb; the zer-
o Euclid thought the vanishing point became
wasn’t math–it was the nothingness of Time.
I sit by the window. And while I sit
my youth comes back. Sometimes I’d smile. Or spit.

I said that the leaf may destroy the bud;
what’s fertile falls in fallow soil–a dud;
that on the flat field, the unshadowed plain
nature spills the seeds of trees in vain.
I sit by the window. Hands lock my knees.
My heavy shadow’s my squat company.

My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked,
but at least no chorus can ever sing it back.
That talk like this reaps no reward bewilders
no one–no one’s legs rest on my shoulders.
I sit by the window in the dark. Like an express,
the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash.

A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideas
are second-rate, and may the future take them
as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark. And it would be hard to figure out
which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.

“For darkness restores what light cannot repair.” ― Joseph Brodsky
Elegy
 by Joseph Brodsky
It’s not that the Muse feels like clamming up,
it’s more like high time for the lad’s last nap.
And the scarf-waving lass who wished him the best
drives a steamroller across his chest.

And the words won’t rise either like that rod
or like logs to rejoin their old grove’s sweet rot,
and, like eggs in the frying pan, the face
spills its eyes all over the pillowcase.

Are you warm tonight under those six veils
in that basin of yours whose strung bottom wails;
where like fish that gasp at the foreign blue
my raw lip was catching what then was you?

I would have hare’s ears sewn to my bald head,
in thick woods, for your sake, I’d gulp drops of lead,
and from black gnarled snags in the oil-smooth pond
I’d bob up to your face as some Tirpitz won’t.

But it’s not on the cards or the waiter’s tray,
and it pains to say where one’s hair turns gray.
There are more blue veins than the blood to swell
their dried web, let alone some remote brain cell.

We are parting for good, my friend, that’s that.
Draw an empty circle on your yellow pad.
This will be me: no insides in thrall.
Stare at it a while, then erase the scrawl.

“For a writer, only one form of patriotism exists: his attitude toward language.” ― Joseph Brodsky

 

 

Re-evaluating life

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Have you ever wondered why as women we fall into sexist traps? Is false flattery necessary for our self-esteem?  Are we so oblivious to this pattern, we hold ourselves back from reaching our full potential? Has it become more accessible to sound liberated than to go through the problematic psychological changes necessary to become liberated from sexual stereotypes?

The more I embrace Wicca, the more I realize how restrictive my life is.  I failed to see how much my life has been determined by male chauvinism. A society defined by male needs.  Recently, I heard my eldest son and longtime male friends spout NRA male driven propaganda crap creating panic over the right to own guns. It saddened me how much his father and men like influenced him. Our children’s right to be safe wasn’t a priority.

Daily, the different news spouts about a president who brags he’s a pussy grabber. His blatant disrespect of his wife, family are condoned by his male counterparts. His accepted lies are proof that we exist in a male run, man-made society.  Even the media is an extension of the patriarchy that has denied women throughout time. We’ve been crippled by tradition. We are the product sadly of two thousand years of suppression and oppression.

Seeking spiritual guidance is disappointing because the vast majority is led by men. It’s the driving factor for me in seeking Wicca because there isn’t as strong a male influence as other religions.

I read a comparison of our society recently as a tree, metaphorically traditions are merely roots and roots are only one part of the whole tree. The roots provide a base but don’t define the shape or the beauty of the tree as it reaches its potential. It’s the external influences that impact the tree the most. I ask why is it so impossible to see men and women exactly the same except for a minute anatomical difference?  It saddens me the answer is primarily because we are socially conditioned to believe otherwise.

I’ve believed for a long time we must embrace a society without gender or role divisions for us to evolve to our full potential as human beings and for discrimination to end. We need to rethink the male-female polarity if the change is going to happen and embrace chromosomal diversity. Sadly, women have been brainwashed in a patriarchal society for so many years they’ve forgotten how to use their positive energy for a better world. We’ve made progress with women’s spiritually, but, we haven’t found a solution for our co-existence because women still seek safe harbors from men instead of working together for human potential. We can’t remain divided or become stagnant if our children’s future is going to be better.

Rupi Kaur says “The most significant lesson a woman can learn is from day one… a woman has everything she needs within herself. It’s the world that has convinced women otherwise.”

 

Change is inevitable

Reflect, absorb and embrace life
Imitate all things to make one smile
Experience what one should not miss

Resist familiarity, embrace change
Intuition says to be careful but not incapaciated
Excel in ways you never dreamed possible

Reality may knock on your door but
Inspiration will incite desire
Expect prosperity and love as a norm

©Lyn Crain

 

I am a maiden, I am a mother, I am a crone, I am a goddess and I am a witch.

I am a strong woman who feels deeply and loves fiercely.  My tears flow as abundantly as my laughter. I choose to be practical and spiritual and maybe my poetic gift will influence this world.

Blessed be.

 

 

Breath

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by Lyn Crain

A breath

A tree crashes shatters the window.

the ground shudders with its weight.

The storm rages… rips every fragile

fragment of nature to shreds.

A  life is born, fighting to live

in a desperate struggle for air.

An old life shudders  a frenzied surrender

death claims his last gasp.

A breath

What once was …

Rage and Injustice

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Political Abuse Invites Promises

Promises denied in darkness

Darkness and lies comprise

Comprise lures trusting souls

Souls led into complacency

Complacency allowed zealots to strike

Strike fears flamed into silence

Silence enabled more abusive behaviors

Behaviors accelerate without boundaries

Boundaries violate trust and dignity.

Dignity denied to the innocent

Innocent betrayed by political abuse.

 

 

Loop Poetry is a poetry form created by Hellon. There are no restrictions on the number of stanzas nor on the syllable count for each line. In each stanza, the last word of the first line becomes the first word of line two, the last word of line 2 becomes the first word of line 3, last word of line 3 becomes the first word of line 4.

 

In this poem, I am not discussing physical or mental abuse but that of our present leadership. Hardworking immigrants betrayed and cast out because they were not born on this soil. Soil that we ourselves stole from the Native Americans with lies and guns. Here we are again, using political tactics, force when needed based on lies. Religious zealots claiming they’re making America great again when in fact all we’re showing is what an abusive culture we really are.

Normally, I do not engage in political commentary on my blog but then something happened to change my mind. A dear woman I’ve had the pleasure of sharing many writing experiences was one of the innocent immigrants tossed out of our country. She’s been twenty two years, has a social security card, worked, paid taxes. She’s done everything asked of her but time and time again red tape has denied her citizenship. She was tossed in a detention camp and treated similarly to how Hilter treated the Jews. We refused to believe that atrocities happened then as well. We’ve become a country that has selective sight, we overlook anything that doesn’t directly affect us. I’m guilty as well or I was until this became personal. She is a delightful woman who did not deserve to cast out of our country. She has broken no laws. She reported every week faithfully as required by the immigration board in  Atlanta. That belief in the system and that goodness would outweigh evil allowed this to happen. She should have fled but she didn’t.

We need to take our country back from this nightmare it is existing in. Normally, I don’t support violence but I’m beginning to believe revolution must occur for these tragedies to end. Innocent lives should not be treated as if they have no value. Families should not be ripped apart because of laws pushed by parties to gain influence.

I speak for the women, the children like my friend that believed this country was special but were hurt by the deception of our lies, America is not great. Bullies have become the new norm.

 

Motivation Monday

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“Success is not final; failure is not fatal: It is the courage to continue that counts. It is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation.”

I’ve been working on poetry forms again. The focus I find is helping me rethink my word usage in my book. Writers are guilty of using extra verbiage that doesn’t add to the story.

I decided to give a Fib aka Fibonacci for short a try because of its rigid structure.

Form: Fibonacci~ 8 Lines~ Syllabic Structure: 1/1/2/3/5/8/13/21

In mathematics, the Fibonacci numbers are the numbers in the following integer sequence, called the Fibonacci sequence, and characterized by the fact that every number after the first two is the sum of the two preceding. Fib is an experimental Western poetry form, bearing similarities to haiku, but based on the Fibonacci sequence. That is, the typical fib and one version of the contemporary Western haiku both follow a strict structure. The typical fib is a six line, 20 syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8 – with as many syllables per line as the line’s corresponding place in the Fibonacci sequence; the specific form of contemporary Western haiku uses three (or fewer) lines of no more than 17 syllables in total. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follows the Fibonacci sequence.

 

Barriers Aside

I

need
freedom
to take steps.
A bold move beyond
the usual path love follows.
I want no boundaries, no rules to confine my heart.
I wonder if you are the one to join me on this elusive passion-filled journey.

 

 

 

Does it inspire you, make you ask questions,

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or leave you with that cookie cutter ending all’s right in the world?

Last night in our local writing group we discussed a haiku for twenty minutes.A traditional Japanese haiku is a three-line poem with seventeen syllables, written in a 5/7/5 syllable count. Often focusing on images from nature, haiku emphasizes simplicity, intensity, and directness of expression. Imagine that twenty minutes of animated conversation over seventeen syllables. The group sitting at the table all had different perspectives on the piece. It was a philosophical poem by a younger poet in our group, he was trying different forms to expand his poetic skills. I was very happy to see and hear what he brought to the group after all isn’t that what makes us all great in our ways.

From the time we’re born we absorb information in all manners and that data is processed and stored for future use. As we age, we see it in action and reprocess it forming new skill sets. Writing, observing, reading, talking all are essential tools in a writer’s tool basket that must be continuously honed to improve our craft.

The question last night that arose is should the author end a poem providing the reader the answer or at the very least a strong clue as to the writer’s intent. My own opinion is no, The reader should fill in the necessary information, ask questions, ponder and then formulate their own conclusion. The author is only the instrument to guide the reader in the journey. The beauty of poetry is to take the reader from the darkness and hopefully awaken beauty in the reader’s mind. That ah ah moment when the reader feels connected to the author experiencing the moment or vision. Poetry opens the mind to possibilities outside of the daily norm to me.

My question to you is what do you feel poets should do?

Provide you a window to and let you decide what you’re seeing or provide you a window and the answer.

These are a few of my personal favorites my Buson, Jess, Waters and myself  I hope you enjoy:

The light of a candle
is transferred to another candle—
spring twilight.

Written by  Copyright © 2007 by Yosa Buson

my motto for life

                      – merit, not sympathy, wins-

my song against death.

E♭

i stroke piano’s

eighty eight mouths. each one sings

hot colors of joy

                                                                                                 F

pentatonic black

keys raise up high into bliss,

born to sing my name

                       F#

whippoorwill, hawk, crow

sing madrigals for blind men.

forests blooms through each note.
                                   G

my eyes: buried deep

beneath earth’s skin. my vision

begins in her womb.
                             B♭

darkness sounds like God

flowering from earth’s molten tomb…

writhed wind. chorded cries.

C

rain, flower, sea, wind

map my dark horizon. i

inhale earth’s songbook

written by Copyright © 2016 by Tyehimba Jess.

hitchhiker:

this ladybug

on my hand

written by Bill Waters Published in Brass Bell: A Haiku Journal

https://billwatershaiku.wordpress.com/2017/10/

Words boldly impressed
Scribbles upon broken soul
An author’s remorse

A frosty petal
stood strong alone at sunrise
a beacon to me.
 It begins today
Struggling flowers bloom thru ice
A joyous moment
3 Haikus Written by Lyn Crain