I spent an indulgent day: Went to a nearby thrift shop, looked through the stacks and racks of discarded stuff. I found two typewriters, but didn't buy either. One was a Royal electric with case; the other an electronic typewriter with daisy wheel print. Both were $9.98 each. I may return to buy those at a later time.
I also found four books, and just finished reading the book of poems. It inspired me to write this poem:
Book of Poetry
I sat down with a book
Of lonesome, ecstatic poems
And was lost in a realm
Of sad, twisted, euphoric dreams.
Poets sang in strange voices
Reader I am heard echoes
Of pain and sorrow, distant
History of humans and life
Woven together in a tapestry
Of horror and glory, anquish
Spanning centuries, alive
In written words whispering
Through time of timelessness.
I MISS being creative, and writing this poem reminded me of the joy I always find in poetry. I am hoping to start writing more often now, if at all possible. Were I living alone, I think my life would consist of nothing but writing as much as possible. Not a bad life by any means.
Today is sunny, warm, too beautiful for late February. I bought wisteria and liliac plants at a department store, and hope to put those out late this afternoon. Saturday I planted four magnolia trees, and hope they survive.
The roofers have not returned, but maybe soon they will. Ah, to have the house finished and time to do what I wish...
DH is back at work, his second day. He seemed fine yesterday afternoon, and hopefully will not let stress erode the progress he's made in eating right and taking care of himself since the heart attack. I'm not a watchdog though, and in the end, we are all responsible for how we live.
Here's two poems I found spoke to me:
The Wise Child
I couldn't wait. My childhood angered me.
It was a sickness time would cure in time,
But clocks were doctors slow to make me well.
I sulked and raged. My parents told me "play"--
I stood in the garden shouting my own name.
The noise enlarged me. I can hear it still.
At last I've come where then I longed to go.
And what's the change?--I find that I can choose
To wish for where I started. Childhood puts
Its prettiest manners on. I see the dew
Filming the lawn I stamped.
The wise child knows
Not here, not there, the perfect somewhere awaits.
Old Age Blues
What are those children so happy about?
You would think they knew,
But none of them does,
How the world no longer is what it was.
The blood has drained from most of its heart.
Only this part--
Those children there--
What can they be so blithe about?
Tell them, please, to be still and wait.
It is getting late,
And the dark comes down.
The world will never be what it was.
--Mark Van Doren