Poetry, Carrots, the Bosque=Perfect Day

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At this moment I am perfectly happy. You know that feeling/happy-place/emotion/moment-in-time when it strikes. Yes? Me happy. Perfectly happy. Immersed in the moment.

Very early morning I dip into poetry again. Am I interested? Still don’t know. But I am finding it pleasurable with morning coffee. Goes on awhile. Emily, Walt. Have always known how important they are in the world of poetry. Certain I’ve read some in college classes labeled 101/ 201, maybe 301.

Cloudy. 9am. A walk. The Bosque. Three jackets (two too many). God of Walks. Thank you for the clouds. Please let New Mexico have more. I want to put my arms around this morning and the clouds and fall. Could I plead to the gods of Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Nudism, Buddhism, Wiccanism, Hinduism, Vegetarianism to give us New Mexicans more clouds?

LATER: It is a normal fall day, i.e. cloudy, chill (but not too…), windy, leaves blowing about, even a few sprinkles of rain. Walt and Emily are my new best friends. My old friend Bob started telling me a year or two ago that I must take Modern and Contemporary American Poetry, a MOOC taught at the University of Pennsylvania. I said, “Yeah, great idea, I’ll do that…sometime.” I thought maybe, maybe not; I know zero about poetry; haven’t really been interested in poetry; why start now (except that Bob does usually have good ideas).

There are exceptions to my lack of poetry-love:  Do not go gentle into that good night (Dylan Thomas) and To His Coy Mistress (Andrew Marvell) come to mind. The latter undoubtedly because of an excellent teacher.  And every poem in Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses, one of the few books we owned when I was a kid. Memory.  Mom waxing poetic while baking creamy, fruit-filled things: The friendly cow all red and white, I love with all my heart, She gives me cream with all her might, To eat with apple-tart. That’s a poem.

 EVEN LATER TODAY: Made garlicky braised kale to go with milk-cooked grits for lunch tomorrow. And brown sugar and butter glazed carrots. For breakfast. For dessert. For lunch. For a midnight snack.

Stayed cloudy all day.

I had some wine and more poetry with my carrots.

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The Bosque on a November morning.

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The Old Fishing Hole…
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In honor of Whitman…Leaves of …well just leaves.
More leaves, different stage  of death.
More leaves, different stage of death.
End of the leaf road.
End of the leaf road.
Down by the riverside.
Down by the riverside.
They're a chorus line.
They’re a chorus line.
Viewing stand. Need chairs.
Viewing stand. Need chairs.

 

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