Licht Years

where are you going, where have you been?

Category Archives: memories

so many names

11

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.

A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,

And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,

I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,

Then Baxter and Calabro,

Davis and Eberling, names falling into place

As droplets fell through the dark.

Names printed on the ceiling of the night.

Names slipping around a watery bend.

Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.

In the morning, I walked out barefoot

Among thousands of flowers

Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,

And each had a name —

Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal

Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.

Names written in the air

And stitched into the cloth of the day.

A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.

Monogram on a torn shirt,

I see you spelled out on storefront windows

And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.

I say the syllables as I turn a corner —

Kelly and Lee,

Medina, Nardella, and O’Connor.

When I peer into the woods,

I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden

As in a puzzle concocted for children.

Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,

Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,

Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.

Names written in the pale sky.

Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.

Names silent in stone

Or cried out behind a door.

Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

In the evening — weakening light, the last swallows.

A boy on a lake lifts his oars.

A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,

And the names are outlined on the rose clouds —

Vanacore and Wallace,

(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)

Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.

Names etched on the head of a pin.

One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.

A blue name needled into the skin.

Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,

The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.

Alphabet of names in a green field.

Names in the small tracks of birds.

Names lifted from a hat

Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.

Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

*This poem is dedicated to the victims of September 11 and to their survivors.
~ Billy Collins

21282532826_998a960988_b

meet me at the fair

0

20379256198_4613f9e141_b

The Midway
The Bolton Fair
Bolton, Massachusetts

Happy weekend everyone!

Island Escape (summer memories by the sea)

22

DSC_1381

DSC_1386

DSC_1389

DSC_1408

DSC_1407

DSC_1491

biri 5

DSC_1479

biri 4

biri 6

biri 2

DSC_1624

DSC_1561

over the bluffs

DSC_1566

DSC_1571

DSC_1609

DSC_1584

DSC_1527

biri 3

DSC_1875

beach cabanas

one last look at summer

Block Island, Rhode Island

around the kitchen table

29

DSC_1466

blue morning

pumpkin donut muffins

Perhaps the World Ends Here
~ Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

 **********************************

This poem really got me thinking just how much life goes on around a kitchen table…some of my fondest memories growing up in my parent’s kitchen and now here in my own home. I’ve been trying to think of a photo project to work on this year and I think this just may be it – “Around the Kitchen Table” With fall coming on and the days getting shorter (and colder), I think this could be fun.

And another photo project just came my way over the weekend. I’ve been invited to be a regular contributor on one of my favorite photography sites – MONOCHROMIA. I’m very excited to be part of this fantastic team of photographers and look forward to learning a lot from them. I will be posting over there every Sunday and I hope you will stop by and say hello!

And lastly, if you would like the recipe for the delicious Pumpkin Donut Muffins here on my kitchen table, click HERE

moment of silence

12

15208268482_70c1fb4f17_o

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.”
~ Rumi