Chocolate

Prompted by Verge and Doodlewash

New Christmas Cards

It's that time again--not Christmas time, but getting-ready-for-Christmas time.  We're practicing the music in band and in choir, taking note of gift ideas, maybe thinking about greetings to send to loved ones.

Star Over the Stable Christmas Card
by Zevenster

To make it a little easier for you, I'd like to introduce my 2019 Christmas cards, available on Zazzle. Enjoy your preparations!

Parable of the Pit

Once upon a time, a woman named Bertha found the entrance to the Strait and Narrow Way. It appeared to be much less crowded than the Broad Way she had been traveling, and she thought she'd like to try it. But the Narrow Way also looked rather steep, and her knees had been giving her some trouble lately. So she settled there at the crossroads, and enjoyed watching the people go by as she waited to become stronger.

As Bertha returned home one day, she noticed that a large sinkhole had appeared between the two roads. Alarmed, she stepped carefully around it, and safely reached her house. Later, though, she glanced out the front window, and saw a young woman fall into the pit. Bertha hurried outside.

“Help!” called the young woman. “Can you help me?”

Bertha peered down. “How did you fall in?”

“I didn't see the hole. Can you pull me out?”

Bertha reached in, but the pit was too deep. She could not reach the young woman's hand.

“Do you have a ladder, or a rope?” the young woman asked.

“No, I have nothing like that. I'm sorry, but I cannot help you.” Bertha left the disappointed young woman in the pit, and returned to her comfortable home.

Over the next few days, more people fell into the pit. A couple of teenaged boys dared each other to jump in, but could not jump back out. A girl was pushed in by a false friend who ran off, giggling. A scholarly-looking older man convinced his pupil that the only way to understand and solve the problem of the pit was to explore it fully, and they climbed in. Some rushed along the road without paying attention, and fell in. Others looked down, curiously, until the side seemed to give way, and they fell, too.

At first, Bertha worried about the fallen travelers. She advised them to climb the sides or boost each other out, but the pit was too deep, the sides too slick. Eventually she decided they must deserve to be down there, if they weren't going to pay attention or stay away from obvious danger. She began to smirk when she saw someone fall. Occasionally, she'd toss a casserole down to the victims. There really wasn't anything else she could do, was there?

One morning, Bertha heard the fallen ones calling for help, and looked outside. A new traveler approached the pit. He looked like one of those hippy types, with long hair and a beard. He leaned down and smiled at the people in the pit. Then he climbed right in. “That figures,” Bertha thought, but she went outside to see what else he would do.

The people in the pit were clamoring around the newcomer.

“We've been here so long. We've tried everything, but we can't get out. Can you help us? Please?”

“Yes,” he said. “I can.”

Bertha thought that was unlikely. He looked no taller or stronger than any of the others. But most of the people in the pit seemed to believe the stranger.

“I will lift you out,” he said, “but you'll need to do something for me.” He spoke to each victim quietly. The old scholar scoffed, but his pupil agreed wholeheartedly to whatever the stranger had asked. So did most of the others.

The young woman who had fallen first sat staring at the wall. She had given up asking for help some time before. The man took her hands. “Even you,” he said. “I can even save you.” Tears streamed from her eyes as he helped her stand. Then he crouched down next to her, offered his hands for her to step on, and lifted her out of the pit.

Bertha was amazed. Had the stranger stretched that far? Or had the hole shrunk? Both looked the same as before, but there was the young woman, backing away from the edge, smiling up into the sunlight. And soon others joined her. When the man had lifted out all who were willing, he climbed out, too.

Bertha thought they were a sorry-looking lot, all smudged and stained from their time in that muddy hole. But they all smiled, and called the man their Savior, and he smiled and put his arms around them.

Then he said, “Come,” and led the group to the entrance to the Strait and Narrow Way. As each went through the gate, the dirt on their clothes disappeared.

“Wait,” Bertha called as the gate began to close. “May I come, too?”

The bearded man turned and extended a hand toward her. “Come, follow me.”

Bertha tried to walk that way, but her feet would not move.

The man walked back toward her. “Would you like me to help you out of the pit?”

“I'm not in any hole,” she replied indignantly. “I knew better than to fall in there.”

“But did you warn your neighbors of its danger? Did you minister to those who had fallen?”

Bertha suddenly knew that her casseroles hadn't counted for very much. “Well, no.”

“Then you, too, have fallen into a trap.” Bertha saw that she was, indeed, surrounded by the tall, slick walls. “I will return, should you desire my help.” The man walked away.

When another woman fell into the hole, Bertha rushed to comfort her. When a young man peered cautiously over the edge, Bertha begged him to set up a sign, or a fence, to warn other travelers of the danger. She found her knees strengthened as she spent more time on them. And she waited patiently for the return of the only one who could rescue her from the pit.

Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.

But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.  Isaiah 53:4-5

一目の月見 Hitome no Tsukimi

sneaking glances east

gold moon rising as I drive

sixty miles per hour

Light the World

I love Christmas lights.  December days around here tend to be wet and dreary, and night falls all too soon.  But then the lights shine out, bringing hope and cheer.

The little electric lights are just a reminder, a dim imitation of the Light of the World, our Savior, Jesus Christ.  Just like them, we can imitate Him to bring more light into the dreary world around us.

Join me in trying to lift some burdens this month.  Here you can find ideas to get you started.  Then observe, serve, and share in the joy of Christmas!

Mothers' Day Boggle

Want to play?

My husband put this together for me, but I'm sure you can find some good messages, too.  Ready, set, go!

Landscape

How deep the snow,
how tall the trees
among whose tops we trod? 

How many waves
have washed the stones
that lie along the shore?

From sea level
to snow level,
the gulls and ferns and more--

He paints the canvas
where we walk,
a bounteous artist, God.

Sheet Music Competition

I've been trying my hand at a different kind of composition, and I'm not alone.  My son and I have each entered a piece to the yearly Sacred Sheet Music Competition at Free LDS Sheet Music.  We both submitted arrangements of Christmas tunes.  There are many beautiful entries.  Check them out, and vote for all your favorites!

The Wedding Gifts

Gift Box Wedding Cake by pinkcakebox

The plates have chipped,
the cups have cracked.
It's much too late
to take them back.

The quilts have ripped,
the towels are rough.
The toaster works--
one side's enough.

Two decades and
four thousand miles
are hard on dishes
and textiles.

The best gifts never
fade, you see:
of me for you,
and you for me.



For my dear husband

Perspective

Puget Sound Skyline, July 2015

smug skyscrapers swell,

full of human consequence--

dwarfed by lofty mount

On a Pedestal

Courtesy of the Boston Public Library, 

Leslie Jones Collection

When it gets too hot
in this town there's not a lot
of comfort one can get
in the form of something wet.

I climb in to get my kicks
and escape the baking bricks
and I whistle at the chicks
and ignore the tuts and tsks.

They say this bath is for the birds,
but it's good enough for me!

Clearing

Dragonfly by Rostislav Kralik

buttercup

foxglove

blue sky

blue dragonfly

bright rays break through

gray days

smiles soak up

the tears

Disparity

Photo by Elene Usdin

Don't fret
because I've pulled out
all my baggage.
I'm not moving out
or moving on,
just moving up--
the better to kiss you,
my tall dear.


For The Mag

Grandeur

Wise Men Journey, by Joyce Tremethick

They journeyed far to seek the Light,

a star their compass through the night.

Their dearest hopes and dreams, could all

be brought to pass by one so small?

The majesty of earth and skies

were kindled in the baby's eyes;

the power that ruled the heavens, crammed

into a tiny infant hand.

Wise men bow to a humble King

whose love gives life to everything.

Merry Christmas!

Clearly

Bond of Union, 1956, by M. C. Escher

     "So, what do you think of him?  Isn't he so hot?"
     "I thought it was a little chilly in the café.  But you're right, he didn't seem bothered by it."
     "I could stare into his eyes for hours.  I love the shape of his earlobes, and isn't his little beard so cute?"
     "His face is sort of appealing, but . . ."
     "But what?"
     "Something about him seems, well, only skin-deep, you know?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "His comments weren't very substantial.  And he seemed pretty thin-skinned."
     "Huh?"
     "He can't take a joke."
     "Um, when did you make a joke?"
     "You know, when I teased him about his clear nasal passages?"
     "You were teasing?"
     "The speed at which my words went in one of his ears and out the other indicated a certain lack of interference in between."
     "You saw your words come out of his ear?"
     "Uh, yeah.  I can see thoughts, too, you know.  And every time a thought bubble began to form over his head, it burst before anything coagulated inside."
     "Whatever.  You're weird.  But he's dreamy.  I just want to wrap myself around him and never let him go."
     "Even if he's an airhead?"
     "I think he's perfect."
     Sigh.  "I guess he is, then.  Perfect for you."



For Magpie Tales

Fall Fashion Report

Autumn in Madeira by Jacek Yerka 

   "Almost there, Miss!"
   "It is so kind for you to bring me out here, Mr. Purnell,"  Miss Lyon said, trying to fan away the August heat.
   "Aw, Miss, Mr. Purnell is my Pa.  Call me Jake, everyone does."
   "Um, thank you.  I'm sure the Conscientious Ladies' Journal readers will be quite interested in your business."
   "Of course they will.  Purnell Plantation isn't called the 'Foremost Purveyors of Fashion Foliage' for nothin', you know."
   "Why have you taken that epithet upon yourselves?"
   Jake shrugged, taking a corner at speed.  "Superior products.  We have the best silk leaves on the market."
   Miss Lyon held onto her unadorned fedora.  "To whom do you sell them?"
   "Milliners in the city, mostly.  Some go to the dry-goods stores for the ladies what like to trim their own bonnets.  There it is, home sweet home.  What do you think?"
   "It's rather small, for a plantation, isn't it?"
   Jake sighed.  "Well, it used to be bigger, but times weren't so good a few years back, and my Great-Grandpa had to sell off a lot of the land."
   Miss Lyon attempted to take notes as the sedan bounced toward what looked like an autumnal island in a field.  "Who owns it now?"
   "Dunno.  No one's seen them since they carted it away."
   "Carted . . . what?"
   "The land."  Jake squinted as he accelerated.  "Sorry, Miss.  I have to take this slope at a bit of a run."
   Miss Lyon grasped the edge of her seat as Jake drove the sedan up and part of the way into a ramshackle shed. 
   "Here, Miss," he said, opening her door.  "As you can see, we have a bumper crop this year."
   "How do you define that?"
   "The garage is so full of leaves that I can't fit both bumpers inside."
   Miss Lyon looked around, shaking her head.  "I--this is nothing like I imagined."
   "What did you expect?" 
   "Acres of mulberry trees, in straight lines--"
   "Mulberry trees?  I think we have a couple, in the back.  But there's much more demand for oak and maple leaves."
   "Mulberry trees for the silkworms."
   "Silkworms?  Can't abide the pests.  Last time they invaded, we lost half the orchard."
   "And overworked, underpaid women picking the cocoons apart with ragged fingernails, painstakingly spinning, weaving, painting, for the vanity of those who value appearance over conscience."
   A brilliant orange leaf fluttered down from above.  Jake picked it up, his brows knit together.  "Why would we need any of that, Miss?  The leaves grow, and we pick them."
   "Silk leaves grow on trees?"
   Jake handed her the leaf.  "Sure."
   Miss Lyon turned away, putting on her spectacles.  She peered at the leaf, stroked it with her fingers, crushed it in her fist.  When she opened her hand again, the leaf lay whole, undamaged.  "This--this feels like silk.  And doesn't crunch like a dry leaf should.  But it can't be natural.  Leaves on trees certainly should not have turned colors yet.  It's summertime."
   "I'm no expert, Miss, but if I know anything about fashion, it's that one must look forward.  We harvest green leaves in February, for the spring hats, and colored in August."
   "How, um, convenient.  Will you please show me the rest of your facilities?"
   "Right this way.  You're going to like this, Miss.  The latest technical advancement."  He led her to another shed.  A tree was growing out through its leaf-covered roof.  Jake opened the door. 
   "Stand back, Miss, and watch this."  He pulled a rope next to the door, and the roof panels swung inward, depositing the leaves on the floor.  "Clever, don't you think?  My Pa's applied for a patent on it.  Purnell's Patent Leaf Collector, he's calling it."
   "What happens next?"
   "Why, then we sort them by color, size, and quality, pile 'em into the auto-mobile, and deliver them to our customers."
   "So, you expect my readers to believe that silk leaves just grow on trees, and turn colors in the summer so the milliners will be ready for the autumn styles?"
   Jake shrugged again.  "It's true."
   Miss Lyon threw her hands in the air.  "My readers are no fools.  What else will you claim?  Does wax fruit grow on trees, too?"
   "Certainly.  My cousin Alfred grows the best wax fruit in his orchard.  Would you like an introduction?  Apples, grapes, he grows it all.  Looks good enough to eat, but mind you don't, Miss."
   "I suppose the bonnets themselves grow on trees, too?"
   Jake folded his arms.  "You don't need to jest, Miss."
   "Oh, are you going to tell me the truth now?"
   "Bonnets grow on vines, not trees.  And not in this climate, either.  My uncle Larkin has a vineyard down south, and it's a sight to see, Miss, when the bonnets blossom out in the spring, all bright colors and different shapes.  Uncle Larkin has been around the world, collectin' seeds, he has.  The cloches bloom bright red, and the boaters are yellow.  Those little fanchons were orange, but they only grew one year, and Uncle figures they were just a fluke.  They all ripen to that nice straw color, and then we pick them."
   Jake looked upward, a small smile on his face.  "I went to help out a couple years ago, and I could have stayed there forever."  He looked at Miss Lyon again.  "But Ma and Pa need me here.  I'm the only one that can drive the auto-mobile."
   Miss Lyon kept looking around at the trees, the sheds, the summer meadow surrounding the autumnal island, disbelief etched in her face.  Jake considered.
   "Here, Miss, what you need is a free sample.  That hat of yours could use a little perking up, don't you think?  I'll just shimmy up here and pick you some fresh leaves, and my sister will fix them right up.  She apprentices with a milliner when we're not harvesting."  Jake climbed a ladder to the roof of one shed, and soon disappeared into the brilliant branches of a maple tree. 
   Miss Lyon took some deep breaths, and looked around again, this time to find out if anyone was watching her.  Whether she believed the young man or not, there was only one thing to do when confronted with a pile of autumn leaves.  She gathered her skirts, took a few running steps, and jumped.



For Magpie Tales

Guest Soloist: Dandelionslayer

My man done called in sick yesterday, 
an' this is what he said:

Well, I woke up this mornin',
sinuses full to the brim.
Yeah, I woke up this mornin',
sinuses full to the brim.
I gots to call in to work now,
'cause you don't want my phlegm.

I got the blues,
I got the stuffy head blues.

Gonna drink lots of liquids
whether or not I'm feelin' thirsty.
Gonna drown those blues away now,
at least Wednesday and Thursday,

Cause I got the blues,
I got the stuffy head blues.

Take it away, Jim . . .

Rhophalic

Words beginning with "rh" occupy six pages in the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary.  There are more than I expected, and some of them are rather fascinating.  They mostly come from Greek words, of course.  The Greek rhopalos was a club or tapered cudgel.  This primitive weapon has lent its name to the "marginal sensory structures in various jellyfish," and an Indian aphid.  Not to mention a literary device.

Literarily, rhophalic describes a passage "in which each word contains one syllable more than the word immediately preceding it." 

I recently attempted a poem based on the Fibonacci sequence, where the number of syllables per line increase quickly.  (Interestingly, the number sequence itself has poetic origins.)  Five-syllable lines are easy for me, but eight and thirteen were tough.  Increasing syllables in each word, though, that's pretty challenging. 

• I'm writing sentences multiplying syllabically.

• Walk softly, carrying knuckle-dusters empoweringly.

• Peach apple banana chirimoya marionberry macadamia-nut

Three or four syllables are plenty for most words in English, even the interesting ones.  Sure, " supercalifragilisticexpialidocious*" would be a wonderful climax, but what thirteen-syllable word could precede it?  I find myself relying on hyphenated terms and tenuous adverbs.  (Good thing I'm not a member of Writers Against Adding Any Adverbs.)  Perhaps rhophalicism is easier in agglutinative tongues like German.  And prosody does not always require complete sentences.

Can you wax rhophalic?  Give me your best shot.



*In the OED since 1986!  Look here for origin and meaning.

Deciduous

red

leaf

flutter

in the wind

clinging to your branch

majestic evergreens look on,

unshaken by the season's change, wait to see you fall

My son's third-grade teacher introduced us to Fibonacci poems on a field trip.  My son was more interested in the numbers, and in drawing pictures of his subject.  I hope he'll find some words, too.

The Sculptor Poses

A Magpie Tale

Daguerreotype, ca. 1850

Be still, Bastet.
Our friends have gone
to some expense
to acquire "something
to remember us by,"
though how a thing so flat,
so smooth, could aid
their memories a whit,
I cannot say.

I could sculpt their souls,
you know, build up each virtue,
gouge out each vice,
carve forgiveness in deep relief,
smooth some with their kindness,
scar others with mistakes.
I could put nobility 
and baseness on display,
covered with a filigree 
of laughter or tears,
the feelings of years.

But if they came to see
with only their eyes,
they would not know themselves.