Home, as she calls it, is Nazareth, Kentucky. A workshop on constitutional rights and finance was held in Mokama. Sister Judy was saluted for her unwavering faith, keen mind, pioneering spirit and loving concern for the needs of the Chattanooga community. When an outcast community had their basic rights trampled on, the women took action. This year has been especially hard for communities dealing with tropical storms and hurricanes. The Sisters of Charity of Nazareth plan to help. Please join us for an hour to hear how the Sisters of Charity of Nazareth are transforming lives in Kentucky and around the world.
It was a meaningful celebration with the Eucharist and liturgical songs in their own language. Faces of hope. We see them every day at Doors to Hope, our ministry for women and immigrant families. Each one has a unique story. The common element is the desire and determination to make a better life for themselves and their families. My life in this community has been a long and rewarding experience and I thank God for the spiritual journey with my Sisters and all the people of God in my life. Gandhi Jayanti is a national festival celebrated in India to mark the birth anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi.
The staff and students of Marian English Medium School, Anakkampoil, cleaned the local market and washed the local bus stop in honor of this day. In commemoration of International Seniors Day on Oct. The feast of St. Pabalelong Hospice participated in a study on aging, frailty, and resilience in Botswana. Sisters addressed issues faced by the elderly in the country and the lack of policies and legislation to safeguard their rights. My family just took it for granted that I would be an Ursuline, following my two sisters.
Mary Ruth Sedlak, SCN, was called to her heavenly home on Friday, September 28, at the age of 95 and in the 78th year of her religious life. Ann Parish in Homestead, PA in The Archdiocese recognized that a total of sisters have given over 7, years in ministry, beginning with Entrance date or First Profession. Gifts to the Sisters of Charity of Nazareth in memory or in honor of others for the period of April 3, — June 30, She passed away on September 26, , at the age of 96 at Nazareth Home in Louisville. She was a professed Sister of Charity of Nazareth for 63 years. Sister Michael Leo graduated from the Bentley Sisters, Associates, and Associate candidates gathered in Lobatse, Botswana, for the forth formation day for the SCcandidatestes.
The day included an input on the theme, time for reflection, prayer, time for the sacrament of reconciliation, Eucharist, renewal of commitment, and an anticipated celebration of the Feast of St. As I look back at my past life, I am amazed at the way my loving God called me to this particular Congregation sixty-two years ago. Be inspired. From Sept. Issues surrounding labor migration — such as the rights of migrant workers, high fees on wired remittances, and inconsistent policies across nations — were the focus of a recent conference in New Delhi that drew participants, mostly religious, from across Asia.
How do you get started on something brand new? You are disrupting your comfort zones and making yourself vulnerable to others. Each year the International Day of Peace is observed around the world on Sept. It is a day devoted to strengthening the ideals of peace, both within and among all nations and peoples.
This year the focus is on the Right to Peace. Sisters are leading the conversation about gender equality in the lead up to International Day of the Girl Child. Students from Asha Kiran demonstrated the need to challenge and change discrimination existing in society. Sisters at Pabalelong Hospice organized a day of health and wellness with diabetic screenings for the people of Metsimotlhabe Village.
This year, , we celebrate the Feast of Saint Vincent de Paul at the beginning of the fifth century of the Vincentian Charism. Anne Martin left her farm in New Hampshire and has been volunteering her time in Nazareth, Kentucky, since the beginning of May Her hope when she arrived was to be helpful and of service within a supportive environment. Everyone on campus agrees that she has surpassed those hopes.
I can surely say that I am able to bring new life and energy in people with whom I come in contact with. Whatever our ministries may be: Education, healing, counseling, comforting through listening, compassionate love, etc. So much, that she makes daily visits to the land with the workers. Many are living in fear and trembling. Small and big steps have to be taken to bridge the tribals and the flood victims to the rest of the world and back to normal healthy living.
In darkness, it was difficult for people to know what was happening and they ran down the high mountains for shelter in the thick forest. Congratulations Sister Chris and blessings in your new ministry! Thanks to our loving God for all of the blessings of the past 18 years. The Sisters in Botswana thank everyone for their loving support. She was a professed Sister of Charity of Nazareth for 76 years. Sister Phyllis served in educational ministries in Kentucky, Every morning, Sister Florina takes an hour of class for these children before they go to school.
Sister Gracy looks out for the new migrants arriving in Kozhikode to arrange the health insurance card for them. She not only visits with their employers but also their workplaces and where they live. Sister Gracy and her team have been instrumental in closing down many of the inhuman dwelling places in the city inhabited by the migrant workers.
Louis University. Sincy Sebastian, SCN, is an active member of the group to plan for its programs and takes lead in visiting families who needs the presence of this group. This year is very special for Vincentians. There is a silver line in our history. This is the Silver Jubilee Year. Today, on Sept. Vincent Matriculation School. The school started with just From humble beginnings at St. Thomas to an expansive outreach overseas, the Sisters of Charity of Nazareth have for years had a global impact. Now, that international connection is further reflected in the new Central Leadership Team, which, for the first time, includes two members from India.
The president of the parent-teacher association PTA of Marian English Medium School is encouraging the students, teachers, and parents to give generously to help the families who lost their source of income in the recent cloudbursts and the prolonged heavy rains in Kerala.
Sister Ann Philip Gnavally and Sister Jean Kulangara regularly visit the sick, the bed-ridden and the aged in their neighborhood. During their visits, they pray with them. People look forward to the visits of the Sisters as they are a sign of sacraments for the people. They experience the consoling presence of the Sisters and feel comforted by their loneliness and suffering. Most of the narrow roads are washed away on both sides. Plying of the school bus will be a difficult task and yet without the school bus, many of the children will not be able to come to the school.
The floods in Kerala, it is feared, are turning out to be a humanitarian crisis for the people of Northern Indian States. With their dwelling places inundated and unemployment and poverty staring at their faces, thousands of inter-state workers have fled the state. She was a professed Sister of Charity of Nazareth for 61 years. Sister Mary James served in educational ministries as an elementary school Associates of the Chattanooga, Tennessee, area gathered for their monthly meeting on Aug.
Flood affected villagers struggle to keep their children in school after the onset of the tropical monsoon. Sisters had to close for two months when bridges and roads were washed away. Sisters, Associates, friends, and family joined together today for the Installation Ceremony of the newly elected Central Leadership Team on the Motherhouse campus in Nazareth, Kentucky. Vincent Church followed by a prayer ritual in Crimmins Hall. Paula knew that well-used items might bear some scratches. She valued the fact that sometimes people, too, bear the scars of wear and tear.
These imperfections, she believed, can make people even more dear. Eucharist presided over by Most Rev. Bishop Cajetan Francis of Muzaffarpur diocese and nine other priests at the convent chapel in Mokama on Aug. Family members, relatives, and friends were present to witness their final commitment. Staff and the students of Marian English Medium School visited two villages in Wayanad and distributed kits to 50 families.
This was the second round of relief work from the school. The contributions were made by the staff and the students of the school. Sister Luke met with 29 volunteers in Belpre, Ohio, many of whom have been on former mission trips to Belize. They participated in a delicious meal, prayer, and sharing about their experience. Some of them will be sponsoring and building two houses in Belize this coming year. Sisters Sincy and Hema have been busy this Sunday visiting three remote villages in Wayanad, Kerala, where people have lost everything due to the deluge.
They distributed food and household supplies as the roads and fields remain inundated with flood waters. When it was a discovered that a group of children from a nomadic tribe were not attending school, Sisters took the classroom to them. Sister Jetti says she is happy to see the children showing interest and learning to write. The funeral Mass will be at p. Joseph in his short speech said that though the children sang a patriotic song of having peace at every corner of India, the reality is different.
He wished for tolerance, peace and the Indian women and girls feel safe in India. The southern Indian state is reeling under the worst natural calamity it has faced in nearly a century. In my fifty years of religious life, God has walked with me very closely. I recall the many experiences of Jesus being with me and accompanying me from village to village, one tea garden to the next and from person to person wherever I went.
They say farewell wish all the SCNs well as their time at Nazareth comes a to a close. Monsoon rain will continue to target southwestern India, where nearly two dozen people were killed this week. Many dams have been filled to near capacity. Sisters in Kerala request prayers for the safety of those in the area.
Novices from the Congregation of Jesus, Sacred Hearts, Holy Cross and Sisters of Charity of Nazareth total 44 were privileged to have the Ashram experience while they had a special them emotional maturity and inner healing through the word of God. Homeboy Industries is a youth program that provides training and support to high-risk, formerly gang-involved, young men and women in Los Angeles. When he attends a board meeting, the board usually visits the farm workers or participates in their activities.
On Sunday, August 5th, Felix joined farm workers in Washington Sisters in the Patna Provincial House prayed with Jackulin Jesu, SCN, and blessed her as she moves on to the ministry of leadership as vice president of the Congregation. There are still countless little jobs and kindnesses that give me energy and joy. Laureate, Sir! I'm excited!
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Jerry Walraven "In the cosmic sense" The world spins in retrograde motion on Fridays, though time does not follow. Clock faces melt like Dali paintings, to deal with the paradox. Time shrugs its shoulders and laughs at our silly machinations. How we can believe we have a chance versus the eons. Against particles of nothing which have existed since time did not.
So we ask for an explanation, in terms we can understand. But Time smiles at the small dimple in the fabric and knows that a single stitch can mend whatever hole we try to tear. And so it continues on. Rachel Green A Moment of Peace in the Tyrant's Garden After the dog walking and kitchen cleaning; the vacuuming though not every day and the laundry, I make a cup of tea and sit at the computer to write a poem.
Sometimes I write to a prompt, sometimes to a fixed form; a sonnet or a villanelle but mostly I free write. Poems of dogs, of England, the passing seasons; poems about writing or the lack of it poems relating memories and childhood and poems in genre - horror or love that are sometimes the same thing. Today, though, I'll sit with my tea and a little tray of sugar-free mints and write about writing poetry.
Or perhaps I won't. I ask; you're FINE! And all your venom is reserved for me, it's mine. Something I said? If your demeanor was any meaner I'd be pushing up daisies instead. Call me crazy, but you never balk at talking until you I enter. A text on my phone emotes more than you stealing moments of silence from my vacant stare. Are you still there? What we have here Daniel Paicopulos The History of Love There is nothing I would change about my life, even if I could, because it all brought me to you.
There is nothing I would build, not from paper, stone or wood, except that which created me and you. There is nothing I could say, even if I should, that speaks louder than the me in you. Back later to write! Walt Wojtanik "but you never balk at talking until I enter the conversation. This how the line should have read. Beth Rodgers Hi everyone!
Great work so far! Looking forward to an awesome month of poetry! Having lost everything She would come to realize Would be the existential catalyst For learning so much more. Penny Henderson Stephen Truth telling--that's what got me here. A dangerous tactic at best, and this time, I fear, fatal. Blinking out of this world into his will be like sloughing winter clothes that first warm day in April.
I see the door to perfect spring opening now before me. Sorry--you must stay, live with regret and hope to find forgiveness. I pray it for you. I, though, will walk out singing the song I opened the show with. Truth telling, that's what'll get me home. Nancy Posey Right Here One week from now, the house will be reduced to just us two, the third and last, headed South not just for winter but for good, and now I know how my own family must feel, eight hours away.
I was the one to leave, packing up our everything, the kids, the dog, the stuffed Canada goose, standing, mounted in the backseat, rocking forward on that first long drive to our new home-- and home it is, wrapped in mountains, a view that makes me marvel every morning, peeking out the window as I dress to see reflections of the sunrise, the sky violet behind the blue-- Grandfather, Table Rock, sometimes snow-capped, wrapped in clouds. Back home, my other home, Shoal Creek still feeds into the Tennessee, water washing over the dam heads this way too, past banks from which I waded, fished, threw bread crumbs to the ducks, watching bream surface for their share.
For fifteen years I haven't wet a hook, but still I find comfort in the Catawba, traffic floating past my house, boaters, jet skis, Fourth of July fireworks mirrored each year. Now I'll know for sure that though I wave at their passing, they won't be mine. Even the siren's scream from the highway east of here won't make me take a head count.
I'll know that just as we found our way here, to home, they're finding their own way too. Happy NPM everyone. My today to-do list: write poem check play April Fool's joke words. It wasn't though careful analysis or luck so dumb it didn't know the Alphabet Song. Neither a red cap nor blue shoes, a stripped tamarack nor a blooming azalea. The sea wasn't smooth, wasn't fierce, as the air was not stagnant or fragrant.
There was no Voice commanding out of the Firmament, not even a whisper issuing from the cleft of a dying man's lips. But it was a desk in classroom plain as prose, and a girl with a single pencil that rolled by the senseless law of gravity to bounce once, twice and settle at the feet of a boy who didn't know the time of day but knew enough to pick it up and hand it over with almost a smile and that, my cherubs is the way you get into an Epic of the Heart, by bowing slowly and looking up, and then letting it go.
Tilly Bud Perhaps a little more than I ought to share about my parents. It may be the journey that matters most, but at this moment I covet a seat by the fire. Karen H. Phillips What a rich beginning! Can't wait to get back to my laptop, after I breakfast out with hubby--one of our "off day" traditions.
Hmmmm, there's a topic. Looking forward to our month together, Robert and company. MiskMask Thanks for the mention, Jerry. A Half-Baked Poet And so I learnt to bake, no pennies saved for goodness sake, but a need to know, a need to knead, a new hobby, to lobby for renewed self, to re-awake what age nibbles away from ones appearance, a need for reinvention, an intervention before I'm blown away as a speck of dust or mistaken as a rusty well-used kitchen tool. And so I bake, I'm a baking fool, my pantry filled with rye and spelt, multi-grain and minty-green bags of premium white that lean against favourite seasoned tins.
Yeasts quick, yeasts instant, I beg fresh yeast off bakers like children begging for money, and yet it seemed funny that my need to knead, to bake my way into an new identity led me straight into your waiting arms. To write, words soar, my thoughts rising, half-baked what surprise I might today awake. Michelle Hed A Spark Lost and wandering in world of gray shades, looking for a purpose, a meaning - Found a spark in the gray shades glowing yellow and growing - Like a water drop ripple my world turned from gray to colorful hues as the spark grew - Found a purpose, an enjoyment in all things, no longer lost.
At the expense of sounding crazy, my thoughts get hazy and I wander. I wonder what lies ahead but feeling dread instead. A fine unnatural balance, wearing this valance like the shroud it is. Darkness offers no recompense, and you plead the only defense you can, insanity. You were crazy not to have seen it.
Walking a fine line between help and hell. Billie Miller - Rudebusch What brought you to me? That's what brought me to you. A miracle of no import, a spark for a fire not yet built, the turn of a spindle- it wobbles, prepares to fall. RJ Clarken Wow! So many great poems! And so early in the day! Here's one of my entries - a couplet sonnet. Last How did I get to the age I am now? What happened to the years, and how did the past become the time-blurred past? What I thought would last sure didn't last. Yet while I'd be the last to complain it seems my plans were all in vain.
I thought I'd be both famous and rich. I wish I could say, 'It was just a glitch. My middle finger? It lacks the sass it used to have. What now Age can't be the last romance. Like, how can that be? The logic he could craft! Allu Alfred Fears take root young. Fears take shape unsung. Fear of roaches, fear of matches, Fear of dreary corners, And ghostly encounters, But nothing beats the cold jitters, That erupt when faced with unyielding numbers. Mother said "Numbers matter", For they dominate every exchange hereafter. Father said "Numbers hold power", Shy away and be doomed slower.
Piled up peer pressure, And divergent desire however, Seal a steady decline into an eternal numerical stammer. The curling eights and sticky fours pick on the ego, As fumbling attempts to command'em falter, turning you a zero. Under their unrelenting gaze, Stuck in a confounding maze, Your only solace Is to rush back from the chocking world of numbers And find comfort conceding your fears in words. Michael Grove The Journey The journey started with a call. A pillow for a softer fall, Of feathers from an angels' wing.
Then heard the words for all to sing. With broken fragments of a heart. Out of the grave to act the part. Straight from the wind, a voice is heard, To understand and share the word. As if a poem could change a day. To read and seek and find the way. A mood transformed onto a page.
By pen of fool and heart of sage. With sandled foot on bended knee. One eye opened up to see. The other resting, prone to reason. Fears not charge of war or treason. A hot potato passed around. Another metaphor is found. No way to keep this all inside. A sleeping giant cannot hide. It is made out of light and its absence, rubble, and color plates in the Encyclopedia Britannica, leather and gloss and smelling chilly white in Laurie Kolp "All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players.
You had me wrapped around your finger, so I had the power to point it away from myself. I lived according to what I thought I knew. That I should be a little wary of the skinny girls in tight skirts and painted on smiles. But those slick intentions were only sketched out on flesh colored paper by my mind.
My own eyes made them dance, made them come alive. So when you finally were done with my games and you turned your back on "us", I fell apart. And you got upset when someone else picked up my pieces. Instead of me, it's you now eating with the big bent spoon out of that gallon bucket of ice cream, hoping it'll heal something. Instead of me, it's you now wondering what happened. It's you who thinks about the bad times, wishing they were better. But they weren't. Or maybe it's just me, drawing one bent spoon in your sad, empty drawer because I think it'll help me get over you.
If you only knew. Back to the library! Ah, a webmaster, or programmer. Is it too late to go back to librarian? Freelance writer? Hobbyist poet? Hey, my novel's finished! And I'm still writing code. Nobody told me about Points C through Z. Anders Bylund April rocks, probably harder than Cleveland. For what it's worth, my contribution search tool is back and hardly needed any maintenance at all this year. Robert, you're one of my personal heroes.
Patricia A. Hawkenson Swan Watch My black mask with emotions tucked allows my signature to elegantly script a watery illusion to flood the page. I don't expect anyone to know if I've left behind a glistening trail. My solitary path of dignity may only be seen by me. But a bridge leads down and in the quiet inlet reeds and lilies protect the swan. MiskMask The Act of Listening She only heard half of what's said, one hand pressed hard up the side of her head. Her right ear was clear to hear what her left ear could not, as she wanted not to hear what was not really right 35 words.
London Bridge is standing firm- The fair lady had at last come home to England: The land of her grandmother's tales. Fashioned out of frosting and rice krispie treats, With the Oregon Trail marked in green sprinkles. At first this history project seemed absurd, Sugar-coating every hill and valley. But in the end, perhaps all of our attempts To explain our origins leave us gasping: Manifest destiny, guts and glory, luck. We spend our lives reshaping the stories We tell about how we got here, with frosting To cover the cracks we aren't ready to show.
Heiberg Next Stop I am passing. I am definitely passing. I am on my way. I am definitely on my way, sitting, in my car, in the train, in the bus, on the ferry. I am going somewhere. Honestly That's why I'm here. Linda Voit What got me here I had walked the dog, fed him and while he squatted in the back yard talked to the neighbor about the aerator he rented for the weekend and how nice it was to feel spring.
I had pulled poetry books by Deb Marquart and Sharon Olds off the shelf in the family room because I love to eat poems with my breakfast. I had made a bowl of Cheerios with strawberries and skim milk a cup of black coffee two pieces of 9-grain bread, toasted with a touch of butter. The dog settled on my bare toes while I ate. After ten Marquart poems and three Olds poems, it struck me. I jumped up, said Kingston! It's April first!
Time for poem-a-day! He looked at me like I had beef and we ran to the computer. Linda Voit Hi guys, If anyone can tell me how to get my name to appear as a link in this like most of you do, I sure would appreciate it. Another smiling face that tells me I am not valued or important and my suffering and the suffering of my loved ones is something we just have to deal with alone, unhelped, disregarded. That frankly if we went go off to quietly end it all it would probably be a relief to all unconcerned with our welfare because none of us are children anymore and so we have no intrinsic value.
The poems we write the songs composed the books we produce are nothing and will not be missed by the smiling faces who seem to think that people aged under eighteen are the only people worth anything that a strange transition happens and across one second a valuable child, a precious child loses all worth and becomes an adult.
So here I am making a small noise banging a small drum and wondering why everyone doesn't see that we are all children and always will be? Elizabeth Johnson Some great poems up already this morning! I have to admit, I'm kind of worried about getting through this month of poeming. My muse has not exactly been cooperative the past few months But for now, a simple shadorma re:what got me to Poetic Asides today. PAD Challenge summons an age old love of words, plying phrases to sweep and swell like cresting waves on paper. A step into the shallows; the Current pushes me back. I let it. Two steps.
Three steps. Will the water take me? Joy Cagil Birdsongs At dawn, I woke up to birdsongs, from strays that sang and flew away. At midday, I lunched with witches from my coven, as my children pulled at my hem, children raised on Enfamil, matchbox cars, and college beer, children who were birds, too, and they flew, singing their own songs. Now, sandhill cranes cry, untamed, unterrified of the golf balls sailing to my porch door, and we sing our songs together, synchronizing sorrows into harmony, for I know, strangers that we are, sandhill cranes will be extinct like me.
Walt Wojtanik Linda, put your link into the "Home Page" box just above the comment box. It should highlight your name and become the link. And thanks for the fun challenge! Nikki Markle Andrew Kreider loved your "Frosting" MiskMask Thank you, Nikki, and I look forward to reading more of your work this month.
Yours reminded me of my childhood, fishing mountain streams with my father. Nice memories. Sometimes, he'd totter and fall, and sit and wail to no awail. But, with time he'd figure it out, and find his way, step by step. Finally, a stride more assured, not so absurd to think that each footprint is a journey attempted. Not exempted in heart or mind he finds direction and purpose. Occasionally, setbacks knock him off track and back to square one.
But one foot paces forward, the other leaves an imprint saying "I was here! Words that boggle, a secure feeling putting a man one step ahead of the rest. His best foot forward earned his reward, one word in front of the other brought him here. No giant leap, keeping his wits about him and as grateful for them as he is for their ability; verbal agility that speaks from the heart, starting one April morn and baby stepping each day to May.
It was the tiny trail of terrible men she tossed her heart at, when all they really wanted was her body. The smell of Jack Daniels and weed and the roar of his anger and the torn and tear-soaked pillows and the sound of the plead -ing girl in the mirror go. The forests of trees she killed along the way bleeding rage to page and praying for forgiveness and redemption and hope. It was the inexact sigh -ence of leaving and the fragile art of loving where she landed.
Sheryl Kay Oder Not in the plan I wasn't planned-- at least not this year. Life's events seem to whiz by as my slowing mind and body crawl to catch up. Other Aprils have seen words, phrases, and metaphors crowd out weeds and taxes. I can't afford to keep up that "irresponsible" impulse. Well, maybe today. I'll be waiting with Mother at the ophthalmologist's office. I can write a poem then. So why do I write now instead? She will be loved. Your muffled cries underneath the covers tell me how you want to die, that you are not perfect like how everyone is or how your family wants you to be no matter how much, how hard, how long you tried.
Yet I take your hand and place an iced glove to bring you back from your tears, your pain, your flashbacks I wish I could have read from your medical chart Khadija Anderson What Got Me Here was the wind not just a little breeze but the longest Santa Ana wind in history it blew hot and vicious off the Mojave for three weeks and I arrived in the world screaming with the hot wind And my mother who was pregnant at her wedding cried when I was born she wailed at the pain and at being 18 with a baby What got me here was pain and the howling wind blowing off the Mojave into a world scorching and unfair 74 words.
I cannot say because it is a secret, so no one but me is s'posed to know the destination of the Plan. Because I can - the only answer I will give. I choose to lead this life I live. W 49 words. We are full of DNA, and mostly water, and long, long journeys. In the archaeology of our houses, we've found family Bibles and old photographs, we've handed down stories like ill-fitting clothing. My grandfather's grandfather a German noble. A long line of grandmothers to the Puritans, and the first of many American winters, frozen so solid that tears would turn to salt glass.
Have we ever deserved all this fine ancestry? What have we done lately? Blood is thicker than apocrypha, and the threads of souls run deepest of all. I don't want to tell you about lost countries on far-off continents, and how I have become the sum of their equations. I'd rather speculate that some aunt or uncle, Back Then, also felt different: paisan stableboy catching tongues with another late at night, Weimar torchsinger with painted nails and pierced ears.
I am not one to make claims about genetics: but I can't deny the comfort of thinking in the fleets that sail the histories of my family, there must've been someone who felt this way, once upon a time, and to think that the last of their particles is traveling my self, peeking every so often through these, my eyes. Was it the mini rental car, Or so much more? Do I take the question into existentialism? Do I question the paths I have taken, The choices I have made? Are those the things that have brought me to this place? Was it the abuse caused by during childhood? The neglect and harsh words, the physical pain?
Was it the divorce at such a young age? Have I become who I wanted to be Molded and shaped by all those things in my past Or am I the woman I choose to be by my actions and decisions of now? Do I have the strength to be me? Or do I flounder and go down beneath the weight? What brought me here today? My past, my present, my hope of the future? I am here, right now That is all I know.
For a sip. Just one Sip Of inspiration sweet A sip. Wait till Wednesday Find it there But Wednesday Came and went November rain will surely fall But it didn't rain this year Dreams like mirages Dripping inspiration Eyes filled, but mouth still dry But the earth is round All things return To where they started from Back to April that will be To inspiration sweet 73 words. Michael Grove On A Clock What brought you to this place in time called April? What brings you here and now is justly query.
To validate the ever moving mechanism. It's not for empty hearts to pain or worry. The baby boy came with and thru the eyepiece. He rode here on the arms of the great clock. The hour hand at first the infants' vessel. Remained there thru the tick and then the tock.
At thirty seven candles took the great leap. Vanished amidst the numerals of Rome. Not to far gone to hang there in the circle. And thus the minute hand became his home. But after fifty bells the tower shaken. No more the minute, much to slow it moves. The thinnest hand is sweeping over faces. Grab hold of it and see how life improves. Now no more hands outreaching moving slower. This time and place is second number one.
Don't blink or think because you will have missed me. I'm here for now and soon I will be gone. Kit Cooley Happy April, all! Contrarian There was no trail, and so l blaze one, no right word, and so I make one, that life didn't fit, and thus I weave one, no future in sight, and now I dream one.
Linda Voit Thank you Barbara Young! Don't have web page so will put email in there, too and see if it links. Thanks for the thought-provoking "Frosting" Andrew Kreider and the waking of a memory of landing in England Katrelya Angus. And thanks to everyone else, too. I love April. Daniel Paicopulos a silly but kindly homage You knowthe planned ones, For which we set our destinations, Whether figurative or literal, ahead of time; Then plot our path, Pack our provisions, And strike out, Relatively secure in the knowledge We will get there By our own two hands.
Other times, pure serendipity wins the prize For getting us to where we are Landing us square in the middle of Good fortune or not, Where we are left To take advantage of unanticipated Targets of opportunity. And quick thinking alone Makes the outcome our own, As if we are the ones responsible somehow For being where we are, For better or worse. Yet, on occasion isn't it simply The passage of time That allows us simply to be where we are? Mightn't such unplanned "while you wait" moments, Be the sum of the what and the how of where we are Like the instant between breaths When there is neither ebb nor flow?
During those times, We sit in the midst of quiet or turbulence, Doing nothing in particular And certainly nothing of special value Or personal advantage in mind. Such circumstances of time and place Neither sought nor pursued Are gifts of a sortwanted or not, For which there is nothing to do Beyond acknowledging the Unexpected blessing of another moment In the face of a hopefully unexpected, Yet inevitable And today the grass is still the same weary brown.
No brave blades have volunteered To lead the lawn into springtime and the robins Try to dig worms in earth frozen harder than strone. The melting lanes and roads filled with potholes The cars bump and jump like they were part of An amusement park ride. How soon will it be When all the parks are open and beaches, too?
And the tourists parade passing in front of our house - Oh! I remember you drooling as the bikinis Swayed on their way to the beach, music sounding From little wires in their ears - Now you are gone and all the parades continue without you. Listen to the chorus of little frogs, singing over and over. The garden empty - asking what happened to the gardener? Do I explain that the gardener has gone to live in the earth? Like every thing that today is alive and breathing For what is the earth but a collection of dreams waiting Ready to sprout their wings of impossible green.?
Domino A rough and twining path often trod by women in this day and age. Absent father judging her technique. Desperate for some sort of life. Choices forced by circumstance. Working, striving, making a life somehow, out of bits of this and that and random talents she never knew she had. Maybe just the act of making hard choices makes one hard. Maybe it makes one whole. On it, I take daylong trips up Lexington Rd through Concord to the pond, where I float on the dark cold water, soaking up muse and sky, while the bike you built only for me, leans against a tree, ready and waiting.
Haven't missed one since Trite but true. Every step you've taken thus far has shaped and formed your Worldly view. Random thoughts or calculated plots. Schemes and dreams and plans are all a part of the journey that brought you here to where you now stand. Mike Barzacchini Susan's Journey I woke up and it did rain. Then I waited on the train. The bus? Well it too was late. But now I'm here and it is great 20 words. Here's my poem: The Hand of God What brought me here on this vast earth was the miracle of birth The hand of God brought me here with a single tear He brought me here to this place with the creation of grace Debra Ann Gray- Elliott Great 1st day poems everyone!
Phillips Write a "what got you here" poem.source link
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Dad spun zany modern fairy tales and tucked me into bed. I scribbled at the kitchen table, turned pages of picture books, wrote stories and verses to show teachers, read of Boxcar Children and Captain Hook. Climbed into the willow at my grandma's to "play-like" with my brother and fertilize imagination. Waxed with purple prose, to the delight of my sophomore English teacher.
A Shakespeare professor instructed me, a poetry professor stimulated my view. Then I turned toward a career of teaching little children, toward marriage, home, and family. I never really forsook the literary life. I slightly shelved it. For some reason, I never thought of writing as a way of life, till our children found their wings, I sought mine, and God lit the way home to the written word. Diane It's amazing to see so many great posts. I would love to comment on numerous ones, but can't possibly. Great job everyone. The artwork also deals with issues of immigration, identity, and the assimilation of other cultures.
Tweet This Page. They say there are 8 million stories in the Naked City. An artist acquaintance recently explained her paintings as an attempt to portray the noise she hears all around her every day, that anxiety-inducing clamor that seems almost sub-atomic, in that it carries on even when the screaming stops. Find out what makes Hawk tick in an interview and gallery of some of his favorite work;.
And Barbara Rosenthal reviews the work of Allison Berkoy. Material that appears in Ragazine. CC is copyright the contributor, unless otherwise indicated. All relevant rights reserved. Please carefully read submission guidelines before sending material. Got a different way of saying it? If you like this site, please tell your friends about us! And on. While the seemingly endless cycle of senseless human activity continues, there are a few people feverishly working outside the fray to understand the underlying cause of Conflict, and to artistically express both frustration with current events and wonder at the amazing accomplishments that come about despite the resistive drag of conflict on progress and harmony.
CC articles will provide grist for the mental mill where these and other ideas are constantly at play. Stay tuned…. Thanks for reading … and spread the word. Easy … and a very good collection it is, at that…. As an independent e-zine, we compete with thousands of other zines, blogs and websites for your time and attention. And we really appreciate when we get it! And to keep us fueled for another ten years.
Paul B. With Alan Britt. Coming from somewhat different perspectives, the two pieces provide engaging and informative thoughts on what should be considered a most disturbing situation. Maloney Art Gallery at the College of St. Elizabeth in Morristown, N. Virginia Fabbri Butera, Ph. With galleries of art from the exhibit. The entry fee is just five bucks. Winner takes home a third of the entry fees received for that issue. The first contest illustration appears here and there :. Enjoy the hunt. It contains a wealth of material from around the world.
The variety of material we publish reflects not only diversity of humanity, but also the diversity of interests of those people who inhabit the planet — and who work on or contribute to Ragazine. And while V10N1 begins our 10th year, watch for V10N2, the real anniversary issue coming in March that promises to offer one of the finest collections of material on the web. Eclectic content for a global audience …. Thanks for reading! As with all erstwhile ventures, it would be great to have resources to pay contributors for the work they do. If you care to donate, rest assured your contributions will be much appreciated and well spent.
The final week of October marked the final days and passing of two notable characters of the 20th and 21st Centuries. As with all remarkable characters of any time and place, their names may not be remembered one hundred or two hundred years from now I believe in this case they will , but the effects of their lives will be long felt. Without a doubt, they left us with something that stirs the soul… and who could ask for more. What else? The concern being, what about the past, what about the people? Chris Christie. He also points to several organizations that are currently at work trying to improve our civic understanding and public dialogue prospects.
Bottoms up! CC in Best wishes for the holidays, whatever holidays they might be in your part of the world. Our friend Nick Buglaj is in Idaho this week, trekking at 10, feet. I made it up. So what do we all do when the seas begin to rise? Head inland, of course. Which leads to the next question, how many humans can live on the head of a pin — or a Himalayan peak? Forty years ago a couple of pals hiked Glacier National Park. There were still glaciers then. Taughannock has the highest vertical drop of any water fall in the Northeast — at feet, 33 feet higher than Niagara.
Just have to consider the alternatives. The cover of this issue perfectly meets the coming season. Comments, questions and suggestions are always welcome, so post them at will. Find an error? Let us know and Monique Gagnon or I will make it right…. Click here: For the California Exhibition page. Pretoria, South Africa. Join the Conversation as artists, writers, politicians, diplomats and others congregate in Pretoria to discuss an agenda that could mean keeping humankind alive for another 1, years.
Or more. Joao Pessoa, Brazil. Virginia Butera. Seeing is believing. You did want to know more about that, right? Qualifications: Jeff not only is a baseball fan, but also mayor of Cooperstown, N. He has great access to research materials. One hundred video artists from around the world are invited to participate; each will produce a video artwork inspired by one of the previous years, with an international exhibit to follow.
That should be something to write about. The professor rants in short form about peeves, pecadilloes and personal favorites, among them, Sean Connery. Fiction Contest … Ragazine. On with the show! Simply put, is over, long live …. Not too soon to say good-bye, either …. The zine that began eight years ago to share the art, poetry and photography of a small circle of friends now generates growing interest and increasing support from hundreds of contributors and thousands of readers around the world.
Except for the fact that many in our target audience are themselves targets of another sort. For any number of reasons, from political or military repression, to ethnic and religious prejudice, to social norms and economic disparity, they are denied access to open forums where they can bring their ideas to light and flourish.
Lerner, an engineer by training, captures neighborhood denizens in a once-thriving upstate city striving to remake itself. His camera reveals a nation of contrasts as it struggles with change, and the scars that struggle leaves as the country transitions from an agrarian Communist to industrial Capitalist power. Dot Gallery. Read it to yourself. Read it aloud.
Breakfast with Blanche
Be advised: Not a cure for insomnia. Live a few snippets of their lives; see what the other sides see of each other. Wilsey DJs a poetry-focused radio show. The Books section will move from a Page to a Post, which can be dated and saved for archiving. The arts may not be able to lift everyone out of poverty, but they do have the power to lift the spirits of rich and poor alike. A good enough reason to keep our shoulders to the wheel. Karl Polanyi was one of the most influential economists and social thinkers of the last century.
His work, widely read and recognized throughout the world, is largely unknown in the United States. Kari Polanyi Levitt , is living in Canada, he reached out for an interview. Nikolai Buglaj is more interested in capturing the essence of an idea than in fame and fortune. In this regard, he has few peers. Art Editor Dr. Jeff Katz moves beyond the sound stage to share the joy of watching his autistic son Nate achieve a personal best with an art exhibit in Soho earlier this year. This post is about the resilience of boys, no matter where they come from.
Silbert strives to maintain the will to preserve the events, large and small, that help her maintain her own identity, even while it further entwines with those of her loved ones. Or our friend Walter, here…. Pick a topic. Any topic. Write about it without injecting yourself into it. Write about anything else, but not … You. Make a list: Politics, culture, art, war, peace, food, hunger… recognizing opposites begins to come easily, a cheap way to make the list longer with little extra effort.
Stop there. Begin again. A month goes by. And then another. Openings, closings, travel for business, travel for fun, travel for no other reason than to get from there to somewhere else. Or here. Metta Sama , our fiction editor for the past few years, is stepping down. The article appears as Hemingway scholars recall the author on his birthday, July 21, Find out what drove Devereaux to make ART in an accompanying interview.
Corratge practiced medicine for 30 years before turning his energies full time to the camera. There the travelers find themselves face-to-face with a culture unlike any other, as they bring their art to a community where it just might take root and grow. Follow ragazinecc. Real Dreams. Look at the work represented in these cyberpages, most obviously, perhaps, the Art and Photography, because for those of us with eyes that can see, the visuals are an immediate challenge to fathom, if not believe.
The Poetry, the Fiction, the Creative Nonfiction, Music Reviews, Political Commentary and other literary bytes are harder to comprehend; they have to be taken in word by word, line by line, page by page. Only by diving deeper into the heart of these ideas can one hope to grasp their meanings. Reading, however, takes time and concentration, two things too often in short supply. Art-heavy, we are, and internationally so.
In an interview, Landry explains how current events, fast food and historical personages figure into his world of Cabbage Patch Kids grown-up. Development in La Paz has displaced many of the original residents. This is a great story. This is not a political statement. Just the sad fact that so much money is being wasted by also-rans.
Instead, in the relentless pursuit of a seat at the table with Really Big Poobas, the most resilient candidates settle for a sustained diet of rubber chicken dinners, the style and class of sweater vests, and vain efforts to seat themselves a little closer to their makers, both in heaven and on earth. Why are these losers still in the race?
What did Newt do for that special someone in his life to contribute millions to a campaign going nowhere? Go into treasury funds? Now on to more satisfying things. Material that appears in ragazine. All rights reserved. Volume 8, Number 1, January-February Civil society in America is evolving faster than anywhere else in the world. The Middle East, China, Africa, South America will catch up and possibly surpass us well before the end of this century in total economic output, but by then the rules of civil society will have changed dramatically.
The economic and even political rules America and the world play by today have roots in the 19th Century. The developing world is doing what we have been doing for years or more, and in some ways doing it better.
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But better is not going to be good enough. Jim also weighs in the OWS crowd. Not enough? Volume 7 Number 6, Nov-Dec The periodic redistribution of wealth by some Northwest Coast native American tribes is a great example of what was done at one time to ensure that everyone got an equal chance at a better life.
The honors went to those who gave away the most. What one accumulated was shared, a reminder we share the earth. It was called potlatch. Jim, as an envoy from Ragazine, was one of only a few Americans at the event, which he plans to report on in our January issue. September-October , Volume 7, Number 5. Always new. Always sure to stretch the imagination beyond the bounds of decorum. Palombo explores and Goldfield explains with refreshing intellect how she reconciles making money and making change in a convulsing world. Welcome: July-August , Vol. Sometimes, the less said, the better.
Tempting it is to let the statement stand alone. But that would would be to overlook the hard work and contributions so many people have made along the way to get us to this May-June issue of Ragazine, and the start of the summer reading season. With that in mind, take us to the beach on your e-reader, tablet or laptop…. Talk about an uphill climb. Comments, by the way, are much appreciated. Let us have it, good, bad or indifferent.
We thrive on feedback. The area always has been culturally and socially influenced by a mixture of science fantasy and fiction. All hail the Thing. Sometimes even better. For those of us up North, Spring is on the way. For you south of the Equator, well, good luck with that, too! Ragazine, updated approximately six times a year, is a collaboration of emerging and established artists, writers, poets, musicians, photographers, travelers and interested others, with a goal to promote an eclectic selection of subject matter to an international audience.
Putting out a magazine is like dancing with dragons and letting go genies…. We are looking for original short videos approx. E-mail to editor ragazine. And again, thanks for reading! Poleskie proceeds to amuse and surprise. Hypnagog Books, ISBN Surrealism dead? Or just become Magic Realism?
Hawk and his wife photographer Mia Hanson who photographed all the paintings for this book , live in New York where they once were long-time residents of the Hotel Chelsea and now live in Washington Heights. Thus, perhaps, the acknowledgements of numerous well-known poets. In that case, this reviewer might want to read more. Shmailo is alive in the moment and willing to share, a voice in itself that deserves listening.
Bi-Lingual Swedish and English. Why is this painting or sculpture there? Who selected the typeface and layout on the title cards? Why are you standing where you are? This book in an explanation and appreciation of their art, and the services they perform. It is up to the artist to manifest himself through his work, and bequeath an interpretation of his time , a message.
Appel guides the reader through a New York City as seen by insiders and tourists, alike. All the while our hero, Larry Bloom, stakes claim to an unlikely romance with a young woman less attuned to wishful thinking than her immediate physical needs. Elephant Rock Books www. What you see is what you get from Joe Weil, whether in person or in print.
It was God who did it. Usually, a right fielder could pick his drawers from the crack of his ass, practice spitting between his teeth, have a zen experience watching puffs of sand blow in from second base. But no: Seven balls, three in one inning, all rolling to the edge of the train tracks after I missed them, and mr. Personal poems that reflect the universal human condition without being a bit maudlin are not easy to find, yet they exist throughout this collection of work that goes back decades.
A contemporary poet whose work will long reflect the angst and spirit of our time. Have a photo, painting, print, collage, cartoon, comic or some other visual offering you want to blast out to Ragazine readers? Email it to: Imageoftheday ragazine. Loch Ness Madonna, by Jose Rodeiro, Oil on Linen. San Francisco Sunday morning after Giants beat Royals Gabriel Navar putting finishing touches on the Albert Einstein selfie…. He has been a freelance artist and worked as a painter, sculptor and photographer for many years. Olivas , LA, Ca. Dzvinia Orlowsky photo. Chuck Haupt Photo.
Janez Vlachy photo. YOU , from the solstice video by David Gittens. Kielnhofer deals with and looks into the natural human desire for feeling secure.