Delightful Dorothea

This morning, "Coffee With the Poets" at Phillips and Lloyd featured Dorothea Spiegel. We who came were treated to a variety of poems from Dorothea's chapbook, "From my Desk". As Dorothea reads, you can hear the twinkle in her eye, telling you she doesn't take much in life too seriously. Her witty, insightful poems often have a little "twist" at the end, which always brings a smile, a sort of "Yes, that's so true!" moment for the listeners. One poem, however, caught me by surprise, because it revealed a passionate understanding of a man. Her man. Enjoy:

A MAN

I said to myself, "How great a man!"

People listen to him, and his word is law",

and I watched you and glowed with pride,

but I carefully kept my feelings inside.

Then I saw you were a mortal man:

concerned, confused, guilt-ridden, shy,

kind-hearted, angry, hurt and proud,

and my feelings almost spoke aloud!

I asked myself, "What is a man?"

And now, my feelings all unleashed

here in your arms, at last I can

answer myself, "This is a man."

Dorothea Spiegel

A Moment of Reflection

Is there any season as welcome as Spring? So far, this has been as close to a traditional Spring as we have had here in the mountains in a long time. Two Springs ago, we were robbed of Georgia's famous sweet peaches, blueberries and all manner of fruit delicacies by an early false Spring, followed by a hard freeze that lasted five days. Even the lovely dogwood blossoms sagged on their branches, and beautiful hostas changed overnight to something resembling boiled cabbage. Spring last year was skimpy, so much being damaged the year before, and the drought took its toll, also. But this year, we've had these wonderful rains to bring the daffodils into glorious bloom while it was still quite cold. The rains have brought wonderful blessings of new growth, but a little sadness from time to time. Hence, my little poem:

A Small Daffodil

On my stroll back from the mailbox,
I see the much needed rain has beaten
my daffodils' faces down into the mud.

It seems unfair that a bulb waits
so many months, and dares at last
to risk all, in fickle Spring.

Yesterday, this one turned ruffled cheeks
toward Sun for warmth, and hoped
for a kiss, but gray clouds moved by.

Today, I shake off the rain, or tears, from
damaged petals, but see the broken stem.
One day to live, one heartbreak to die.


So, I tried to honor my special small daffodil.

We Had Birds On our Mind

Today was special at Phillips and Lloyd's Bookstore in Hayesville, enjoying another "Coffee With the Poets." Nancy Simpson and Janice Moore were reading selections from the new book, "Poet's Guide Book to the Birds". Both talented ladies had some of their work selected for publication in this highly esteemed publication, which contains works of poet laureates and Nobel Peace Prize winners, as well. We congratulate them on this honor and look forward to owning the book and soaking up all the wonderful poetry relating to our bird friends. Most of us brought some of our own bird poems to read at Open Mike. The tiny creatures are a never ending source of inspiration and delight. Here's one I wrote one Sunday morning when I was dragging my feet getting ready for church. The big window beside our bed offered a delightful view of a robin on the ground right outside. I could see him, but he didn't know I was looking. I felt a bit like a Peeping Tom:

The Voyeur

Half-dressed, sitting on the side of the bed, I watch
the lone Robin, almost within arm's reach, scratching.
Up to his knobby knees in dew soaked grass, he turns an ear,
listening patiently for Worm to make the wrong move.

The window and tree shadow hide my common human form,
muffle my involuntary breathing, while he sets mind to task,
unaware his privacy is being invaded.
Oh, now, he looks up, but I remain still, and he
returns to his breakfast foraging.

We are here together, bird. You do not ponder
religious philosophy this Sunday morning, yet you seem content.
You are in no hurry to sing your praises, and you have all morning
to poke and piddle around, scratching and talking to yourself.
Your feathers look perfectly pressed.

Grandma would say the Devil is sitting on my lap, keeping
me idle, watching you, Robin-what do you think?
Oh, I prefer to believe the Creator gave this gift of you to me.
What? Listen, I cannot watch you longer. I must heed the call of husband,
who waits, with motor running, to whisk me off to sermon and song,
where I shall be tormented by self-righteous underwear and pinch-toe shoes.

Good bye, bird--I envy you!