tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4786886063189613572024-03-04T22:56:51.677-08:00The Common HoursA Diary of Poetry and Prose by DW Bender (Debra Woolard Bender)Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-92196736727087377492013-12-18T10:57:00.005-08:002013-12-18T11:27:59.906-08:00The first stanza of "White Lotus" which appeared first as a poem in its own right in 2005, has been published in a couple of books, magazines, a Smith & Hawken garden calendar, and in various places on the internet (some with and some without permission from me). I'm happy for the poem, as one stanza or the entire poem (completed in 2008), as it developed, to be quoted. I do want to be asked for permission first. If you like it, or other of my poems, and decide to quote the poem on an internet site, please make sure to credit my authorship with my name, and send me a link to your site where it is to be (or is currently) published:<br />
<br />
At dawn I asked the lotus,<br />
"What is the meaning of life?"<br />
Slowly, she opened her hand<br />
with nothing in it.<br />
<br />
DW Bender (Debra Woolard Bender)<br />
2005<br />
<br />
If you wish to publish in a book or other printed material, please contact me for permission.<br />
<br />
Thanks and enjoy!<br />
DebiDebihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-34496437845564895552013-12-18T10:46:00.001-08:002013-12-18T10:46:09.805-08:00It's the end of 2013, December 18. I've finally been able to access my 3
blogs, which I've not been able to access since 2008!!!! I found that I
had an error in a spelling for an address for signing in. It took me,
how long? ... 5 1/2 years? Not sure if I'll be posting much
more...maybe, maybe not. But I've updated my email addresses, etc., for
contacts.
Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-81647618157344438002009-09-25T09:58:00.000-07:002009-09-25T10:06:13.583-07:00White LotusDW Bender, 2008<br /><br />At dawn I asked the lotus,<br />"What is the meaning of life?"<br />Slowly, she opened her hand<br />with nothing in it.<br /><br />Receiving what is given,<br />She does not grasp to retain;<br />In the heart of the lotus,<br />what is ever lost?<br /><br />Her cup overflows with light:<br />The cosmos rests in her palm.<br />When darkness settles on her,<br />she enfolds the sun.<br /><br />At dusk, as her petals closed,<br />I whispered, "Why must we die?"<br />The lotus vanished, and all<br />turned into her dream.<br /><br /><a href="http://thecommonhours.blogspot.com/2008/02/song-of-lotus.html">http://thecommonhours.blogspot.com/2008/02/song-of-lotus.html</a><br /><br /><a href="http://thecommonhours.blogspot.com/2008/02/song-of-lotus-february-2008.html">http://thecommonhours.blogspot.com/2008/02/song-of-lotus-february-2008.html</a>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-6617653406547082882008-08-05T14:20:00.000-07:002008-10-15T19:26:22.185-07:00three haiku from 2005 with Japanese translations<strong><br />two butterflies<br />stop and go, but mostly<br />keep on going</strong><br /><br /><em>DWB</em><br />Haiku<br />August 20, 2005<br /><br /><strong>つがい蝶 ならびまろびの 飛翔かな</strong><br />tsugai chou / narabi marobi no / hishou kana<br /><br /><em>Translation to Japanese, Ken Saito</em><br /><br /><em>tsugai</em> : a pair of, a brace of<br /><em>narabi (narannde)</em> : to go (in flight) in line/tandem, or, side by side<br /><em>marobi (maronnde)</em> : (rather old fashioned saying meaning )<br />to stagger/totter, or to drop-off (from flight)<br /><em>hishou</em> : flight<br /><br />"a couple of butterflies flying, (sometimes/mostly) in smooth and side by side flight, (sometimes) troubled flight"<br /><br /><strong>unenlightened, as yet—<br />how thunderbolts follow<br />one another </strong> <br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />Haiku, 2005 <br /><br /><strong>悟るなし 雷神あまた お在せども<br />satoru nashi / raijin amata / owase domo</strong><br /><br /><em>Translation to Japanese, Ken Saito</em><br />(alludes to the haiku by master, Matsuo Basho [1644-1694]:<br /><br />"How admirable!<br />to see lightning and not think<br />life is fleeting.")<br /><br /><strong>almost before<br />it starts, it stops.<br />afternoon rain </strong> <br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />Haiku, 2005<br /><br /><strong>午後の雨 降りだす間なく 降り止めり<br />gogo no ame / furidasu manaku / furi yameri</strong><br /><br /><em>Translation to Japanese, Ken Saito</em>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-62111027941396748132008-06-23T07:24:00.000-07:002008-06-23T07:34:00.199-07:00To Don Cecil's "Flight School"<strong><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/">Don Cecil</a> </strong>continues to create wonderful photomontages which he posts at Flicker. With their sense of the universal, of childhood, of wonder, mystery, sorrow, humor, whenever viewing each new offering, I realize I am stepping into the inner realms of contemporary a master artist: <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/2592992238/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/2592992238/</a><br /><br /><br /><strong>holding my breath,<br />made a dandelion wish— <br />let it blow</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender<br />June 22, 2008</em>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-49194293737386227662008-05-29T14:41:00.000-07:002008-12-08T13:48:10.565-08:00Tanka, 2003: untitled<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFfdpzPTn52vpFKMSRcULF-9zbsJtS11Cx8_jTy4X-IB-vsIHA8mhtORdq2Dqdz2CyrWjgaRh3sYWTZPilWDWf_MuJJKUUD6lKSoWeF5yxvF-btSklARvO-pFhrrFSTeF5q8p07lkL1vk/s1600-h/4apricotsinabowl2_dwb.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFfdpzPTn52vpFKMSRcULF-9zbsJtS11Cx8_jTy4X-IB-vsIHA8mhtORdq2Dqdz2CyrWjgaRh3sYWTZPilWDWf_MuJJKUUD6lKSoWeF5yxvF-btSklARvO-pFhrrFSTeF5q8p07lkL1vk/s400/4apricotsinabowl2_dwb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205918344793987666" /></a><br />click to view larger image<br /><em>DW Bender<br />tanka, haiga, 2003</em>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-48969368870973374032008-05-08T11:16:00.000-07:002008-05-08T11:34:14.005-07:00L'homme est un arbre des champs (by artist, Kola Remaz)<strong><br />May 8, 2008<br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kolaremaz/2476630438/">To a picture:</strong></a><br /><br /><strong>While the winter passed,<br />for sake of art, have cut out<br />and erased my self.</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br /><br />See Kola's picture, and his other artwork on Flickr, here: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kolaremaz/2476630438/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/kolaremaz/2476630438/</a>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-47062264568510183182008-03-26T06:01:00.000-07:002008-03-26T06:33:25.355-07:00Basho's Monkey Mask Haiku & So-gi's Temple BellFor my "Monkey Sox" avatar and my dream:^D, two haiku. There is an insightful <a href="http://haiku.cc.ehime-u.ac.jp/nobo/20030213/1412.html">commentary on these two poems</a> by Hugh Bygott (UK) on the old Shiki Salon haiku forum, in which the use of metaphor in this poem of Basho's is examined:<br /><br /><strong><br />toshidoshi ya <br />saru ni kisetaru<br />saru no men<br /><br />year after year—<br />on the monkey's face<br />a monkey's mask </strong><br /><br /><em>haiku by Matsuo Bashō</em> <br />(松尾 芭蕉, Matsuo Bashō, 1644 – 28 November 1694)<br /><br /><strong>kane zo naru<br />kyo- mo munashiku<br />sugi ya sen<br /><br />The temple bell<br />sounds on another day <br />empty of insight.</strong><br /><br /><em>hyakuin by So-gi</em><br />So-gi Dokugin Nanibito Hyakuin<br />"A Hundred Stanzas Related to 'Person' by<br />So-gi Alone."<br />Translation by Earl Miner<br /><br />Makoto Ueda's commentary on Basho's monkey's mask poem may also be found at the <a href="http://www.uoregon.edu/~kohl/basho/life.html">University of Oregon's site</a>.Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-17459666754046497442008-03-24T06:44:00.000-07:002008-04-06T15:02:57.938-07:00A Prayer, A Dream, A Psalm of Prayer<strong><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/2348211338/">Oh God, heal us!</a><br />Teach my spirit to restore<br />what I have wasted</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />prayer, March 20, 2008 <br /><br />I had a dream the night before last, in which I was explaining something which I don't now recall to a woman. It was mundane sort of helpful information, as if she were a customer or someone asking directions. She had a pained look on her face. I intuited what she was feeling: that she felt I disliked her. And although it wasn't how I felt at all, I questioned her directly about what her face told me. "Please forgive my bluntness; I don't wish to offend you," I asked, "but by your expression, I sense you feel that I dislike you in some way?" She responded yes, that was indeed what she was feeling, by the way I was talking to her. I apologized and thanked her for her honesty, saying that this was not the first time I had experienced that kind of reaction to the way I spoke and presented myself, recently, and that I should examine myself to see how I could say and do things differently. I felt deeply sad and embarassed, and woke up immediately. <br /><br />I'm sure I had this dream in relation to a waking-life mundane online exchange on information about the use of a foodstuff as an appetite control tool, which became misunderstood and strained, which I quickly bowed out of, so as not to make it worse, email being too a limited tool for conversation and expression. In a related sense, I think both women in the dream represented aspects of my personality, and the opportunity to examine, change, grow.<br /><br />Below are copied gracious words to live by, today and always. It expresses a heart-prayer which has been mine for many years, to be real, to be authentic (and another is to be blessed and made a blessing) but now, have found it put into actual words, today in a modern but timeless psalm written by Joseph Bayly:<br /><br /><strong>PSALMS: ON SINGLE MINDEDNESS</strong><br /><br /><strong>Lord of Reality <br />make me real <br />not plastic <br />synthetic <br />pretend, phony <br />an actor playing out his part <br />hypocrite. <br />I don't want to keep a prayer list <br />but to pray <br />nor agonize to to find Your will <br />but to obey <br />what I already know <br />to argue <br />theories of inspiration <br />but submit to Your word. <br />I don't want <br />to explain the difference <br />between eros and pilos <br />and agape <br />but to love. <br />I don't want <br />to sing as if I mean it <br />I want to mean it. <br />I don't want <br />to tell it like it is, <br />but to be it <br />like You want it. <br />I don't want <br />to think another needs me <br />but I need him <br />else I'm not complete. <br />I don't want <br />to tell others how to do it <br />but to do it <br />to have to be always right <br />but to admit it when I'm wrong. <br />I don't want to be a census taker <br />but an obstetrician <br />nor an involved person, a professional <br />but a friend. <br />I don't want to be insensitive <br />but to hurt where other people hurt <br />nor to say I know how you feel <br />but to say God knows <br />and I'll try <br />if you'll be patient with me <br />and meanwhile I'll be quiet. <br />I don't want to scorn the cliches of others <br />but to mean everything I say <br />including this. <br /></strong><br />from <em>Psalms of My Life</em>, Joseph Bayly <br /><u>Tyndale Treasures</u>, copyright 1969<br />found at <a href="http://studiosmith.blogspot.com/">Barry Blog - designsmith</a>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-5623734219356231792008-03-15T21:05:00.000-07:002008-08-05T15:14:11.349-07:00Two Untitled Tanka (One collaborative)1.<br /><strong>seeing again<br />the beauty of tear drops<br />against dew drops </strong>/<em>st</em><br /><strong>the mosses, catching them,<br />reveal a universe</strong> /<em>db</em><br /><br />untitled tanka<br />Susumu Takiguchi, UK: /st<br />DW Bender, USA: /db<br />January 4-5, 2007<br /><br />2.<strong><br />without announcement<br />a spell of winter rain falls<br />into loneliness...<br />how my feet keep on slipping<br />over clouds dropped by the sky</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />Janauary 18, 2007<br />untitled tankaDebihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-51788072933678319312008-03-14T09:12:00.001-07:002008-03-14T11:32:46.515-07:00Force of Gravity (tanka, 2001)<strong><br />deceptively still,<br />far suns of night burn<br />in silence,<br />drawn away as I am<br />by force of gravity<br /></strong><br /><em>DW Bender<br /></em>unpublished tanka, May 8, 2001<br /><br />Sorry, I've been busy with some other things, and have not been visiting my poetry blog for a little while...I do need to answer your kind comments, friends, readers. Soon.<br /><br />A couple months ago, I discovered a wonderful artist/photographer, <a href="http://www.dcecil.com/">Donald Cecil</a>, aka <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/">Don Cecil</a> who posts many of his creations on Flickr. I am blown away and transported by the awesome wonder of his work, which call forth the language of dream, imagination, childhood... . I hope he will one day publish some of these in books. I can't begin to describe what kind of profound and stong feelings and yearnings (related to childhood and creativity) the images he creates bring up in me:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/</a><br /><br />Visit all of them, but especially see, these Sets:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/sets/72157603961351386/">Kid Years</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/sets/72157604041490110/">New Story</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/sets/72157603195373108/">Cancer Time</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bullcecil/sets/72157600033293915/">50 Years</a>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-71146516768592569922008-02-24T08:43:00.000-08:002008-12-08T13:48:10.755-08:00Spring Night, Ink<a href="http://onebreathpoetry.blogspot.com/2008/02/prompt-89-ink.html"><em>Haiku: One Deep Breath,</em> Prompt 89 theme: <strong>Ink</strong></a><br /><br />1. Tanka with digital art<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJVDOf3CdIqSnv4qFpCjQCWQzYRdbeJWacoSfDwbiiCEtc4BeKLX4yu4Ea2C3S8EX9_sxDagukzd6tEMPFLGILqNKX91tAD0XPI5cI5ZqbKjknut4UCEIYpjrkZFJw8sjzX2tBYDKJeU/s1600-h/quiltednight3.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170588571596537634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJVDOf3CdIqSnv4qFpCjQCWQzYRdbeJWacoSfDwbiiCEtc4BeKLX4yu4Ea2C3S8EX9_sxDagukzd6tEMPFLGILqNKX91tAD0XPI5cI5ZqbKjknut4UCEIYpjrkZFJw8sjzX2tBYDKJeU/s400/quiltednight3.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong>how could I help it—<br />escaping with the spring moon<br />on this quilted night</strong><br /><strong>somewhere a slow, shifting sound</strong><br /><strong>and ink melts, slips over stone</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />untitled tanka 2000<br />==========<br /><br />2. 2 Haiku<br /><br />1.<br /><br /><strong>spring nightfall</strong><br /><strong>ink melts </strong><br /><strong>over stone</strong><br /><br /><strong><em>tombée du jour</em></strong><br /><strong><em>l'encre fond</em></strong><br /><strong><em>sur la pierre</em></strong><br /><br />2.<br /><br /><strong>back and forth</strong><br /><strong>grinding ink slowly</strong><br /><strong>the weight of my words</strong><br /><br /><strong><em>allant et venant</em></strong><br /><strong><em>broyant l'encre lentement</em></strong><br /><strong><em>le poids de mes mots</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><em>DW Bender, 2000</em><br />untitled haiku<br />published in <em><a href="http://www.tempslibres.org/tl/hku/cco/arc0003.html">Temps Libres/Free Times, 'Favorites'</a></em><br />Translated by Serge Tomé, BelgiumDebihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-87105564518796422322008-02-21T05:41:00.000-08:002008-12-08T13:48:11.125-08:00Leeches, Amoebas & Algae (Oh My!)<strong><br />furuike ya<span style="color:#ffffff;">...</span>kawazu tobikomu<span style="color:#ffffff;">...</span>mizu no oto<br /><br />stagnant pond...<br />a frog-leap into<br />water's sound</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://www.worldhaikureview.org/3-1/whf2002recollections_jvihar.shtml"><em>Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)</em><br />Translation version by DW Bender</a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz59eIHOhkdoFEibsjw6qF7DT3XvJHUvWU0vul74UITiPmGqNNUeV9CvyMVMdxhpDjetr9stRqT190DuVrBpgtkHBZQlIsnQKo26lk6_qSVvBXvrn5cJCcJKFfiDn0UEUw3othpOZVBdA/s1600-h/springdream.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169435686410174162" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz59eIHOhkdoFEibsjw6qF7DT3XvJHUvWU0vul74UITiPmGqNNUeV9CvyMVMdxhpDjetr9stRqT190DuVrBpgtkHBZQlIsnQKo26lk6_qSVvBXvrn5cJCcJKFfiDn0UEUw3othpOZVBdA/s400/springdream.jpg" border="0" /></a> Our (awesome) youngest grandson, who is in Middle School, has a new science homework project. He must <a href="http://homeworkrocx.blogspot.com/">blog</a> what he's learned each day in science class. Currently the class is studying the inhabitants of a nearby pond: algae, amoebas, leeches and dragonfly larvae. His teacher even made a <a href="http://animoto.com/play/80d41915bdfc60a99af06993382b7d3e">video of the field trip.</a><br /><br />Mike was born with the gift of natural wit. Since he learned to talk, which was, developmentally, a bit late due to temporary hearing losses from constant ear infections, he's come up with hilarious, unexpected and perfectly timed quips. While his hearing was impaired, doubtless he was listening intensely in order to make sense of the world and his favorite cartoon shows. He's also extraordinarily smart; recent national testing put him in the top 2%, of his school peers.<br /><br /><strong>the spring rain...<br />chalk equations washed<br />from concrete</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://www.lincolnshire.gov.uk/upload/public/attachments/522/NG8.pdf"> <em>haiku by DW Bender, 2002</em><br />Nightingale, June 2002 (revised 2008)</a><br /><br />His mother, our daughter, is also funny, rather sarcastically so; a future "<a href="http://www.hallmark.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/article%7C10001%7C10051%7C/HallmarkSite/Maxine/?landingPage=maxine&hostName=www.hallmark.com">Maxine</a>" in the making. Almighty Heidi assisted ScienceBoy in premiering his newborn blog. The first version of the homework-site was a creative hoot. And that's not just grand-maternal baby-book pride speaking. Both grandson and his mother are truly funny, unlike me, who loves to be inanely silly, but being more introspective, am not exactly a comic wit (and not even a brag-book holding grandma.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQSkEaaA2cMvERLiJKqzR5YbNTpyTTjvuFLMbd6RI7mXBiNAA61ezpgpJIOU_cYHK7l7Vuf7Fo7VjQbLtCT_EJk-8PuayQ-0c5zdlKfGIhpRcrpdpm4kkLm2YTU-zJvIAu9zLac1Ot80/s1600-h/akatombo_x.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQSkEaaA2cMvERLiJKqzR5YbNTpyTTjvuFLMbd6RI7mXBiNAA61ezpgpJIOU_cYHK7l7Vuf7Fo7VjQbLtCT_EJk-8PuayQ-0c5zdlKfGIhpRcrpdpm4kkLm2YTU-zJvIAu9zLac1Ot80/s400/akatombo_x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169552204577947394" /></a>His teacher wasn't amused, however, probably due to frustration with the genius's failing grades. This, due to his persistent and inherent 12-year long insidious streak of utter lazy-boned-ness. Science is his favorite class, led by his favorite teacher nonetheless. So, wisely deferring to his teacher, our duly chastened student changed the name of his blog from "I Hate Homework" to the more sensible, "<a href="http://homeworkrocx.blogspot.com/">Mike's Science Homework</a>", toning down the bloggery humor to a more pablum-esque juvi-scholar mode. Still, I truly wish his teacher would have been more open to ScienceBoy's sharp sense of the comic, especially relating to the homework project. It would give that creative facet of the child further chance to blossom, enhancing his understanding of, and love for science.<br /><br /><strong>spring loneliness<br />the inch of fathomless space<br />between two stars</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://www.poetrylives.com/SimplyHaiku/SHv1n5/Bender_haiku.html"><em>haiku by DW Bender</em><br />"bottle rockets", Issue 7<br />& Simply Haiku 1-5, November 2003</a><br /><br />Which brings up a point of concern. It grieves me when teachers don't realize, understand or encourage the complementary inter-connectedness of creative gifts to applied learning...and to the enjoyment of learning. Many throw discouragement toward those who might attempt to mingle the two, even if instinctively, as in the case of young students. Although most don't realize this concept, such talents are given <em>not only</em> for enjoyment. In fact, the entertainment factor, while equally valid and important in it's own right, probably developed as a secondary benefit. In the case of the gifted, the derived pleasure might simply be a motivational impetus. After all, we do many things, even things we wouldn't otherwise do, only because we find them pleasurable. I believe the precious creative gifts are, primarily, superior and inimitable learning tools bequeathed by the Creator, who, by sensible deduction, would surely desire us to use them for the good. What <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G%C3%B6del,_Escher,_Bach">brilliant mental leaps</a> can be made by children or adults when the love of music is applied to math, drawing to grammar, poetry to psychology, humor to biology, culinary arts to sociology or any number of combinations. So much potential. So many aborted and unborn bright synaptic fireworks. What unmitigated dulling down of the species! O ye wet rags! What are we thinking? How are we thinking? Are we thinking at all? (Deep, deep, deep grandmotherly sigh. Groaning.) <br /><br />Brighten up. Take those Omega 3's. Better yet, let's remember how to intuit. Have some chocolate with the fish oil! Yes, Einstein, it isn't rocket science (or perhaps, actually, it is), yet it is as you have spoken: "Imagination is more important than knowledge." Fortunately, Mike's teacher is a person who cares very much about his students, and who is wonderfully talented and creative, himself. He makes learning fun. Even ScienceBoy's mother confesses she'd love to have been a student in his classes. So, there is hope that he'll indulge the wit when the wit gets serious with his grades. And I trust our grandson's love for his class and respect for his teacher will stimulate his left brain clear out of his mismatched right-brained lazy-socks.<br /><br /><strong>shuncho ni<span style="color:#ffffff;">...</span>nagaruru mo ari<span style="color:#ffffff;">...</span>ya no gotoku</strong><br /><br /><strong>a sprig of algae<span style="color:#ffffff;">...</span>on spring tides....<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.........</span>shoots by<span style="color:#ffffff;">...</span>swift as an arrow</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://www.worldhaikureview.org/1-3/womenpoets.shtml"><em>haiku by Sugita Hisajo [1890-1946]</em><br />translation version by DW Bender</a><br /><br />==========<br /><br /><blockquote>Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist / Is always almost just about to lift. / Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this / Candle can explain its searing twist / Of flame mounted on cool amethyst.—<em>Excerpt from <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=30338">'Sugar Dada'</a>, by J. Allyn Rosser</em> </blockquote><a href="http://www.lincolnshire.gov.uk/upload/public/attachments/522/NG8.pdf"></a>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-37837981473635560692008-02-20T14:42:00.000-08:002008-02-21T11:08:00.795-08:002008 Villanelle: Gravity<strong><br />Gravity</strong><br /><em>DW Bender </em><br />February 18-20, 2008<br /><br /><strong>'Tis gravity that ages you and me;<br />we circuit day by day, year after year<br />on clockwork gears of earth, sun, moon and sea;<br /><br />So round we go, flies on a string, and free<br />to rise or fall within our atmosphere;<br />'Tis gravity that ages you and me:<br /><br />The constant pull and push on A through Z<br />grinds periodic elemental spheres<br />on clockwork gears of earth, sun, moon and sea:<br /><br />As sure as warmth draws <a href="http://maple.dnr.cornell.edu/produc/sapflow.htm">sap</a> up through the tree<br />and water draws the root down deep and near,<br />'tis gravity that ages you and me.<br /><br />All Adam's clay, we sink to whence we spring<br />(o just another ruse, dear Chanticleer).<br />On clockwork gears of earth, sun, moon and sea<br /><br />the wheel of life-death-life spins until we,<br />weary, find rest in That which holds us dear.<br />'Tis gravity that ages you and me<br />on clockwork gears of earth, sun, moon and sea.</strong><br /><br />======<br /><br />Hyperlinked here, are pages of a site with a favorite villanelle by Theodore Roethke, <em><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=172106">The Waking</a></em>. Also, <em><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=175907">Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night</a></em> by Bob Dylan. Others villanelles and poems are available on the site, including a surprising one I've not read before: <em><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=177425">In Memory of the Unknown Poet, Robert Boardman Vaughn</a></em> by Donald Justice. Here, I discovered a villanelle I like very much, <em><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=30338">Sugar Dada</a></em>, by J. Allyn Rosser. I am especially drawn to Rosser's deep and Zennish, if not philosophically disillusioned lines, <strong>"Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist / Is always almost just about to lift./Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this ..."</strong>. Love the poem.<br /><br />Another <a href="http://www.public.asu.edu/~aarios/formsofverse/reports2000/page8.html">site with some of my favorite villanelles by other poets: </a><em>Mad Girl's Love Song</em> and by Sylvia Plath, <em>One Art</em> by Elizabeth Bishop; some also on the above site.Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-77191419451653755472008-02-20T13:17:00.000-08:002008-02-21T08:34:04.339-08:00Villanelles 1976-2003<a href="http://www.worldhaikureview.org/5-1/whcpb/villanelle/whcpbvillanellebender.htm">3 villanelles, published previously at WHCpoetrybridge, World Haiku Review 5-1, 2005</a><br /><br />Three older villanelle's below. "War of Dreams" was the third villanelle I penned, just before our son enlisted in the Air Force, about 17 years ago (revised):<br /><br /><strong>War of Dreams</strong><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br /><br /><strong>The end of hope is never what it seems:<br />Men lose and gain in war a prize not planned<br />So sons must fight to win their fathers' dreams.<br /><br />O Glorious Future beckons. Battle screams.<br />War heroes, good and bad die, bleeding men.<br />The end of hope is never what it seems.<br /><br />Just one more killing field! Bright promise gleams<br />Right at arm's length; the end is near at hand,<br />So sons will fight to win their fathers' dreams.<br /><br />Ripe fields of blood are harvested and gleaned.<br />Felled seeds of wrath lie shell-burst in the land.<br />The end of hope is never what it seems<br /><br />And what is spawned of war, they did not mean.<br />Downed hope, redressed, is bannered once again,<br />So sons must fight to win their fathers' dreams.<br /><br />Men fight and lose, yet victory and the things<br />They sought might come in other ways, but then,<br />The end of hope is never what it seems—<br />So sons fight on to win their fathers' dreams.</strong><br /><br />The following is the first villanelle I wrote, in the mid-1970's during a poetry seminar held by Salvatore Salerno at Johnson County Community College, Jacksonville, NC. He had warned us against using trite phrases and cliches in poetry, end-rhymes such as "night, bright, light." So I, of course, got silly and made a poem just to use those words as end rhymes. I would have used "moon, spoon, June," too, but thought better of it, in lieu of making at least a halfway decent poem.<br /><br /><strong>The Finger Pointing to the Moon </strong><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br /><br /><strong>The moon you gave to me and all its shine.<br />I, being blind, had only seen the night.<br />Without the vision, I can't know what's mine.<br /><br />The moon, you said, is like a silver dime.<br />You tried in vain to make me see the light;<br />The moon you gave to me and all its shine.<br /><br />We've touched the moon. It's not so far in time.<br />I felt the coin's edges, thin and slight.<br />Without the vision, I can't know what's mine.<br /><br />The moon has eyes, but cannot see its mime.<br />Its lifeless face reflects another's bright.<br />The moon you gave to me and all its shine.<br /><br />Your finger pointed to the moon. We rhyme:<br />The moon and I are dark as sun is white.<br />(Without the vision, I can't know what's mine.)<br /><br />To know the moon is having it in mind.<br />Your words gave this blind witness to your sight.<br />The moon you gave to me and all its shine;<br />Without the vision, I can't know what's mine.</strong><br /><br />I believe that "Alien Invasion was the 2nd villanelle I wrote, around the same time I wrote "War of Dreams." I don't recall which came first. At the time, I was working on a group of poems based on 1950's American culture.<br /><br /><strong>Alien Invasion</strong><br /><em>DW Bender </em><br /><br /><strong>..........(Don't touch that dial. we'll be right back!)<br /><br />They came to earth to steal the minds of men;<br />We dare not say that we were unaware.<br />In black and white this truth is waived again.<br /><br />Through tabloid hype and sci-fi's silver screen<br />We looked past Sputnik into future fear:<br />They came to earth to steal the minds of men<br /><br />And saucer-eyed we begged them enter in,<br />Hypnotically enslaved by sightless stare<br />In black and white. This truth is waived again<br /><br />Subliminally from images we've seen<br />And heard from channeled messages. Beware:<br />They came to earth to steal the minds of men!<br /><br />In homes, the quasi life-form's "master plan"<br />Would change the world by mastering the air.<br />In black and white this truth is waived again.<br /><br />And bit by bit we've changed to be like "them":<br />At finger's flick, antennae raised, we stare.<br />They came to earth to steal the minds of men.<br />In black and white this truth is waived again.<br /><br />........ (Tune in tomorrow, same time, same station.)</strong> <br /><br />"When All in Play" was written in the early 2000's, for fun.<br /><br /><strong>When All in Play </strong><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br /><br /><strong>When all in play I turn my words to sing,<br />and rhythms of far heartbeats mix with mine,<br />perchance the voice of my own soul shall wing.<br /><br />In melodies of ancient shores that ring<br />I hear strange languages from other times,<br />when all in play I turn my words to sing.<br /><br />Such cadences, so like, yet differing!<br />Should I delight to verse these friendly lines,<br />perchance the voice of my own soul shall wing.<br /><br />But soft, what phrases rouse through wondering,<br />and make me wish to poem them into rhyme<br />when all in play I turn my words to sing?!<br /><br />As psalms of mendicants and saints shall bring<br />together choirs of celebrants, sublime,<br />perchance the voice of my own soul shall wing.<br /><br />O sweet, exotic music, let your strings<br />be in my ear and on my tongue in kind;<br />When all in play I turn my words to sing,<br />perchance the voice of mine own soul shall wing.</strong>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-51407774326264425732008-02-18T12:28:00.000-08:002008-10-14T21:50:28.336-07:00Drifting apart<strong><br />side-by-side, riding<br />through the common hours<br />we drift far apart—<br />your mind on the driving<br />and my mind on the drive</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />Tanka 2-18-08<br /><br />a summer haiku from the past:<br /><br /><strong>outdoor café<br />world problems solved<br />over coffee and tea</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender </em><br />Summer Haiku, 2002, rev.2003, <br /><a href="http://www.worldhaikureview.org/3-2/editorsdesk_dwb1.shtml"><strong>World Haiku Review</strong>: <br />From <em>A Haiku Editor's Desk</em>, <br />"Writing Under the Influence"</a href>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-73121996239586634922008-02-17T17:24:00.000-08:002008-10-14T22:36:49.046-07:00first azaleas<strong><br />first azaleas—<br />how effortlessly hours pass<br />unnoticed</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />February 17, 2008<br /><br /><strong>first azaleas—<br />yet I have wasted a day<br />viewing photographs!</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />February 17, 2008<br /><br />and older spring haiku:<br /><br /><strong>returning warmth—<br />so close I can only hear<br />your unspoken words</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />from <em>From the Trees</em>, haibunDebihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-25901441693996745642008-02-12T07:11:00.000-08:002017-03-12T00:18:54.839-08:00Love Haiku (for my first love)<strong><br />that boy I once loved<br />is the man I still love...<br />warmth of the far sun</strong><br />
<br />
<em>DW Bender</em><br />
Haiku, February 12, 2008<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvbQ44ZX5PqUksV32HOK0ge_hvcRljfIc5NsPA0LdZFxJCvzlj5bS9NzpSVg6NbUAuTImbPNXLDF1oX-hyfTCB9BNSC7FDp9ucYmC-GxWcEJ1J51p0_BvHqsKJFs9WKTtk_CV4JsWuvNA/s1600-h/fireflies.gif"><br /><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166122822833360834" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvbQ44ZX5PqUksV32HOK0ge_hvcRljfIc5NsPA0LdZFxJCvzlj5bS9NzpSVg6NbUAuTImbPNXLDF1oX-hyfTCB9BNSC7FDp9ucYmC-GxWcEJ1J51p0_BvHqsKJFs9WKTtk_CV4JsWuvNA/s320/fireflies.gif" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><strong>How to Haiku: </strong>In 2001, I wrote a lesson-method article for World Haiku Review. <a href="http://www.worldhaikureview.org/1-3/shiki_sketchbook.shtml"><strong><em>Haiku Sketchbook</em></strong></a> offers beginners in haiku a way which I, myself, use to learn how to haiku from the masters. For this, I recommend studying <strong>only Japanese</strong> <strong>haijin</strong> at first. Why? Most of us, in beginner's ignorance are <em>not</em> writing haiku (or tanka, senryu, and haibun) at all. If you wish to learn to write haiku, to percieve the spirit of haiku, please do such a "sketchbook" study each day.Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-1807013741668803082008-02-06T05:43:00.000-08:002008-08-05T15:16:09.484-07:00White Lotus<strong><br />Original poem:</strong><br /><br /><span style="color:#330099;"><span style="color:#000066;"><strong>At dawn I asked the lotus,<br />"What is the meaning of life?"<br />Slowly, she opened her hand<br />with nothing in it.</strong> </span><br /></span><br /><em>DW Bender, 2005</em><br /><br />See the previous (the following post in blog page order) post. The work-in-progress stanzas combined together, the poem, to date, would be something like thus:<br /><br /><strong>White Lotus</strong><br /><em>DW Bender, 2008</em><br /><br /><strong>At dawn I asked the lotus,<br />"What is the meaning of life?"<br />Slowly, she opened her hand<br />with nothing in it.<br /><br />Receiving what is given,<br />She does not grasp to retain;<br />In the heart of the lotus,<br />what is ever lost?<br /><br />Her cup overflows with light:<br />The cosmos rests in her palm.<br />When darkness settles on her,<br />she enfolds the sun.<br /><br />At dusk, as her petals closed,<br />I whispered, "Why must we die?"<br />The lotus vanished, and all<br />turned into her dream.</span><br /></strong>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-72661056169809401082008-02-04T18:49:00.000-08:002008-02-08T07:58:29.018-08:00Song of the Lotus, February 2008<strong><br /><span style="color:#330099;">At dawn I asked the lotus,<br />"What is the meaning of life?"<br />Slowly, she opened her hand<br />with nothing in it.</span><br /><br /></strong><em>Debra Woolard Bender 2005</em><br />(published by permission <a href="http://www.workman.com/">Workman Publishing Company</a> in the Smith & Hawken, Secret Garden Calendar, 2006: Month of April page)<br />First published by permission on Michael Garofalo's "<a href="http://www.gardendigest.com/">The Spirit of Gardening</a>" website, in the quotes section. <br /><br />My above poem has been visiting my thoughts recently. Sunday morning, I awoke with stiches and thoughts forming towards one or more stanzas which would be a continuation. The finished piece could possibly be titled, "Song of the Lotus." Maybe not. "White Lotus" might be it.<br /><br />The verse which follows, and which I wrote Sunday morning, comes from a dream I had several years ago. The dream seemed profound and beautiful, and has remained with me. In it, I was looking up into a dusk sky above my head. I gazed at seven or eight large ovoid bodies, still, pure white living objects (or beings, although, not with bodies like ours). These hovering forms were composed of petal-like shapes that silently transformed by way of folding and unfolding within themselves. Their movement (in my conception when waking) seemed like an elegant and more complex version of the <a href="http://dailypoetics.typepad.com/daily_poetics/images/1071_love_origami_main_1.jpg">child's origami 'fortune teller' finger game</a>. Luminous, the pendant orbs were lit from within, like benevolent and awesome heavenly lanterns afloat aove the earth. Other people milled about. I wondered if anyone else was seeing them. On awakening, the only descriptive word-thought that entered my sleepily awakening consciousness was "white lotus." Although they were similar, they were also different than lotus flowers. They did look much like the blossom in this picture: <a href="http://www.foryourowngoodmassage.com/white_lotus.jpg">White Lotus</a><br />And they also resembled, in some ways, the <a href="http://mocoloco.com/archives/rachel_young_fold_lampshade.jpg">beautiful pendant kit lamps</a> often created by Scandinavian designers, which are formed of geometric patterns and made of paper or plastic, such as these: <a href="http://common.csnstores.com/common/marketing/leklint/31des.jpg">Pendant lamp 1</a> <a href="http://www.designspotter.com/weblog/archives/fold_lamp.jpg">Pendant lamp 2</a> . But the dream-lotus shapes were moving within, serene and living, their internal patterns morphing, shifting in pattern. More intricate and much more beautiful. Following is a verse which came from that dream. I didn't realate the images to death or ask that question in the dream -- but later, on Sunday, contemplating on the poem and the dream, the images, thoughts and questions arose in poem:<br /><br />At dusk, as her petals closed,<br />I whispered, "Why must I die?"<br />The white lotus, deepening,<br />turned into a dream.<br /><br />or alternatively:<br /><br />At dusk, as her petals closed,<br />I whispered, "Why must we die?"<br />Floating away, the lotus (or: Descending, the white lotus)<br />turned into a dream.<br /><br />*Lotus blossoms descend into the water at night, and reappear in the morning.<br /><br />or:<br /><br />At dusk, as her petals closed,<br />I whispered, "Why must we die?"<br />White lotus vanished, and all<br />turned into her dream. (I feel this is the right one)<br /><br /><br />One of the verses that arose from the thoughts, were these following words, which might become a middle stanza, while further stanzas which may arise later:<br /><br />Her cup overflows with light:<br />The cosmos rests in her palm.<br />When darkness settles on her,<br />she enfolds the sun.<br /><br />or alternatively:<br /><br />Her cup overflows with light:<br />The cosmos rests in her palm.<br />When darkness comes, the lotus<br />embodies the sun.<br /><br />*both "enfolds" and "embodies" are the right words, but I can use only one.<br /><br />Written (or rather assembled) from that morning's thoughts, just now:<br /><br />Receiving that which enters,<br />She does not grasp to retain;<br />In the heart of the lotus,<br />what is ever lost?<br /><br />=====<br />Note to reader: Although I write poetry in Japanese genres, and I know that the lotus is a spiritual symbol in Asian religions (and in Hindu and Egyptian religion and mythology), these verses are not written out of any particular religious belief or practice (I'm Christian). They are written from the underwaters within.Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-3526438239040421572008-02-02T09:20:00.000-08:002008-02-15T08:55:36.890-08:00Two Haiku 2008: ancient fountain; clear tidepool...<strong><br />ancient fountain<br />into which now falls only<br />its weight of winters<br /></strong><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />Haiku, February 1, 2008<br /><br /><br /><strong>clear shallows—<br />gulf weed floats over<br />its shadows</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />New Year/Winter Haiku, February 1, 2008<br />*<a href="http://www.haikutopics.blogspot.com/2006/06/seaweed-kaisoo.html">gulfweed/sargassum - a New Year kigo </a><br /><br />I want to remember this poem,<a href="http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2008/02/11/080211po_poem_wilbur"> "A Measuring Worm," </a>by Richard Wilbur, published in The New Yorker.Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-4436458442562623172008-02-01T19:06:00.000-08:002008-02-15T08:56:06.712-08:00winter rain...2008<strong><br />winter rain...<br />again the sound of water<br />changes shape</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />Haiku, 2008<br /><br />*first written as "summer rain..." for a photo, but this is winter, and we just had a winter rain last week. In other areas than Florida, the sound of water changes shape even more drastically, variably and noticeably.<br /><br />A older "sound" tanka from 2001:<br /><br /><strong>How could I help it?<br />escaping with the spring moon<br />on this quilted night...<br />somewhere a slow, shifting sound<br />and ink melts, slips over stone.</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />Tanka, February 12, 2001Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-72677773145292874262008-01-27T13:29:00.000-08:002008-12-08T13:48:11.588-08:00Although no snow in FloridaFor <a href="http://onebreathpoetry.blogspot.com/">Haiku: One Deep Breath</a> Week 87 Theme, "Winter Wonders"<br /><br /><strong>even the child<br />painting, makes snowmen—<br />where no snow falls</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />Haiku, January 27, 2008 (rev.)<br /><br />Notes: In Central Florida, we do not see dramatic winter miracles of snow and ice. However, I experienced a small wonder last week: a bright male cardinal scavanging food on a dry wintering lawn, which became the subject of a <a href="http://thecommonhours.blogspot.com/2008/01/january-26-red-cardinal-sighted.html">haiku</a> in an earlier posting. This month my husband and I enjoyed viewing Japanese hanga, or woodblock prints at the Leepa-Rattner Museum of Art in Tarpon Springs. Two favorites were shin-hanga snow scenes. This weekend, I have been viewing <a href="http://monkeysox.blogspot.com/">the wonderous drawings and paintings of children</a> for my own artistic inspiration.<br /><br />My all-time favorite winter haiku is by the late Owen Burkhart of Dyer, Indiana, who I knew through the Shiki mailing list, and World Haiku Club. He published a book of his poetry, <em>A Single Breath</em>:<br /><br /><strong>first snow<br />only very small<br />snowmen</strong><br /><br /><em>Owen Burkhart</em> (1930-2005)<br /><br />Here is one of my older digital artworks with a Western-styled rhymed poem constructed with a haiku-like winter sequence (from around 2001):<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNI5q5gZOFOzBmXxUb6xI2MpPns0QidRIjQ-ZR44DSOb3X9HHC0Mv9laNmPxRsodx9QnhOyCjoVyGgL9FrdxXf43xQy4MzoxS61In-fXEOo5OSmVBc4OqQfK-RCWY9MuSWX7PehJsnr4I/s1600-h/stoppingby-db-450-80.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNI5q5gZOFOzBmXxUb6xI2MpPns0QidRIjQ-ZR44DSOb3X9HHC0Mv9laNmPxRsodx9QnhOyCjoVyGgL9FrdxXf43xQy4MzoxS61In-fXEOo5OSmVBc4OqQfK-RCWY9MuSWX7PehJsnr4I/s400/stoppingby-db-450-80.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160279909014832530" /></a>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-84774239267906475872008-01-27T10:33:00.000-08:002008-12-08T13:48:11.728-08:00The Grocery Cart<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbiM9kpAhqtRnKXqbTdwZYu-7HAHtlZUjWM3W0E6BYo3JFchmZNp7b_MuhjHLjq_Mabf3eASoL4eTeF2bUd2-3r2P0w6_BcprcqdmmyHEEmv9wAomVm-rbw9is5UMOEB8oGWSiySKcd6o/s1600-h/Mark.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160237852695070050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbiM9kpAhqtRnKXqbTdwZYu-7HAHtlZUjWM3W0E6BYo3JFchmZNp7b_MuhjHLjq_Mabf3eASoL4eTeF2bUd2-3r2P0w6_BcprcqdmmyHEEmv9wAomVm-rbw9is5UMOEB8oGWSiySKcd6o/s200/Mark.bmp" border="0" /></a><em>Debra Woolard Bender</em><br />Written loosely in the style of haibun, January 27, 2008<br /><a href="http://onebreathpoetry.blogspot.com/2008/01/week-86-vision.html">Haiku: One Deep Breath</a> theme for Week 86: Vision<br /><br /><a href="http://gawow.com/roethke/poems/231.html"><em><strong>In a dark time, the eye begins to see.</strong></em></a> — Theodore Roethke (1908-1963)<br /><br />My son, having less than three years left toward his second decade in the Air Force, recently volunteered to go to Iraq. His intentions were toward an open teaching position. A leader and instructor, that is what he does. His motivating desire is to give something of value to the Iraqi peoples. To give their military his knowledge-tools for rebuilding that they may become more self-sufficient. To use his teaching skills built through his field of work and experience. But last Tuesday, he was called to a four month stint, a duty not of his choice, and not in his field of expertise. That is the way of the military.<br /><br />He will be leaving Georgia on Friday en route to the base in Iraq where he will serve. Originally, he was ordered to fly out only two days after notification, which didn't leave enough time for preparation. Although both work full-time, money has been too tight for my son and his wife, and this tour of duty will provide extra pay to help them meet expenses. He had been praying for an opportunity to add income in some way. He feels that this is the way of God's answer.<br /><br />Later, in the afternoon of the day he told me the news, he phoned again. In the course of conversation, he told me about a quick trip to the grocery store with his wife and baby daughter to buy milk and bread. Before them, in the checkout line, stood a black woman and a white, retarded boy waiting for the cashier to ring up the total.<br /><br />"Mom, the boy was so happy just to push the cart. Just pushing that cart made him so proud and happy." My son grew quiet, and I could hear him sobbing. It took awhile for him to gather his composure. To be able to speak. His voice came out strained. Completly broken.<br /><br />"She told the boy, 'We don't have enough money for everything. We have to put some things back.'<br /><br />"Do you know what they were buying?...What she had to put back?... Laundry detergent...staples. I wanted so badly to buy it for them. I didn't have the money to... . I had to buy food for my own family... . I couldn't...even... ." Driving home, he told his wife they had to find some way to do something for others who are in such need in their town when he returns from Iraq. Such is the way of my son.<br /><br /><strong>frosty window<br />two abandoned cats watch me<br />prepare breakfast</strong><br /><br /><strong>Note:</strong> Please read the referenced, linked Roethke villanelle poem, <a href="http://gawow.com/roethke/poems/231.html"><em>In A Dark Time</em></a>.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Update:</span></strong> February 1, 2008 - My son's deployment date was bumped up a week. This morning he was notified that this change in dates brought about another change. The Air Force powers-that-be reviewed the position, decided it was not critical at this time and therefore, his orders were cancelled. In many ways, he is disappointed not to go, although his family breathes a collective sigh of relief. Thank you Debbie@piacere, and those who have been praying for Mark and the family. Your prayers have been answered in this unexpected way.Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478688606318961357.post-82351818625409509062008-01-26T17:23:00.000-08:002008-01-29T15:32:55.547-08:00January 26 - a male cardinal sighted"Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten in God's sight" (Luke 12:6).<br /><br /><strong>withered grass, yet<br />here even the cardinal<br />has found a meal</strong><br /><br /><em>DW Bender</em><br />January 26, 2008<br />winter haikuDebihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01888000923314624612noreply@blogger.com0