Grandma

Today, the wind and the windows hummed the deepest baseist chord

A guttural tone that mimicked my grandmother’s fret. 

“Lydia took a turn,” she’d say, never saying in what direction. 

“You’ll catch your death,” she’d scold, never explaining how. 

She baked the tiniest of muffins from the tiniest box and tell me not to eat them. 

I’d swat her hand when she’d help me with my dress for church.

“No man will ever have you,” she’d warn, without a trace of doubt. 

“Your independence will be the death,” she’d say, without any clarification. 

A gust, the rain, more leaves on the ground than on the trees. 

I'm Not Above Regifting - Poem

I’m Not Above Regifting

I’m assembling a gift for a poet

Books with other’s words

That remind me of…

That are like a…

To inspire, support and show that hers equal and surpass the other’s published works.

I’m not above regifting

I’m happy to buy used, I mean, aren’t words always reused?

Pulling one from the shelf, the flyleaf held a note in red pen saying the poems by the Buddhist monk were sent in peace and love, with a smiley face.

A card fell out from somewhere in the middle from another long ago love. 
How strange to find it. I don't remember it. 

He looked to me with love, he said. I made a smiley face. I did remember how that felt.

He’d filled the void left by the red penning smiley face drawer.

Only for awhile. I thought.

And yet, those old words reminded me

That books and cards with loving notes are like a coffee in the afternoon before an evening out, or 

Like a crimson dot in Mr. Turner’s sea, or

Like a lesson in using brown, red or sweet onions or a leek.

Used, reused and now regifted.

Mary Longe

November 16, 2016

Painting: The Bookstore at the Clearing

Artist: Mary Longe

11x14" Oil

Ellison Bay, WI

November 1, 2016 

Mary Longe

mary.longe@gmail.com

Available

A Poem - Tipping Point: Art

There is a moment, 

Especially on weekend mornings

When I've watched a video-demo or two, 

Scrolled through posts and pins on  
watercolor, sketching and plein air painting,

When (like having a running start) I
Just gotta get up and do it myself.

I go to the bathroom, pee, brush my teeth, maybe shower and line my eyes,

When, I have another idea.

I make espresso, grab a yogurt, add some walnuts, 

then see out the window a squirrel (yes, cliche’ all the way), hungrier than me. 

So, I take and toss the remaining nut shards

into a concrete valentine water dish beneath his tree. And,

With the last plop,

I notice the tiniest of scenes.

Two crooks in the tree

with a bark that reminds me of the worst of acne,

and snow that looks more like the kind that comes from spray cans

and all in a hint of winter shadow.

I grab my small Moleskine sketchbook

(because this is only to commemorate a very small scene),

my favorite Deluxe Micro Uni-ball pen

And put lines and more lines down.

Though in the time I’ve taken to finish the sketch,

write about the moment I was moved to sketch

but ate breakfast instead,

and saw a squirrel, fed it, and drew where I placed its food,

I never see the squirrel again. Yet,

I still feel pretty good about the morning.

Tipping Point: Art
Mary Longe
1/30/16

Have you gotten way-laid and eventually ended up exactly where you wanted to be?