Glass

                               Fire of Regret by Laura Botsford

(Kitchen Tapes PAu000727463- © 1985)

Verse 1

WOODEN SMOKE, SOLID THICK, A BURNING LOG IT FIRED QUICK

FLAMES SHOOT AND PIERCE THE SKY

SPARKS IGNITE THEN DISAPPEAR IN THE NIGHT

Chorus 1

WATERS GONE…I MUST GET ME SOME, RIVERS WILD AND ON THE RUN

IT MUST KNOW IT’S GOING TO FIND THE SEA…WISH YOU WOULD FIND ME

OH, OH, I SEE. NO, no, no, no, NO NO, IT CAN’T BE

 

Verse 2

I TREATED YOU BADLY WAS CUTTING AND COOL

THERE’S NOTHING SADDER THAN A TO LATE LONESOME FOOL

BROKEN TRUST WON’T RETURN IN TIME

STILL I WISH YOU COULD AGAIN BE MINE

Chorus 2

I KNOW WHAT’S DONE IS DONE IF SAYING I’M SORRY WOULD CHANGE ALL,

I’D PLEAD FROM SUN TO SUN

Verse 3

FORGIVING NOT SO EASY FOR THE ONE WHO’S BEEN WRONG

STILL MY LOVE FORGIVE ME FOR YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE

OH, OH, I SEE NO, NO, NO, IT CAN’T BE

Instrumental

Verse 4

I SPEND TIME UNDER ICY STARS THAT ONLY DRIVE ME ON

MAYBE SOMEDAY I’LL GET ANOTHER CHANCE

BUT FOR NOW I’LL BURN THIS FIRE OF REGRET UNTIL IT’S DONE

Chorus 3

WATERS GONE…I MUST GET ME SOME, RIVERS WILD AND ON THE RUN

IT MUST KNOW IT’S GOING TO FIND THE SEA…WISH YOU WOULD FIND ME

OH, OH, I SEE NO, NO, NO, IT CAN’T BE

Tag

OH, OH, I SEE NO, NO, NO, IT CAN’T BE

IT CAN’T BE, IT CAN’T BE, IT CAN’T BE, IT CAN’T BE, OH

Sympatico Siblings

November 3rd  2012

Children are a wonder and heartache all at once. They daily have emotional wrestling matches with the fundamentals of life’s etiquettes. Sibling rivalry between brothers and sisters with their moments of joy and angst are as irrepressible as storms to spring. By nature both inevitably are destined to clash in thunder and lightning until there are daffodils. The circle of sibling seasons should have a natural flow that will better lay a foundation for all their life. How to find that happy little tire swing that they will remember when they are grown up takes planning, patience, wit and whimsy.

Example: Sister is blissfully playing with her dollhouse and brother puts his Ghost Buster action figure on the roof. “Get that off my house! She yells.

“Egon is saving them from Marshmallow Man.” He replies, hurt and offended that she won’t let him play. “Go away!  It’s my dollhouse I can do whatever I want … MOM!” They both come running and surround me like an invasion of angry bees. I take a breath, pause and then speak, because this little bit of time that I take for myself, slows them down and subtly gives them a tool they can use in their own decision making.

It’s important to recognize a child’s personality at the time because the dynamics of the two of them together will decide the best avenue for encouraging ongoing dialogues. My daughter is independent, a director at heart, organized, passionate and always outspoken. My son is easy going, animated and compassionate. They are both singularly complete opposites in a situation. The daughter is the oldest too so this in itself lends a certain innate responsibility to manage their childhood while as my son just wants to be himself. He wants to play with her and truly feels that he can bring his own fun ideas to the table. She wants to play her way.

The conflict question is: How do I help them both get what they want? Playing together is important in raising well-rounded individuals who will grow up having the skills to creatively exercise effective democratic communication. It starts at birth.  First child is the center of attention until the new kid in town arrives and then it can go one of two ways; my new little buddy or get out of town by sunset. This is an ongoing power struggle best realized early on so as not to be terribly shocked and over react when sister is pushing brother’s infant swing like an entry in Xtreme sports, or when brother chases his sister around the table threatening to clobber her with his plastic pirate sword. “Aarrrgh,” I say. “Come my little mateys to the sand pits we go.” A quick change up of tone with a little English accent can greatly improve a heated situation. Diversion works well. Alternative activities that you know will easily get them into their own play worlds is a masterful tool. Once outside brother prefers the sand box and sister would rather swing. A child will behave as well as they are treated. If the diversion tactic isn’t working here are three simple guidelines.

  1. Always  speak to a child’s sense of higher reason, calmly stating the compromise      so they can feel that it is born out of civility and fair play. Be clear. For example I suggested to them both. “How about if he puts his ghost      buster house on the floor and becomes your neighbor next door? You can both play at the same time side by side.”
  2. Encourage  proper conversation by repeating what they are saying to you in a  controlled tone of voice even when everything they are saying is loud and  whining of objections. “You mean put his stinky station next here? I don’t want it touching my doll house.” I cheerfully said,  “Yes, he could put his ghost buster station next to yours but have enough yard space between the two of you to play in. You know like neighbors have their own yards to put their  boats and cars on.” Drawing outside similar scenarios from the grown up  world sets an example they can relate and aspire to. Every kid wants to be  a big boy or girl.
  3. The  louder you talk, the louder you will have to be the next time. Decide your level of volume and intensity early on and say it like a part in a play.  This way your own emotional involvement will be less taxing on you in your  children’s ongoing autonomy dramas.
  1. The key to fighting over toys is to put the toy up somewhere high, I liked the refrigerator. Tell them that they have to talk about how they want to play with “the thing” between themselves first. Emphasizing the thing, ie. the toy car, ball, or book as not belonging to anyone in particular. Portraying objects as belonging to no one reduces favoritism and puts it in perspective. The moment transforms from a who do you love more moment into a negotiating practice between the two of them.  It becomes a ‘what to do’ dialogue rather than a “Mom loves you more.” If they are at a loss, flip a coin to decide who goes first. They find this game of chance fun. Help them decide how long each will play with it. Set a timer.
  1. Another consideration can be that there is more to this than just the fight over a toy. It can be there is something else going on. Maybe one isn’t feeling well, is hungry, over stimulated or tired. Try to pick up on this and let the child know. “Honey, you are tired. Go get a book and we will read for awhile.” “Sweetheart, let’s go make a snack.” “Come sit on my lap for awhile until you feel a little better, I think you might need a little rest.” Sometimes one or the other might  truly need a little more attention because they are feeling left behind and invisible and it’s important to make them feel loved. Try as much as possible to have a family team attitude. “Why does he get to sit on your lap and I don’t?” One child might hurtfully object so tell them. “Because right now he is feeling bad and when he feels a little better I will hold you next. Besides you have important decorating you want to finish in your doll house.” A return to the original playtime idea reminds them of their initial goal that are happy to embrace again.

The human experience should be a place where all things in life are universally felt, recognized and respected. These challenges should offer rational choices. The practice of reason in the home should always establish fairness and not favoritism and opens the door to yours and your children’s own well being. Life doesn’t have to be a tug-of-war and a parent should emulate this resolve as much as possible. Tired of the fighting? Can’t take it anymore? Tell them. “I have heard enough of this bickering. If you can’t play nicely together, then go play by yourselves until you are ready to compromise and work it out together.”

Negotiating skills can be taught at a very early age and pretty soon they become second nature. My daughter and son to this day understand pretty well how the other is going to respond. In fact, they depend on this history of communication.

They now own and manage together the Brick Room Event Center and Kings Conway in Arkansas with their partner, Marcus Bobbit.

Recently I was in their office, observing the day to day duties. I sat there proudly as they negotiated with a client on the phone, outlined the priorities’ of the day with clarity and fairness to the well being of each other and the company.

Their childhood popped up in my mind with a string of turn key moments, sometimes fraught with tears and anger, but mostly elevated with the sheer love of having each other in their lives.

I drove home; south along the 130 mile stretch between us now reflecting back on these parenting days and once again was reminded of the guiding words of Gibran on children.

“Your Children are not your children

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you

And though they are with you yet they do not belong to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts,

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You might strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward not tarries with yesterday.

O sacred plums

The day of my departure from the old has come and now I must be with my dreams to pluck the plum

O certain joy with all its challenge to keep, rocks my heart into peaceful sleep

abandoned in the whisper of October’s falling leaves

the scent of fresh and crisp winds to tussle my hair until

the sweet taste of harvest I will seat and savor there  my breakfast fair

Last Desert Rose

   The world moved in a blank sheet of mist over the torn sands and forgotten lands. No one remembered the days of open sky and campfires burning with adventure underneath a desert moon. Except for this one man who had left the cold and sterile domes to find his desert rose.

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           Chapter 1 – Old Souls

   The world is designated into isolation domes somewhere in the year 3009. Rugged people were increasingly restless in the homogenized civilizations grouped like castrated stallions in domes of crystal and steel. The once adventurous individualists were out of step with the modern world. Only a handful of secret souls, wild and free remained.

   Evolution had rounded up the Johnny Cash’s, Belle Starr’s, Sam Houston’s and Mabel Strickland’s. Some say they left the planet for new universe frontiers. For the most part, that was true. But a few decided to stick around earth or come back to rekindle the campfire chats and bust open the deserts and forest once more.

   The old museum had been salvaged after the meteor, books and what hadn’t burned, was taken out west of the city and now lay buried in an underground cavern at the far end of the west gate of the dome. There wasn’t much left and little interest over the years in what was. People gathered in pod domes and became self-sufficient. They designed their own atmospheres and shielded themselves from the elements around and above them from then on. Stars were  vaguely viewed through glass and exterior landscapes were considered no mans land. The sun was filtered into a dim glaze and there weren’t any gardens as people only ate synthetic foods made in food labs. Water was scarce and rationed though there were many streams and rivers left in the unventured wilderness.

  Last Desert Rose

 Laura Botsford © all rights reserved (Kitchen Tapes PAu000727463 1985)

Talk intro (Imagine with me a time, centuries from now when all of people live in huge domes, cold and sterile. Outside in the wilderness once was is a barren desert.  The mountains still stand but no one ever visits them anymore. Except for this one man, cos you see one day when he was in the old part of the town he came across this old book when the west was wild open and free and cowboys sang underneath a desert moon. So he went out in search of this great wonderland in search of his own desert rose.

Verse 1 (Male)

Am I just one man alone and left behind? Where is the sight of my own common mind?

Am I a lost hero or something like that? I don’t really know I just got to get back

Somewhere there’s a desert with a single cactus rose

It alone knows why I suppose, Oh maybe it’s calling me, maybe she’s hurting too

Maybe she’ll be waiting after this day is through.

Chorus ( male sings)

Take me down to the river; take me down to the stream,

Lead me on out of this lonesome dream

My heart is field of woe and pain

Dusty sand storms and hot falling rain

Verse 2    (female) talk lead intro to song verse

Well coming from another direction there was a woman looking for the very same thing. She headed out on her horse to the desert.

Verse 2- (female sings)

Why does one give up comfort, why does one give up a home? Why does one get the feeling they just have to roam? Bridle in hand, the moon in my face, cold biscuits wrapped up in pieces of lace.

 Talk in short instrumental towards the end (Now as they went traveling down the road somewhere their souls came together and their hearts found each other beneath a desert full moon.)

Verse 3 (Male and female sing together)

I’ve got no business back in steel town. I’ve got no business traveling no man’s ground

But there’s a light in the stars that I‘ve never seen

Like something I should remember, like something I dreamed.

Final Chorus (Male and female sing together)

Take me down to the river; take me down to the stream,

Lead me on out of this lonesome dream

My heart is field of wilds and pain

Dusty sand storms and hot falling rain

(Tag) Dusty sand storms and hot, falling, rain.

News Type

  Bookman Old Style

   In our request for changes to benefit our lives, one thing is worthy of meditation and that is, to be of kind heart worthy of poetry and steadfast in pursuit of joy as being our novel aspiration.

   “I love the relative emptiness of the days between Christmas and New Year’s. In the space of so much not happening, so much seems to be getting ready to. You can almost feel all the forces coalescing for a new beginning. The perception that it produces.
The miracle is always there.” – Marianne Williamson
   It is important to remember that miracles and vision necessarily go together. This needs repeating, and frequent repeating. It is a central idea in your new thought system, and the words that are found to describe are tapped out in sound and light. The treasure of an old typewriter is in the ink and touch of the keys on blank paper. The pressure of the strike, the shape of each hammer alphabetical key,  are all so relative to the model, settings and the age of the machine.  My father’s old Corona sits on a shelf in an aura of history that still lends a perfected cadence when tapped. His was choppy, broken in nuance and memorable in its tap. I can hear it still. The wise beating of the eloquent resilience of his life.

Christmas Time is Here – Love and Dreams to Share

Tis the season to be creative! Enjoy the best present of all; just Being Present.

   Human nature seems to crowd the avenue with random thoughts of  wanting to be somewhere other than where we  are now. Is it because we are sad because we didn’t do one of something and not enough of the other? Are we always in a state of achievement or expectation of achieving? Or are we content to just soak up the ambience of the moment? I ask myself this a lot. I gather my busy-ness around me like a mantle in the hope that it will keep heartaches away, worries at bay and insulate me from the despondency of others. I am troubled by universal consciousness. My empathic bones creak with cold at the dispassionate rise of insensitivity. It floods my senses and distracts me from joy. Worst of all I don’t always know what to do about it.

   How about you? Is your Christmas Time just a rush of wondering whether someone will like their presents rather than just be in the presence of each other? Will relatives be mad because you didn’t spend enough on them or fight over what so and so did a million years ago? Are we drinking too much guilt injustice punch? I long for the Kid feel of Christmas again. The elevation of the magic of make and believe. I long to hear stories of best christmas ever or what makes your holidays wonderful and meaningful to  you. So please just add a comment, a note, a cheerful tiding or word to poetstreets blog of something other and more of being present. 

Into the Mist

Lake Wilson in Portland Arkansas

Lake Wilson in Portland Arkansas

From a developing book; Northern Bell – Laura Botsford

Foot Steps

   The day started off simply. In one run together breath I clamored out loud, “I am here what do I do today?” I got up, made my bed, drank my coffee, ate my loving from the oven and went for a walk around a very short block remarking that the trees were all tremendously tall on 3rd Street. Martha Pugh told me that these Oaks were planted for each one of the native sons of the civil war. The civil war! I was breathless. There is a history here that defies present day with lingering pockets of a rich cultural past.

    At one time the town was built on Bayou Bartholomew. *1 “Down the bayou from Siemons was a small settlement referred to by steamboat captains and hands referred to as “the port”37 When a post office was established in 1857, the name became Portland. One had to reach it by ferry or ride the steamboat that navigated up and down it bringing supplies to the little towns that dotted its winding lifeline for 2oo miles. *2 Pearl Etheridge Young wrote of crossing the bayou by ferry with her father in the early 1900’s.
  “The road was now a dark tunnel, grass-grown and arched by the over lapping boughs of the trees…It was early noon when we came to Bayou Bartholomew. A change in the quality of the landscape had become apparent some miles back. The feathery cypress trees sank their stark, flaring trunks into black, stagnant pools…one feature of the landscape set the tone of the whole-a profusion of Spanish moss hanging in cloudy filigree from the boughs above us. (The bayou) had no bridge at this point and it was a watercourse of parts, not to be trifled with. We could not ford it. We drew up looking for signs of life…At last, peering through the trees, we saw a rope stretched between the opposing banks of the bayou and there at our feet, moored against the slippery descent, lay a floating wooden platform…my fathers hello brought no answer. “Everybody down in the bottom field picking cotton,” he said and gave a mighty yodel. The response was long, musical and reverberating… stillness reigned again until the ferryman came, an old Negro with a grizzled head and wiry frame. The mare was coaxed onto the platform and the old man propelled us across by long rhythmic pulls on the rope. It seemed the right way to cross Bayou Bartholomew, the master bayou…in the swamp beyond the stillness deepened and the loneliness was unbroken.”
    *3 “The site of the town may be found by turning north onto a farm road just east of the bayou bridge on Highway 278 east of Portland. The site is three-fourths of the mile from the highway. A visit to the location may evoke a nostalgic illusion from the past. Sit on the bank of the quiet bayou on a moon lit night. Listen to the steamboat coming. Experience what William Alexander-Percy wrote in Lanterns on the Levee.“There still is no sound in the world so filled with mystery and longing at night of a river blowing for a landing one long, two shorts; one long, two shorts; the sound of a river boat changes inside your heart like a star.”

   Leo and I trolled in a little fishing boat down that part of the bayou. He loves the bayou. He tells me that he use to ride his horse along here as a kid with his life long friend since the age of five, Dave Hackett. They would set up a camp, run trot lines and live out their own Davey Crockett dreams. Once they forgot to bring food, and didn’t catch any fish, so they shot a black bird for supper. It was the “toughest meat they ever ate,” he said.
   I am searching for this mystical portal into the past. It was all that people had written and said about it, haunting, ancient, and removed from contemporary times. The trees and the waters clung to its centuries as to not ever forget the people who once traveled and lived here. Native Americans still echoed down this murky avenue. It was their souls that I felt the most. It was then that I saw a panther, her ebony eyes, stopped and stared into my soul and then slipped invisibly through the Cypress shadows. She hauntingly impressed me with her captivating presence. To this day I never saw her again, but always sense her somewhere near in my spirit. I took her to be a sign from the Grandfathers. I respect the Native Americans that lived here so abundantly at one time. The age of the Indian, the story of the spirit that permeates in the trees and runs in the waters here like life’s blood is always nearby. This bountiful land is pregnant with possibility, but somewhere along the way the sadness of their departure lingers and longs to be remembered with honor. “I hear you Grandfathers,” I say to myself and burn some sage in their memory.
    After a fire, which was suspected arson, the town of Portland was moved inland. It looks like a run down movie set with a block of buildings facing the still running railroad tracks. The town use to have a lot more going on then it does now. Back in the 1990’s, everyone came downtown on a Saturday night. I can almost still see the old model T’s gathered in a stylish black line, the men all wearing top hats and women politely sipping tiny cokes in long dresses while children run behind in the alley. I am told there was an old hotel, a Chinese laundry, taxidermy, a Portland Drug Store, run by CC Stevens where one could get a soda and prescription. Miss Pearl had a dry goods and ice cream parlor where Gays Grab bag now stands.
   I feel honored to be living here. It is not often one is lucky enough to reside in a town that was born out of the Louisiana Purchase. I wonder what the ancestors would say about a Yankee girl walking around in their footsteps.

*1, page 16, * 2 pg 17, *3 page 21-22, Excerpts from Beyond Bartholomew-ISBN 0-9444609-22-8 by Rebecca De Armond-Huskey and friends of Portland

Awaken Oh Hearts

Laura Botsford

I walked along a wicker road to somewhere clean. Sometimes
when I think it’s time to go, a little bird comes along and whispers from a
tree that is indeed a good time to be free but the story of flight
must be told,

How the fragile grass can survive the step, is a miracle.

As morning brings a feather of dew softly upon its velvet green mat
and the rain comes to renew it from the crush.

Once again its spring is back, upright green and lush.

How startled is the discovered ground to find it’s just a
little taller the next day after under going so much.

Never the less, my front porch is fillled with geraniums and my back door is steeped in the scent
of honeysuckle.I musn’t despair, for love takes care to circle back again unknuckled

And though the years have craved the younger bloom

I am not certain that I would want the tomb.

Lovely summer and knowing Autum befalls me still

For each season is my reason to stay alive.

I have given the roads many a travel

Where that my heart unraveled the soul of a woman whose name
is neither a mans nor womans, but who is my one light

My one song

My universe

Up the staircase of my garden leads me to its fair retreat.

Where friends in their silent beauty I am sure to greet.