I often refer to myself as a flibbertigibbet, meaning my mind is dancing from one subject to another; I can’t stick to a point. Literally flibbertigibbet means “fly by the gibbet.” Instead of flighty, I prefer to think that I’m whimsical. I can’t foretell when a bout of whimsy will overtake me, but I’m inclined to just go with it, enjoy it, and hope those around me will want to “fly” with me. I’m over worrying about what folks think of me. If I want to whistle, sing, or dance, I give myself permission to do it with verve. If I speak to a stranger and they don’t return the greeting, giving side long glances as if I’m flipped out, so be it. They’re the losers. Life is short and I’m going to live each minute, in that particular minute, joyfully and fully. No yearning for yesteryear, or worrying for the morrow, today is a “present” and I’m opening it.
This course was a beast! But what a fantastic day! Golf is frustrating!
The beast is on us. How will you protect yourself? All trust in the Lord!
What monstrosity Cometh at the break of day fearless armor on
Fierce feral phantom Neath a vestige of decorum Today you're unmasked!
I didn’t write the sonnet assignment, the last one for Blogging University 201 Poetry. I dreamed about it. I had the perfect subject. The words resonated from somewhere into my ear. Believe me, what I spoke into my ear was splendid!
So where is it today? Please give me a few seconds, minutes, hours to contemplate and trowel through my memory center to see if I can at least uncover the perfect subject.
Here I am on Monday and no dream has recurred with the sonnet ready to write. But my muse did rise to the occasion. This is about our feeble attempts to see into the future.
Mystical powers do not divine
Magic tricks give no clue
Read my palm from your imagination
Read the cards as if they predict
Séance to consult with the dead
Who never come and cannot tell
Peer into your crystal ball
Ply the Ouija board.
These are all useless
It is for man to be born
To work, to love God
And to die.
Dear, sweet, mad, talented Amadeus, wrote beautiful music. There is a movie that tells the story of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart as told by his peer, and secret rival Antonio Salieri. If you’d like to see the film: Watch HERE 🎇 http://goo.gl/UtjZna.
The Requiem was composed because of a commission from an intermediary for Count von Walsegg, for dubious intentions. The Count asked Mozart to write a composition so that he could claim it as his own to commemorate the death of his wife. Mozart, a young composer, 35, and a genius, started writing his first setting of the Mass for the Dead. He completed 2/3 of the work when “he died after composing eight bars of the Requiem’s Lacrimosa. The last words he set to music was “that day of tears and mourning”.” In essence he composed his own Requiem.(http://www.theguardian.com/music/tomserviceblog/2011/dec/16/mozart-s-requiem-mysteries)
Colleen invites us to join in on her blogging event called, Writer’s Quote Wednesday. This is our chance to highlight our favorite author’s quotes that give inspiration as writers. She prompts us to look for a quote to inspire and inform us what to do with troubles.
When I tackle this challenge, it never fails, something always pops into my head, and then slowly I think of other quotes. I usually come back to the first one. Today it’s an old World War 1 song, Pack Up Your Troubles. NO, I’m not THAT old. Colleen’s box of woe is akin to the kit bag in the song. Worry is non-productive. Any device we can create to help us to remove them from the worry spot in our brain, the better we shall thrive. I’m sharing two meme’s I found on Google search that I love.
I’m participating in Blogging University 201 Poetry. This one reminds me of day 9 when we composed found poetry about landscape.
“The lyrics for this First World War marching song were written by George Henry Powell under the pseudonym of “George Asaf,” and they were set to music by his brother Felix Powell.”
Blogging University 201 Poetry assignment day 9, Landscapes. I found my poem hidden in the script of a travel website. It’s short and sweet. I lived in Clearwater, Florida for six years. It is all my poem promises.
In a small cedar chest
Is a memory I can wear
Trims of beads and sequins
Some with buttons
There are many colors,
Black, white, coral, navy, orange, red
Varying lengths, opera to short
Stitched in beautiful thread
The tattered photo album
Creates a carousel of her image
From youth to bride to mother
She wears beautiful creations
All her own design
And I don’t fail to notice
Store bought gloves on her hands.
She selects each pair to compliment
The color and the purpose of her frock
The photos turn from black and white
To color as we turn the pages
Look Martha, there are the orange gloves
You wore those in the Miss America Contest
Remember, you sang Do You Want Some of My Tangerine
Made popular by Claudia Williams
Mother bought yards of material of orange polka-dot
To make a dress for you and her
Here’s a pair of white gloves
Trimmed in delicate red and blue buttons
Around the edges of the gloves
Another pair, black as ebony
Trimmed with beads
Forming an elegant design for formal wear
The opera gloves of white
Never worn to the opera
I wore them for formal balls
The fashion of the
Day has changed
No longer do ladies wear gloves
Unless it is winter
To protect against the cold
Rain and snow.</pre>