Dixie’s Song

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Dixie’s Song
She’s such a little brat cat,
Still I love her so.
I gave her the name Dixie
We’re from the south you know.
She’s such a little rascal,
By her eyes you can tell.
So often she gets in trouble,
I laugh rather then to yell.
After I make my bed,
She crawls up under the spread.
After I clean  her litter box out,
She jumps in and scatters it all about.
When I’m eating my dinner,
She sits near and waits for a bite,
If I don’t give her any,
She paws at my food with delight.
kitchen waste basket is always turned over,
House plants often dumped on the floor.
Even saw her once swinging from the bird feeder,
At times I think I can’t take anymore.
Still I don’t know what I’d do without her,
My sweet little funny face.
My home she fills with mischief and joy,
In my heart she has filled every space.

I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –
The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset – when the King
Be witnessed – in the Room –
I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable – and then it was
There interposed a Fly –
With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz –
Between the light – and me –
And then the Windows failed – and then
I could not see to see –
Emily Dickinson | Classic Poems


November’s the month that you get a chance,

To spend time outside a little while longer.

Warm sunny days pop up now and then,

But the wind is cooler and a little bit stronger.


Leaf’s dangling on branches here and their,

Plenty of warning before they are totally bare.

Darkness comes early, light no longer yours,

Better get busy, finish up those outdoor chores.


Repair all the the cracks in the window panes,

Clean out the twigs and leaves in your drains.

Stack up plenty of logs in a nearby covered space

You’ll have nightly warmth coming from your fireplace. 


November gives you the time to put your mind at ease,

The Almanac gives warning, this winter a deep freeze.

Sitting by the fire with your coffee, you have not a care,

You were the smart one, you knew how to well prepare.



November 2014

Image: http://sarahblankstudios.com/blog/2009/11/

Fall, It’s Almost Over

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Well Fall is going away quickly and I’m a little sad about that, so I’m taking some pictures today while it still looks pretty good. I usually leave the pumpkins on my porch till they start to get moldy. It is my favorite time of year and I try to get out at least a couple of times to check out the beautiful Fall colors, and the farms here in Kentucky. I love to see the big rolls of hay and the drying corn stalks in the fields. I didn’t get out this year because it is getting tougher on me to get around because of arthritis and such. I decorate my porch every year with pumpkins and Chrysanthemums. My daughter gets the flowers and pumpkins for me and I must say, she found quite a neat variety of pumpkins this year. Doing this gives me joy and kinda brings the Fall to me. This is my sweet little cat Dixie that loves chasing the swirling leaves in our yard. she’s gonna miss it too.

The Sleeping Beauty

harvest woman paiting - Google Search The Sleeping Beauty


Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purpled coverlet,
The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown,
On either side her tranced form
Forth streaming from a braid of pearl:
The slumbrous light is rich and warm,
And moves not on the rounded curl.


The silk star-broider’d [2] coverlid
Unto her limbs itself doth mould
Languidly ever; and, amid
Her full black ringlets downward roll’d,
Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm,
With bracelets of the diamond bright:
Her constant beauty doth inform
Stillness with love, and day with light.


She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart. [3]
The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps: on either hand [4] upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.

Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson