March

In New England, March brings the hope of spring. The sun is with us longer, snow melts. And we can have lots of snow fall. In my yard right now there is 8 inches of snow, lots of ice, and tracks of hungry deer, fox, and raccoon, all foraging for the smallest bits of nourishment. Neighbors are tapping their trees for maple syrup.

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March

March Madness

Sometimes early spring splatters violets

other times there’s a resurrection of winter

or impassable mud-thick roads

birds beg and search for any

useful thing for nest building

buckets hang from maple trees

when sap runs fast

churches flip pancakes

for mud season breakfasts

deer reach into the front garden

graze on dried grass and weeds

dark clouds heap high

another nor’easter

dumping a foot of snow

breaking tree limbs

downing electric lines

closing back roads

we sit to watch the shimmering

aftermath when soft wind pushes

snow from pine boughs into the sun 

A Thank You

Thanks to Wilda Morris. My poem, written about the Warwick Cemetery, won 3rd place http://wildamorris.blogspot.com/

Clonmacnoise Ireland

Memory

First Communion Class

We argued because I didn’t want 

to wear a hat. I had a new yellow 

rain slicker with a hood, like the 

ones the American kids wore.

Mama collected her umbrella,

pushed the hat onto my head, 

but I took it off and hid it, pulled up

the hood when I walked out behind her.

We walked down Vernal Street

in the rain, took a turn at Sak’s 

Drug Store, and walked three blocks 

uphill to Saint Teresa’s Church.

Mama was only allowed in the chapel,

not being Catholic. She stayed until I took 

off the rain slicker. The nun frowned. Mama

frowned and placed a handkerchief on my head,

then she left. I don’t know where she waited.

Holy Holy Holy, Lord God of Hosts. 

Maybe she stayed in the drugstore 

across the street, or in the library. 

When Mama returned she waited outside 

the chapel, like she knew she was the kind

of mother who allowed her child to come 

to church without a hat, and all that that meant.

A New Podcast

Thanks to Mark L’estrange of Dublin for interviewing me for his podcast that’s just gone live tonight. We had a chat and I read some work. My chapbooks are available on amazon.com.

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Thanks to several places for sharing my writing

A Clarke Window at Bewley’s Cafe

I’d like to thank New England Memories  Magazine, Prospect literary, and Barbara Foster of Fitchburg Accesss Television for the recent opportunities to share my writing.   

New England Memories Magazine:https://newenglandmemories.com

Online Prospecus Literary: http://prospectusliterary.com/blog2020.php

Fitchburn Access TV: https://videoplayer.telvue.com/player/yycCAZPb0NN3zj2o5qio-YFMNC43NjCG/media/620976

Best, Elaine

Something Cheerful

I’m dedicating this blog post to Anya, who grew up a mile up this forested dirt road. Anya just had a gorgeous baby, and she now lives in New York. Blessings to Anya, her sweetheart, and the new life they’ve created. Maria is my niece, who lives in Brooklyn NY.

Maria Elena In Brooklyn

You could tell me about the baby carriages wheeled

to cafes, bookshops, and parks,

subway rides to anywhere,

expresso, wine, teas, anything you want

because it’s all outside your door.

I could tell you how sharply the mint bites the tongue,

how sweetly the violet mingles with rose petals,

and how bitter the bite of dandelion greens.

I could tell you to watch the thorns

when you reach for the raspberries.

You could tell me how traffic hums

past your building, never stopping.

Music blares from the small restaurant,

outside tables slip around the corner of the street.

We listen for the sound of the barred owls in the late afternoon

and watch the grass shiver when a mouse slips through.

Maria, hold the sweet fern to your nose

just outside my door .

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

From the Aran Islands

I wrote this small story with my Dublin Writer’s group last Saturday, from the prompt below, of the noddy boat, a fishing boat used in the Aran Islands. I hope you enjoy it. The true parts of the story is that you’ll find that Irish fishermen are quite handsome, and Irish baking is delicious.

A noddy boat could skip between the islands and pull in close at harbor dock. The highlight of the week was when the fishing boat came into the harbors of the Inishmore. They’d be handsome bachelors on it, so the single women went down to the harbor with hot tea,  something to add a bit of strength to it, and still-warm bread with sultanas added for sweetness. More than one woman had found a husband this way.  The truth of it is, the practice began to elevate the quality of the baking on the islands, as the single women competed, each wanting to be known as the best baker. In due course, this stepped up the commerce on the island, as the supply boat needed to bring in more flour and butter, especially when the Walsh triplets all  went to work the Noddy fishing boats, just seven months after the Connells got into it. Here was a whole fleet of handsome bachelors that spawned fine Bakers of The Western Islands.

That’s right. After a couple marriages took place, the single women gathered. They realized they had good talent, if they cooperated.The boats now were bringing in more supplies on a weekly basis, and the families were all doing a bit better. Why not send their baking off to the mainland, and make some money from it?  

Arrangements were made. A truck would meet the boat in Doolin, and take all the baked goods up to the farmer’s market in Galway. One or two women would travel along to set up and sell. They had a fine sign made, proclaiming  Baking from The Western Islands.

Sometimes they sold small fish pies, other times hand rolls filled with lamb. Their bread and scones became well known, and the business a grand success. Maureen made small scones that were light enough to be mistaken for the host at Sunday mass. She had her own following.

There was always a line here; Women stopped doing their own baking  at the end of the week, their husbands would buy the lamb roll or small fish pies instead of nipping home for a meal. Before you knew it, their baked goods were being sought after mid-week, too. The women baked more. They finally set up a kitchen in an abandoned cottage, and worked their together, right at the harbor mouth.  Soon baked goods were placed in cafes in  Galway. In time they made their way to Limerick shops. Today you can still find scones made the Bakers of the Western Islands in proper Dublin tearooms. The women who began this, the boats, and the handsome bachelors are gone. Still, there’s the idea of it, the butter and flour giving rise to marriages and children, giving rise to life continuing on.

Valentine’s Day

If You were Expecting Valentines

If you were expecting Valentines, it’s

too late. I sent them flying off in the

wind last night. Some still lay damp 

on the icy ground this morning.

Hearts glistened in the sun. Roosters 

picked them up one by one and gave them

to their sweethearts, showing chickens are

indeed more than just a set of drumsticks,

with extra for a soup pot or sandwiches.

I’m making a big pot of chicken soup It’s

simmering, now and your’e invited. More snow

falls this morning, hearts are flown or found.

BRIGIT, IMBOLC, AND MORE

The prospect of fishbones stuck in my throat, robbing me of the ability to breathe,
 with the offending bone growing larger by the second. When I was a young child this vision sent me to church on St. Blaise’s’ Day with great urgency. It sent me into the confession box so that I’d have communion as extra protection, along with Saint Blaise, to protect me from death caused by fishbones stuck in my throat.

In early memories, dad carried me to church when I was two or three years old. He explained about Saint Blaise. I remember the candles crossed at my neck as I knelt and breathed in a sigh of relief, sure to be safe for another year.

Now, the truth is, I sat down to write a piece about Brigit, both Goddess and Saint. Brigit has more fine stories and followers than you could shake a stick at and far more than St. Blaise, who turns out to be Armenian bishop who was martyred, and lived roughly a few hundred years before Saint Brigit was in Ireland as a saint. Personally, I find this interesting, as I’m half Irish and half Armenian, and here haven’t I split the celebrating and thanking between them, always. One bringing hope and protection, the other to guard my Irish throat against the many hidden fish bones lurking in our suppers. This is a link that will take you to information on St. Blaise: https://aleteia.org/2016/02/03/the-real-story-behind-the-churchs-tradition-of-blessing-throats/

For Imbolc, I enjoy having some seed packets ready for planting.  I’ll give the wood stove a good cleaning, and set a fine fire. I’ll imagine the first stirring of life in the seeds, although it’s too early for planting here.  I sit comfort of the fire, feed it birch so it burns brightly, and make a bit of music to honor the woman who crossed over party lines to work both as Goddess and Saint so powerfully. I’ll also remember to light a candle for my cousin Kathleen who recently passed, and who loved  this day. This is a link  to a bit more information:http://www.angelfire.com/journal/ofapoet/brigid.html

Welcome to my home, hearth, and blog, Brigit. And give my best to St. Blaise as well.

Snow Storm

 Winter Storm

Tracks come out of the woods along the stream

left by commuters in a pristine new world

stores of pinecones and acorns covered

wind loosens trees from their burden

snow dances through the air

forming and reforming images

before laying in the field

icicles hang sideways from the roof

windblown like crooked teeth

while silent birds hunker in trees

whose branches creak with new meaning

Moss Brook runs black next to white

my tracks join fox, squirrel, and deer

as we search for something new

in the hushed aftermath of snow

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