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In the meantime, while you're here, pull up a chair, pour yourself a cup of coffee or a cuppa tea, have a piece of pie and always feel free to speak your mind, and your heart, here at Meanderings and Muses.

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Annabelle has a family reunion



But first, Annabelle has to settle herself in at the hotel.




Annabelle thinks she's found another puppy!











Annabelle Family Reunion at Carlin's Kennels.

We got to see her daddy, Sunny,  Her mommy, Charlotte.  And her sister, Gracie.

And trying to get pictures of all 4 of them together at the same time was crazy fun!





















































































Sunday, June 25, 2017

Oh, Annabelle



Annabelle peed on the floor this morning.

I was not happy.

I scolded her and opened the back door for her to go out.

Now, don't get me wrong.

Annabelle loves being outside, so normally she does not think of this as punishment.

But.

This morning, I guess she figured out I was not a happy mama.

She wouldn't even leave the deck.

Just stared at me through the screen with this sad, pitiful face.

jeeeeeez . . . 





How do you resist a face like this?




Well, I can't.

I just can't.






Thursday, June 22, 2017

From Imaginary Museum Poems on Art

Matisse Replies to Snodgrass: A Poem About a Poem About a Painting

His mind turned in in concentrated fury,
Till he sank . . . 
His own room drank him.
 - - W. D. Snodgrass, "Matisse: "The Red Studio"

Looking into my red studio,
were you surprised to find no one there?

Calm yourself, my friend, I was only out
of sight, preparing the space for visitors.

Since I am not a part of what I see,
I leave myself unframed.  Do you undersstand?

This room is decorated for pleasure,
colored warm to comfort your needled heart.

My art is an embrace, not a devour.
Come inside.  A painted chair awaits you.

I will be there.  Together we will share
a refreshing drink of my bright scarlet air.

by Joseph Stanton



Sunday, June 18, 2017

The Death of the Hat



Once every man wore a hat.
In the ashen newsreels,
the avenues of cities
are broad rivers flowing with hats.
The ballparks swelled
with thousands of strawhats,
brims and bands,
rows of men smoking
and cheering in shirtsleeves.
Hats were the law.
They went without saying.
You noticed a man without a hat in a crowd.
You bought them from Adams or Dobbs
who branded your initials in gold
on the inside band.
Trolleys crisscrossed the city.
Steamships sailed in and out of the harbor.
Men with hats gathered on the docks.
There was a person to block your hat
and a hatcheck girl to mind it
while you had a drink
or ate a steak with peas and a baked potato.
In your office stood a hat rack.
The day the war was declared
everyone in the street was wearing a hat
and they were wearing hats
when a ship loaded with men sank in the icy sea.
My father wore one to work every day
and returned home
carrying the evening paper,
the winter chill radiating from his overcoat.
But today we go bareheaded
into the winter streets,
stand hatless on frozen platforms.
Today the mailboxes on the roadside
and the spruce trees behind the house
wear cold white hats of snow.
Mice scurry from the stone walls at night
in their thin fur hats
to eat the birdseed that has spilled.
And now my father, after a life of work,
wears a hat of earth,
and on top of that,
A lighter one of cloud and sky--a hat of wind.

 - - Billy Collins