Hello beautiful gardeners,
My memoir is FREE today and tomorrow on Amazon (downloadable ebook)!
Take a look, tell your friends.
With LOVE and gratitude,
I was so happy to “meet” dian this last week. We’re birds of a feather, interested in literature . . . and eating weeds! Ha!
— S. K.
Ode to the plantain weed
a Brobdingnagian broad leaf
a circular universe
this round leafed plant
low circles of leaves,
close squatting real low
with flower stalks 12-18 inches tall
spike shells like firing silver bullets
bending its stem tight
arrow heads fly
You are your own macrocosmos
an intercontinental ballistic missile
control facility center
with medicinal properties with edible leaves and seeds
appreciated from far back
Anglo-Saxons remedies for scapes, wounds, burns, sores
bites and bee-bug stings.
a wide rosette spread
a common weed with wide, oval leaves
by Roman armies
You, so remembered as the white man’s
perennial foot print
— dian parrotta
Dian is a proud alumnus from the State University of New York’s Stony Brook University which had taken her for the first time away from Brooklyn. She also holds an M.A.T degree from George Mason University and an MFA in Fiction Writing from Lindenwood University. She enjoys writing about the health benefits of eating delicious dandelions, broad-leaf plantain, purslane, garlic mustard, common nettle and the very tasty pigweed. She harvests words into odes that celebrate the common plants, trees, shrubs and roots. She does dream to retire from teaching after 30 years at a local high school within the next year or so to join her two sons, who are both living in Prague and in Madrid, Spain. She says she wouldn’t mind spending her retirement writing garden, flower and plant poems.
Virginia sent me a charming poem this morning via email and I found a photo that seems to fit just right. I hope you enjoy both!
I watched the tall slender grasses
Dancing to the beat of the wind.
They gracefully dip and twist
Ballerinas in green tutus
Swirling silver-tipped curving heads
Nature’s Corp de ballet
A summer performance.
— Virginia Gambardella
Virginia Gambardella lives in New York. She has one son, three grandchildren, and enjoys the following: people, holidays, antiques, nature, gardening, fishing, decorating, fashion, sharing knowledge, cooking, and baking. She’s a cancer survivor, a pancreatitis survivor, a widow, and the re-inventor of her life, “as necessary.”
Oh, those “old wives tales”!
(Translation: female wisdom gained from connecting to Nature and used to help humanity over hundreds of thousands of years.)
Although it’s not Charles Mraz’s birthday today, I wanted to share this post from Sassafras Bee Farm.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!
Charles Mraz, Advocate of Therapeutic Bee Sting Therapy
Obituary as published in the New York Times
Charles Mraz, an inventive beekeeper who since the 1930’s had been the country’s leading evangelist for the therapeutic use of bee stings, a still unproven treatment, died on Monday at his home in Middlebury, Vt. He was 94.
Mr. Mraz was widely known among beekeepers for developing a hardy strain of bees well suited to survive in the chilly Champlain Valley in Vermont and for figuring out how to get cranky bees safely out of the way so honey could be harvested more easily.
But many thousands of people with chronic diseases knew him for his campaign to have bee venom and other bee products accepted as medical therapies in the United States — a quest that began when he deliberately bared his own arthritic knees for bee stings. His proselytizing…
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One of my favorite Luther Burbank quotes.
— S. K.
(And aren’t we still all children, deep inside?)
A couple of months ago I began a spiritual quest, trying to pull out of the negativity I felt to be surrounding me (surrounding so many of us). I wanted to get back to a time when I knew, with every fiber of my being, that magic (which to me means LOVE + WONDER + ANYTHING’S POSSIBLE) was absolutely, 100% REAL.
It hasn’t been easy, but I’m getting there. I now spend about an hour each morning meditating and writing, reading, feeling deep gratitude. And my life is changing for the better, every day!
The quote below came from one of the books I’ve been reading, The Magic by Rhonda Byrne. I know that some are not into some aspects of “The Secret” that focus on materialism (I get it), but most of what Byrne writes about centers on positive thoughts, love, and gratitude. This particular book instructs the reader on how to create “the magic” through gratitude in all areas of life (through daily exercises and keeping a gratitude journal). I liked the book so much I bought extra copies for friends.
Byrne writes: “There is an exquisite feeling many of us had as children, that everything is good, that every day promises more excitement and adventure, and that nothing could ever thwart our joy for the magic of it all. But somehow as we grew into adults, responsibilities, problems, and difficulties took their toll on us, we became disillusioned, and the magic we once believed in as children faded and disappeared. . . . I’m here to tell you that the magic you once believed in is true, and it’s the disillusioned adult perspective of life that is false. . . .”
That resonated with me. A little later, I read this, and connected with it deeply (so I wrote it on a white board).
I choose magic and love and work that is play. I hope you do, too.
I’ve also just finished The Seat of the Soul by Gary Zukav. Highly recommended. As is a course I’m taking via Sounds True: Powerful Beyond Measure, by Marianne Williamson.
How is your aura these days? I hope it’s as bright and beautiful as you are.
A badass poem about the polar vortex, defined as “a low pressure area—a wide expanse of swirling cold air—that is parked in polar regions.” We know it as the force that wreaked havoc here in the U.S. last week.
Tricia Knoll first published Pola Vortex as part of a “poetry marathon” put on by Tupelo Press, an indie press that publishes books of poetry. It was part of a 30-30 challenge—30 poems in 30 days.
The poems will be up through February here.
Thanks, Tricia, for sharing this one with us.
I am the witch’s tit.
You people never get me right. My bitch bra is made of silver, not brass. I make mirrors and hand you froth. I go by many names, but call me Pola. The lusty wind diva. Cringe all you like.
Be warned: Jail break! I am no longer stuck to the cloverleaf of north. I swoop down to kick ass on your sad little towns, clog your straight-arrow roads, shiver your timbers, and kill your weak. ICE? You ain’t seen nothing yet. I lock you homebound.
I rub you raw. Push me with plows? I keep coming. I’m higher than your kites, clouds, skyscrapers and drones. My slip shows – flakey lace. White and quite long-wear-you-down. Hah! I’m a swirling hurl-a-girl layback spin, skating your way every chance I get on ice-sharp blades. Flashing my flowing skirts – silver thaw and midnight blue.
You ignored me. You favored rant-chants about warming. While the sea beneath me went soft. We are going to dance, you and me. Like it or not, I lead. Buckle up your boots. Snowshoes. All-wheel drive and all-weather coats.
You don’t have time to tame me. I’m counter-clockwise. Pola revolutionary.
Fools unlocked the gate. I’m no more stay-at-home dame. Good times Pola Mama. You get what you deserve.