Happy Holidays!

Hello Friends! 
I hope this message finds you and your loved ones well during the holiday season. It's been a busy time for us as we've started a remodel of our home, succumbed to winter illness, moved a few blocks away (because of the remodel), and slowly settled into our temporary housing. 

Somehow, in the month of November, I decided it would be a good idea to write one poem each day, experimenting with new (to me) styles and topics. Some of these, as you might imagine, were utter disasters. Others are... er... pretty okay? At the request of a few of you, I've decided to try and be brave and post a few of these experiments here, as a gift of thanks for all of your support over this past year, and a lead up to my first ever published poem in Mythic Delirium Magazine. (Arriving soon!)

First, a few short notes I'd like to remember about 2015:

One Saturday, my six year old son woke up and said, "Mama, I'm going to publish your book!" He spent all morning crafting a cardboard/duct tape binding and creating ten or so illustrations for the middle grade sci fi I'll be revising in 2016. This is the sweetest gift I've received to date, and may hold that place for all time. =)

On a separate day, I found this pretty wand on a walk, just as it's pictured here. Later, a woman in a coffee shop noticed it, asked about it, and then asked me if I was Irish. I told her I had some Irish ancestry, and she said, "Well, that must be your bard stick. Look it up!" I did, and I love it. In ancient times, Bards trained hard and long before they had the honor of holding a golden branch to symbolize mastery of the Word and their responsibility to their tribe. It now sits above my desk to remind me who I am and who I hope to be. 

And now... two poems for you.


The Impossible Trees
By Edith Hope Bishop

Oh, meet me beneath
the impossible trees!
We’ll make company with
field mice and rabbits
curling lazily in our skirts
content beneath our watch.
The deer will wander in,
nestling near us.
They won’t mind
if we nuzzle their warm necks,
touch their soft ears.
This is their right, to be loved.

You and I will grin
having believed for too long,
this moment as these trees.
We will not speak, not speak at all.
Turtle will be late, but he will come
nodding his approval.
Finch and sparrow will swing by
and still themselves among the leaves.
Together, then, we’ll rest.
The only sound, breath.

The best story, our hands holding.


Virginia Hills

By Edith Hope Bishop
For Tiffany Trent

What is it makes the hills our own,
Be they green and bright, or brown and bare,
Whether home to horse, or sheep, or bear,
Whether kind or wicked wind has blown,
Whether oak reach high, or souls be sown,
How do these hills command our care
How is it all our life springs there,
Though seasons pass and years have flown?

I never can escape their hold,
Though far I fly and cross the sea,
Climb city steps, and mountains bold,
My mind turns back and longs to be
With hills, where now I will grow old,
These hills not mine, but all of me.

(Photo of me by Tiny Doom) 

Happy Holidays to each and all. See you in 2016!


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