Waxing poetic

I used to play a game called boggle with some folks at a church I used to go to. I would often stay after and eat with them and then we would play boggle. That particular church, met at a house where people lived. It was a beautiful old 3 story estate house, perched above downtown Honolulu with a view of the ocean beyond. We had wonderful meals there. The church employed a couple to be the housekeepers. At the time I am thinking about there was a certain couple whose faces I can picture but whose names I can't remember. They would have been Dutch, for sure - the church was a Dutch church. This couple was into boggle and they got me hooked. The name blogger reminds of that place and playing boggle nearly every time. Just thought I'd mention it.

This morning, I was doing a few loads of laundry. Briefly, I went outside and was taking a stroll down the block, picking up the different colored leaves and generally enjoying the fall display. It struck me that all the different colors make a symphony of color. And when the season hits it's peak, its a crescendo! The maple trees are gorgeous shades of yellow, orange, and red with still some green, the dogwoods a purpled-red and the other trees I can't name, some mostly one color, and others blended dabs of many shades and hues. And I suppose that all the different people in the world are like that also, making a symphony of sorts.

How poetic! Maybe I should put write a poem for the language blog. I do enjoy poetry.

As I seem to be just wanting to post some of my recent musings here, I guess I can go on this way. I mention symphonies and crescendos, but, I don't know that much about music. Growing up, I always chose art over music, not that I didn't like music, I just preferred art. And the schools I attended were always offering me a choice of one or the other. Actually, I did have music, as well as art, in elementary school, which I guess some people might not have had.

I couldn't keep a beat. That's what I mainly think about when I think about the elementary music classes. That and learning the old patriotic songs and such. My youngest brother who got the music talent in the family and took up drumming, said I had an African rhythm. By this he meant, I couldn't keep a beat.

In college, I remember telling a fellow, a sweet, but geeky-music-major sort of guy, that I just didn't get classical music. Somehow over the years I have learned to have some appreciation for it. I still can't identify Mozart or Beethoven, (maybe I could, I'm not sure). But I enjoy listening to classic music sometimes. I really do.

That might have started when I had a boss who was always listening to the public radio station's classic music programs.

Carrots

As I mentioned previously I have been reading a book about writing. The author says to just write without worrying about whether you are spelling right and stopping to think too much. I later said to myself that this bit I wrote sounded like a poem:

CARROTS

Carrots, the way she made them
Which was boiled,
And we were surprised,
Or I was, that just carrots could be so good,
Reminds me of Mrs. B, every time.

Something I could think of
To like about Mrs. B,
Whose tongue cut me deeper
Than the wound I got from cutting carrots.

I still happily eat carrots,
The way she made them, which was boiled,
Reminds me of Mrs. B, every time.

But this time I stop to consider -
She was more than carrots or a sharp tongue.

Carrots, the way she made them,
Which was boiled,
Reminds me of Mrs. B, every time.
I don't like much pepper.

This came from the following stream of consciousness paragraph:

Carrots the way she made them which was boiled and we all were surprised or I was that just carrots could be good reminds me of Mrs. B. She probably seasoned them with butter and salt and pepper. I don't like much pepper.