Tuesday, September 4, 2007

~Untitled 24 by Comrade Kevin~

I have to hand it to her. She has some of the most unimaginative stationary known to God. Then again, she was never known for her good taste. I've received thank you notes with a passable reproduction of Dogs Playing Poker across the front.

Her visits abroad always produced a cross-section of the tacky and the banal.

While some would have purchased art prints or massive coffee table books, she purchased post-it notes in the shape of impressionist paintings. One memorable Christmas, I received a talking tape dispenser.

***Interesting how the autumnal scene can be interpreted. Gender divide?***

3 comments:

Cynthia said...

My Autumn

Autumn.

So many dread this season. They see it as a time of earlier darkness, cooler days, nothing to plan for, days to get through. Children see it as a season of mourning. Back to school, schedules, the push to grow up. Adults look at the leaves falling off the trees and think of death.

I embrace autumn.

It's the time of year when the air is biting and crisp. At night, I leave the windows wide open so when I awaken I feel the chill. I replace the flip flops with socks and sneakers. I go out and crunch those falling leaves with my feet. I love that sound.

As I look up at the undressing trees, and as I wade through the piles of leaves, I'm at peace.

So many see this time as an end. I see it as a time to rest, a shedding, a somewhat dormant rebirth. A prelude to a beginning.

My harvest.

Autumn.

easywriter said...

Today finds summer weeping in the arms of autumn, it is her time to pass but she lets go with such reluctance, sorrow cutting deep. The days to her were long and sweet, redolent with green, filled with blossoms blowing in the breeze and cool, clear water lapping at her feet. Too lovely to release, just one more week, just one more moment, one more day she cries and then I'll go my way.

Autumn wanes, apples fading from her cheeks. Winter cradles her in snow-white arms and hushes her to sleep.

Winter lingers, weary-pale, covers spring while she, beneath that blanket stirs and comes awake. Seeks greening grass and periwinkles for her gown, tender buds to dress her hair. Kisses winter’s cold, damp cheeks farewell then takes the stage, dancing to a Robin's song.

Summer, gracious, greets the spring, folds her sweetly to her breast and rocks her to her rest, spring is worn with dancing, ready now to dream and summer, full of rich, sweet sap yearns for life again.

Comrade Kevin said...

I have to hand it to her. She has some of the most unimaginative stationary known to God. Then again, she was never known for her good taste. I've received thank you notes with a passable reproduction of Dogs Playing Poker across the front.

Her visits abroad always produced a cross-section of the tacky and the banal. While some would have purchased art prints or massive coffee table books, she purchased post-it notes in the shape of impressionist paintings.

One memorable Christmas, I received a talking tape dispenser.