The S Word….written by TaffyOKelly

Out the window I take a fleeting glance
And by chance I happen to see
Beautiful fluffy flakes of white
Staring back at me
Like artful billowy pillows
Floating all around
Or sparkly little fairies
Dancing to the ground
And as I watch in amazement and awe
Of such a glistening sight
I can’t help but wonder
What in the hell is this shit?
snow what 2015 014

The Beautiful Tinkerbell

My fight, my battle, was never with you or against you, it was always for you.


To keep you safe, to keep you on the right track, to keep you from making bad choices

And to protect you from the possible bad influences of others.


For you, the one who I thought was most like me.


You had the ambition, the drive, the brains.


Perhaps I did too much, perhaps not enough.


But it was my duty as a mother, and with a mother’s love that no child can understand.

A love that is forever, although sometimes harsh, often misunderstood

Yet always there and always unconditional.


And I feel I may have lost a fight, but I have not lost the battle.


Because you are flesh of my flesh, and there is a bit of me in you still.

And you are forever in my heart.


The one who I thought was most like me.


The Beautiful Tinkerbell.

Mary E

There is an old cemetery that I like to visit with my camera.  Amongst all the many markers there, one stands all alone.  It is the gravestone of Mary E.   There is no date on the stone, but it appears to be quite old.  How old, exactly I cannot say, but the cemetery became part of the city here in 1872.  (Prior to that it was a private cemetery.)  It is adorned with what appears to be a rose near the top.  The stone of Mary E has been broken in half, perhaps from age, perhaps due to vandals.

I wonder who was Mary E?  Was she a farmer’s wife, a mother, a teacher or nurse, or perhaps an independent self sufficient woman?  Was she even old enough to have reached womanhood yet, or had she lived a good many many long years?

I picture a lovely woman with long flowing blonde hair, wearing a long puffy sleeved ivory blouse with a long grey skirt and ankle high boots that button up the side.  She sits at an antique  Singer pedal style sewing machine by the light of an oil lamp.  I feel as though she lived in an entirely different era, centuries ago.

How long has her stone been there,  standing alone, set apart from all the others?  She must have been as lovely as the flower engraved at the top and I hope that at some point, someone must have loved her dearly.

I don’t know who Mary E was, but she is an old soul and I am compelled to visit her whenever I go there.  miscellaneous kelly 6 044a

photo is my own work.