Beautiful Mother’s Day Tulips…

08 Friday May 2026

Posted by Satin & Sand in Reflections, Relationships, Poetry, Mother, Love, Flowers, beautiful, Mother-Child

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Poetry, Flowers, Mother's Day, memory, still-life, Tulips, Delftware

_{© Joan Currie – Pale pink tulips in my mother’s Delft vase.}

Mother’s Tulips by Joan Currie

My mother loved flowers–
tulips most of all.

I never asked why.
It was in her Dutch blood,
her Calvinistic sense of simplicity–
upright, unadorned.

On Mother’s Day
there were always tulips:
pale pink,
set in her Delft vase,
its blue-and-white surfaces
catching the light,
holding it quietly
beneath the stems.

I tried, sometimes,
to improve upon them–
those lavish arrangements–
variegated tulips,
blue hydrangea, white roses,
small bright globes of yellow–
but she would only smile,
as if to say:
not this.

She wanted the tulips alone.

Now, after many years
and other flowers–
peonies, lilies, anemones,
even the careful making
of paper petals–

I pass a market stall
and stop.

I bring home tulips,
pale pink,
and set them in her vase.

In the quiet of the room
they open,
and she is there.

For my mother.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers!

Beautiful First Sip…

23 Thursday Apr 2026

Posted by Satin & Sand in Poetry, Relationships

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Coffee, early morning, Espresso, First sip, Morning ritual, Mother-daughter, Original poetry, Quiet moments, Rain

First Sip by Joan Currie

The train whistle wakes me
at six–
a long, low calling
through the dark.

You are already up,
waiting by the door.

I pull on my coat,
and we step out
into the rain.

It doesn’t feel cold,
not at this hour.

We drive up the hill in silence at first,
then begin–
our small exchange of dreams,
what lingered from sleep,
and what might be.

The barista knows us.
She turns to the machine
before we speak,
tells us softly
of her cabin on the Oregon coast,
the rain there, too.

Back in the car,
the windows misting,
we mean to wait–

but we don’t.

The cups are warm in our hands.
We sip together.

For a moment,
nothing presses in.

Only this–
the bitter, the sweet,
and you beside me.

And already
it is passing.

Beautiful Puzzling 2…

14 Tuesday Apr 2026

Posted by Satin & Sand in Lauren DiMarco, Photography, Poetry, Reflections

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Bloomsbury style, Doubt and Failth, Imperfection, Jigsaw puzzle, Lauren DiMarco, Missing pieces, Original poetry, Photography, Poetry, Puzzle, Rifle Paper Co., Small revelations

_{© Lauren DiMarco – My daughter, Lauren, arranging the puzzle pieces.}

Puzzling 2 by Joan Currie

I brought home
a thousand-piece puzzle
from the library sale.

I sorted the pieces
by color, by edge,
and began.

A sail,
a spaniel,
a clock tower,
a child.

Then I saw
what was missing:

The sail’s belly,
the spaniel’s tail,
the clock,
the child’s upturned face.

I turned each piece
in my hand,
looking.

I felt a small anger–
that it had been given away
like this.

Still, I went on,
knowing
it would not be whole.

Each piece placed
meant fewer left.

And then–
they were there.

Not missing.
Only overlooked.

I sat with that
a long while–
how quickly
I had doubted.

How beautiful to discover the missing pieces!

_{Camont Puzzle by Rifle Paper Co. I just finished this one – high quality 500 pieces.}

Please check out my Puzzling Post (1).

Beautiful Touch Typing…

08 Wednesday Apr 2026

Posted by Satin & Sand in Aging, beautiful, Poetry, Relationships

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Aging, Body, Halda typewriter, Love, memory, observation, Original poetry, Poetry, touch, touch typing, typewriter

_{© James Currie – Swedish typewriter. The designer’s father was the Royal Surgeon.}

It seemed a small thing then, learning by touch. – Joan Currie

Touch Typing by Joan Currie

I first learned to type
on a machine with blank key caps,
working through a manual
until I knew exactly
where every letter and number lay.
That early fluency
has served me well.

Your body, too, I first
touched–memorized
blindly, in the dark.
Exploring each contour,
as if it were a map
I could follow by feel alone.

From your thick, curling hair
down the slope of your forehead,
to each familiar landmark–
the aquiline nose, the square jaw,
the wide sternum, the strong arms,
the soft pads of your fingers,
the smooth plain of your belly,
the steely band along your outer thigh,
the steady weight of your feet.

Over the years
you have shown me
how your body has changed,
but I still see it
as I first learned it–
certain, enduring,
and, to me,
handsome still.

My hands remember.

Beautiful Easter Dinner…

04 Saturday Apr 2026

Posted by Satin & Sand in Art, Baking, beautiful, Easter, Family, Poetry, Reflections

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domestic life, Easter, Easter dinner, family traditions, memory, Original poetry, Pieter Claesz, Poetry, still life painting

_{Pieter Claesz – Dutch Breakfast Still Life (17th c.)}

Easter Dinner by Joan Currie

I think of Easter dinner
when my mother was alive.

The sideboard bowed
under its burden.

We came to the table,
hungry from Lent,
and ate.

Ham glazed with maple,
potatoes in cream,
asparagus with Hollandaise,
eggs split and filled,
ambrosia–too sweet,
with coconut.

There was lemon pie
with its high, wavering crown,
carrot cake thick
with frosting,
and the small bright candies
we carried away in our pockets.

I am grateful
for that appetite,
for the unthinking plenty.

Now my guests call ahead–
no sugar, no dairy,
no this, no that.

I pause at the counter,
hand on the phone,

and say,
perhaps we’ll go out.

Wishing you a very Happy Easter!

Beautiful One Small Light…

03 Friday Apr 2026

Posted by Satin & Sand in Art, Poetry, Reflections, Writing

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Algonquin Park, Canoe Lake, Darkness, Dusk, Finding your way, Group of Seven, Landscape painting, Light, Nature writing, Original poetry, Solitude, Tom Thomson

_{By Tom Thomson – Sunset, Canoe Lake, Autumn 1915. The artist drowned here in 1917. I know this lake well and have felt his presence.}

“The light will leave– and you must reckon with what follows.” Tom Thomson

When Darkness Falls by Joan Currie

The pale rose of dusk
lingered longer than I expected.
I knew there would be a parting–
a lover’s touch
I wished might go on,
but wouldn’t.

I left the path
to find a higher place,
hoping to hold
the last of the light.

But darkness came at once–
a dull closing,
as if a door had been shut
behind me.

I was off the trail,
caught in the undergrowth,
turning this way and that,
not knowing.

For a long time
I did not move.
Branches shifted.
The woods held their breath.
Something unseen
pressed close.

Then I saw it–
a faint light
threaded through the trees.

I went toward it,
careful now,

thinking
how little it takes–
one small light–
to be led out.

Have you ever followed a light in the dark?

Beautiful Magnolia…

12 Thursday Mar 2026

Posted by Satin & Sand in Art, Birds, Flowers, Garden, Nature, Poetry

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beautiful, Birds, Botanical poetry, Chinese Song Dynasty, Fleeing beauty, Garden, Impermance, magnolia, magnolia blossom, Nature, Nature and Poetry, Original poetry, Poetic reflections, Poetry

_{Magnolia and Birds – Chinese Song Dynasty}

Magnolia Blossom by Joan Currie

You have bloomed first
in my back garden–
O sovereign of pale flame.

Your receptacle, a golden crown,
royal, resplendent;
your lavish velvet robes,
pallid yet proud, spread wide
and stained with magenta
all around you.

Astonishing us–
magnificent, insolent–
you parade your brief glory.

Beautiful White Horse…

05 Thursday Mar 2026

Posted by Satin & Sand in Animals, Art, beautiful, Nature, Painting, Poetry, watercolor

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beautiful, Eleanor Farjeon, Poetry, watercolor, white horses

_{© Joan Currie. My White Horse watercolor. Reference photo by Jane Davies.}

White Horses by Eleanor Farjeon

Count the white horses you meet on the way,
Count the white horses, child day after day,
Keep a wish ready for wishing – if you
Wish on the ninth horse, your wish will come true.

I saw a white horse at the end of the lane,
I saw a white horse canter down by the shore,
I saw a white horse that was drawing a wain,
And one drinking out of a tough: that made four.

I saw a white horse gallop over the down,
I saw a white horse looking over a gate,
I saw a white horse on the way into town,
And one on the way coming back: that made eight.

But oh for the ninth one: where he tossed his mane,
And cantered and galloped and whinnied and swished
His silky white tail, I went looking in vain,
And the wish I had ready could never be wished.

Count the white horses you meet on the way,
Count the white horses, child, day after day,
Keep a wish read for wishing – if you
Wish on the ninth horse, your wish will come true.