06 Friday Nov 2026
Posted in Poetry, Daily Life, Animals, Cross-stitch, Morning ritual
Tags
Dawn, Crafts, Cross-stitch, Poetry, Daily ritual, Zebra, Morning routine
Dawn's First Light
by Joan Currie
In the early morning,
I open my eyes
and stare at the light
peeping through the shutters.
Then I shift my gaze
to the ceiling,
and see herds of zebra ghosts
resting there.
But when I blink,
they are gone!
A stronger light now
streams into my room,
its fingers, elongated
exclamation points
reach across my
bedclothes
and beckon me to rise.
The day has begun!
28 Wednesday Oct 2026
Posted in Art, Hallowe'en, Poetry, Trees
Hallowe'en, This Year
by Joan Currie
The night seemed to creep in
earlier this year,
yanking the last bit of light
and plunging us into darkness.
Lost cat signs appeared
on telephone poles,
as packs of coyotes
began their rounds,
earlier and earlier.
Warty pumpkins and gourds
jammed the doorsteps,
flanked by life-sized monsters
and skeletons.
Tiny orange bulbs strangled
the trunks of trees.
In a few days,
raucous children
dressed as devils, ghosts,
and superheroes
will scamper through the streets,
demanding treats.
That will be lovely!
25 Sunday Oct 2026
No Spring by Joan Currie
For fifteen months,
hours upon hours,
I have labored to finish
a needlepoint called Summer.
Its gloomy palette
of beiges, muted pastels,
and a black background
turned out to foretell
a summer that wasn’t
what it ought to have been.
My fault, in part.
I should have chosen
a lovely azul blue wool
for the sky.
Instead, I felt compelled
to follow the pattern,
matching Summer
to the completed canvases
of Autumn and Winter.
Duty over joy!
Now, struggling to finish
the last few stitches,
I vow there will be
no Spring!
20 Sunday Sep 2026
Posted in Art, Birds, Poetry, watercolor
Mourning Doves Migration by Joan Currie
Every morning
I hear the persistent cooing
of mourning doves.
They line up on a telephone wire,
like a chorus of maidens
calling to their lovers
who have gone off to war,
fearing they won’t return.
This morning I spied
three doves outside
my kitchen window
and was taken aback
by their heavy bodies,
ferocious eyes and beaks.
Were these the same doves?
Shortly after,
I stood beneath my oak tree,
raking leaves,
when an explosion
of a hundred or so doves
burst from its branches
straight up into the air.
The sharp, metallic clatter
and whirring of wings
seemed almost sinister.
I instinctively ducked.
The flock swept up
my three doves
as it headed south
toward Texas or Mexico.
I hope the maidens
find their mates.
04 Friday Sep 2026
Posted in Art, Autumn, Father, Poetry, watercolor
Tags
Smashing Chestnuts by Joan Currie
My father loved teaching
us children tricks—
how to
walk the dog with a yo-yo,
split an apple in half
with our bare hands,
carve an Ivory soap bar
into a fish for the bath.
Best of all,
how to make
horse chestnut conkers
ready for battle.
In the fall,
we walked through the park
to a grove of chestnut trees
and gathered up their mast–
shiny burnt-sienna nuggets
spilled from
green, spiked husks.
We filled our pockets
with the biggest ones.
At his workbench,
Father drilled a hole in each.
We scouted around for
old shoelaces
and threaded them through.
Our driveway was our playing field.
Father taught us
the art of flicking the wrist,
the arc of attack.
We took turns
trying to smash
each other’s conkers
with strategic blows.
Yesterday, I came across
horse chestnuts in my park.
I think I’ll make
some conkers again.
Father would get
a kick out of that.
P.S. An episode of Escape to the Chateau, Autumn, on YouTube shows conkers at 0.23 into the video.
18 Tuesday Aug 2026
Posted in Autumn, Poetry, Reflections
Tags
Autumn, Fall, Poetry, Reflections, Signs of Fall, Summer's Over
Summer’s Over by Joan Currie
I knew summer was over
well before the usual
signs appeared:
maple keys settling
on my patio stones,
squirrels digging holes
for forthcoming acorns,
school supplies
flooding box stores.
The sheets on the line—
still damp by mid-afternoon,
not the iron-pressed heat
I’d held against my face
only a day before.
Many of the things
I had hoped would happen, did,
but not in the way
I had planned.
Still, I want
more!
So much more!
I heave a little
self-indulgent sigh,
and look forward to
what the fall
has to offer.
05 Wednesday Aug 2026
Posted in Art, Birds, Painting, Poetry, Relationships
Going With the Flow by Joan Currie
I spent most of this summer
visiting my family.
My favorite place to be.
To be part of this tribe,
I have to abandon
my carefully curated diet,
exercise routine,
and sleep schedule
for
s’mores at bonfires on the beach,
slushies at action-adventure movies,
peanut butter and jam picnic
sandwiches,
sleeping in tents beneath the stars,
splash pads,
paddle boarding on the Sound.
No contest.
I know
these summers
may not come again.
Despite my longing
for control,
routine,
consistency,
when the call for a new
adventure comes,
I look into the eyes
of my marvelous family
and say,
Let’s go!
22 Wednesday Jul 2026
Posted in Baking, Daily Life, Food, Poetry, Reflections, Teacup
My Mother’s Afternoon Tea by Joan Currie
My mother served
afternoon tea
at four o’clock
every afternoon
of her life.
When I was growing up,
one neighbor or another
would show up
for some orange pekoe tea,
poured into fine English teacups.
But mostly
they came for her baking:
lemon tarts, raspberry Danish,
sherry cake, and
chocolate fudge brownies.
They never seemed shy
about taking
a second helping,
or a third,
rarely leaving enough
for our family.
When I was older,
I asked my mother
why she was never invited
to tea
at their homes.
She smiled.
“There are two kinds of people
in this world:
givers
and takers.
I want to be
a giver.”
14 Tuesday Jul 2026
Girl With a Rabbit by Joan Currie
When my mother
was a child,
she sat for an artist
with a rabbit on her lap.
The pose was very formal–
the rabbit, Düreresque;
the roses beside her,
worthy of van Aelst.
When she saw the finished portrait,
she begged her parents to buy it.
The Depression allowed
no such extravagance,
nor the Church
such vanity.
The painting was forgotten
until my mother nearing
her ninetieth birthday,
asked me to find it.
It was all she wanted.
Alas, art dealers
and auction catalogues
yielded nothing.
I could not grant
her last wish.
Years after she was gone,
I painted
a girl with a rabbit.
She looks like my mother.
I hope she can see it.
08 Wednesday Jul 2026
Posted in Aging, beautiful, Father, Poetry, Reflections
Eau Sauvage by Joan Currie
On a trip to Paris,
after a college year abroad,
I bought my father
a bottle of
Eau Sauvage aftershave.
I don’t know why.
Perhaps I was seduced by the
elegant Christian Dior
fragrance counter.
Or was it a friend’s urging?
He wasn’t a man
who wore cologne.
But after receiving that gift,
he wore its fresh lemon scent
for the rest of his life.
Even in hospice,
after my brother handed me
my father’s shaving kit,
a daily ritual
became a final sacrament.
I drew the razor
across his three-day stubble.
He always said
I had healing hands.
I ran tepid water
into a stainless steel bowl,
rinsed his face clean,
and dried it gently
with his well-worn terry-cloth towel.
The final act
was pouring a few drops
of Eau Sauvage
into my palms
and patting his smooth cheeks
just as he had done
a thousand times before.
I felt he knew
I was there,
in communion with him
one last time.
Amen.
