From an ugly memory emerges a day for poetry

 You know how the oddest memories can pop into your mind?

This morning I was trying to ignore the horrible, awful, disgusting news all over Facebook and, instead, trying to read and enjoy the Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays posts while seeking out the art I know I can find posted by Marion McMahon Stanley, hoping for some photography posted by Jill Jasuta, a new poem posted by David Chaudoir, and enjoying seeing what books my pal Lesa Holstine might be chatting about and hopping over to my daily must-read from Connie Schultz.

Howsomeever . . .

One of these odd memories found its way into my mind.

A few years ago during the annual flurry of Christmas posts I stupidly allowed myself to get into a conversation concerning what we should/could say instead of "Merry Christmas" in order not to hurt someone's feelings.

Wow.  Did it backfire.

It ended with this guy calling me a racist and blocking me. 

But what about MY feelings? 

Not to worry.

I wasn't crushed.  I wasn't all that crazy about him, truth be told.  But other people - people I like lots - were mutual friends and in those early days of Facebook when we "friended" people without much thought, friending a friend of a friend of a friend was what we did.  That's now a regret <sigh>.

He is a part of the crime fiction community.  Or, I guess he still is - he may be dead now for all I know.  But I wish the memory had not popped up.  I'm thinking it must have happened because this season sadly seems to be filled with more ugliness than usual.

What.  Ever.

I decided to move along.

Specifically to poetry.

More specifically to Billy Collins.

And for no specific rhyme nor reason, here's a poem.

Some Days

Some days I put the people in their places at the table,
bend their legs at the knees,
if they come with that feature,
and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.

All afternoon they face one another,
the man in the brown suit,
the woman in the blue dress,
perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.

But other days, I am the one
who is lifted up by the ribs, 
then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse
to sit with the others at the long table.

Very funny,
but how would you like it
if you never knew from one day to the next 
if you were going to spend it

striding around like a vivid god,
your shoulders in the clouds, 
or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,
staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?

             - - - Billy Collins