Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Dame Nancy and The Ides of Farch

Hello bloggers,
Short week for me as I am leaving town on Thursday to make the long boring drive to the edges of Alabama to join the Templars at their upcoming convent and investiture. Yes, the Knights Templar are still around and have been since the late 1100's. These days they leave the "Crusades" to the army and mostly raise money for charities around the world. Did ja know they created the modern banking system in the 1200's? And they accept females these days and I don't gotta join a nunnery either. Of course they call us Dames instead of Chevaliers. But, what's in a name? There is nothing like a dame, eh? So after this week you can officially call me Dame Nancy if you want. Just not to my face.

Actually, my own family has a history with the Templars in the bad old days. One of my great greats on me Mum's side a literal millennium ago was a Count of Anjou who became King of Jerusalem in Outremer. Sounds romantic doesn't it? Fulk of Anjou was also the ancestor of Richard the Lion and Bad old King John of Robin Hood times who was my own nefarious ancestor. Personally, I like being descended from the King who was, as Jack Sparrow would have said,"A really bad egg." Anyway, Chevalier Daniel and I and two of the Mutley Crew will be off on the Parakeet along Florida's scrub pine and swampy version of the yellow brick road for another week end adventure. I'd hope for good weather, but, alas, it is Farch, so I count on nothing.

Speaking of Farch, here's a little poem from Between The Lines:

The Ides Of Farch

By Nancy Wayman Deutsch

Is it February or is it March?
In Florida, it's hard to tell.
Neither Spring nor Winter
a time between Jingle Bells and colored eggs
mind scape of scarlet hearts and roses
morphing into shamrocks and green beer.

Mother nature misbehaving again
such an indecisive coy calendar girl,
changing her agenda from one day to the next
here and there, her azaleas blushing in pink profusion
where brittle branched oaks shiver in the wind.

My lawn is clothed in coco and verdant green
Old Sol playing peek a boo with steely clouds
scowling gray at patch worked earth below.
Have the robins come and gone unnoticed
before drifting yellow pollen blankets all in sight?

Cocooned with book and candle
I wait to be an April fool
longing for steamy sultry days and golden sunsets
my bare toes digging into damp beachy sand
the raucous calling of gulls filling azure sky above.

Live long and prosper. Resistance is futile, anyway.

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