Hello, Sleevers, I hope you are keeping well. I have missed our back and forth here at the blog. I have been absent lately, but I have a good excuse. Book release!

My debut novel, Daughter of the Moon is finally ready! Release date is October 3, 2024 for the eBook and October 6th for the paperback.

Click for the e-book on Amazon.com or  Amazon.ca

Patricia May Thomson

August 31, 1939 – May 7, 2026

Mom and Me in White rock, B.C.

I will always miss my mom and hear the sound of her laugh. She had a few different kinds; the laugh that said she didn’t believe a word you said, a laugh that found someone’s audacity ridiculous, then there was the real joyful laugh that was two notes with a lingering smile. My mom was the youngest and prettiest of all the moms. When she took her first grandchild to the mall, everyone thought it was her baby. She loved to sing along to George jones and there was ONE song she played on repeat until one of my siblings secretly hid the record. This Poem is for my mom:

A Poem for My Mother

Her hands held
Soft, newborn heads
Five of them.
Her young heart 
Full of Joie de vivre
Was hardly prepared
For her burdened knee.
Shoulders bent to tasks
Meant for one much older
She lived true 
To her bewildering sacrifice
Until she was no longer.
 A laugh, a cry--what's the difference
within one's life?
While the moon and sun continue to rise

Quote of the Week:


Feeling without judgement is a washy draught indeed; but judgement untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition .”

Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre.

I’ve been opening up paints for over 25 years and what I hadn’t considered until recently is that they, in fact, have also been opening me. Testing my skill, my endurance, my ability to accept flaws: in my painting and in myself as a human.

After all this time, there is a comfort in the simple exercise of twisting off the paint cap. There’s a will, an intent to continue. Yet I still remember how unfamiliar and tentative I felt the first time I ever opened a tube of paint. I had no idea the power it would have over me. How it would cause a reaction in me. How the tube of paint once on the canvas would test me—what would I do with that Cobalt Bue? How does my colour make you feel? it would silently ask. And that

The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr-I read it so you don’t have to

Are you thinking about writing your memoir to tell your life story? If so, you likely have a compelling reason for it. Our lives don’t have to be full of trauma or drama to be interesting. Many people want to write their memoir and publish a small batch for posterity. The children can read it after the writer is dearly departed and find within those pages, stories mom or dad didn’t have a chance (or the courage) to tell when they were alive and kicking. It is one of the reasons many folks consider this daunting task worthwhile.

My memoir is ready. It’s waiting in a drawer for my courage to publish.

If you are an aspiring memoirist, please know this: you don’t need to read a how-to book before you begin. For example, if you are tempted to first read The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr, I’m here to tell you it isn’t necessary. In fact, reading this book may just snuff out your desire to begin. My advice? Avoid it altogether–here’s why…

Photo by Kevin Mueller on Unsplash

Although




I want to write 

About rainbows and birds

Pretty flowers perched

And gazing from their stems




But all that appears

Are ravens and storms




Black clouds




Stir my soul




Although I'm the first

To point to colours in the sky




It's black ink

Crows and clouds

That get me by




`Nora M. Parker

art Henri Matisse

#Poem #Poetry #Woman’sWork #DomesticLife

It’s Woman’s Work

He rushed past the threshold

With barely a glance back

No concern for his son’s lost shoe

Or his daughter’s missing “my little pony”


It’s woman’s work

And he need not bother

He works hard, he explained

But went to great pains

To catch a game


He was important, you know

Above menial chores

But he would soon learn

The cost of his absence

Could not be repaid,

Ever, amen


And the perpetual woman’s work

Came to an end, left undone

When the love dried up


Only a fool assumes she will forgive

Without appreciation for the little things she did

Like a kettle overboiled scalding his heart

The scar will remain long after she departs


Memory of her holding their son, 

Or kissing a boo-boo,

Vivid and clear

Woman's work endeared



Many years later

The lonely man advises the younger,

"As you pass the threshold

Remember to glance back

For you never know

Which day will be your last"

Hello Sleevers, t’s been a while since we’ve talked. Life has been interfering with my blog.

I hope you are doing well. I thought a nice way to ease in back here is to share what I’m currently reading, doing and anticipating this Spring. We’re half way through spring, that’s true but it’s not too late to share what’s happening mid-season.

First, let’s talk books.

Shadowed secrets

Weight my mind

Ground me in clouds

Greyer than time

Do you remember me?

Or am I a figment

Of a lie

You pretend to deny

Open now to sunlight

In the gloom

I make no sound

Simply pray

On a starlit wing

Returning to me

my soul replete

Treading lightly 

In a new day

-Lisa Thomson Wells