My Grandma Emma Rose loved gardening and growing roses. She sold them at the local Farmer’s Market.
Playfully, she’d say, “Roses are as pretty as me. My momma said so.”
One day, a fella came by with some mint plants. He told her it could fetch her more money than roses. They grew tall and sturdy. She said it made a real nice sweet tea.
Abandoned and neglected after she passed, I decided to clean up her greenhouse. The mint had taken over everywhere. Ironically, it wasn’t mint but Cannabis.
Looks like Grandma Emma Rose was ahead of her time.
On November 7, the sad news was announced that the prominent poet, novelist, musician, singer, songwriter and paint artist, Leonard Cohen had died. He was born on September 21,1934 in Westmount, Quebec, Canada.
His work explored religion, politics, isolation, sexuality, and personal relationships. He won the Chester Mac Naghten Literary Competition for the poems “Sparrows” and “Thoughts of a Landsman.”
During the New York City’s folk scene in Greenwich Village, I had the pleasure of being exposed to his words from other poets who were reciting his poems and aspiring to be as good.
It’s a formidable loss of an incredibly revered visionary artist.
If it be your will that I speak no more
And my voice be still as it was before
I will speak no more, I shall abide until
I am spoken for, if it be your will
If it be your will that a voice be true
From this broken hill, I will sing to you
From this broken hill, all your praises they shall ring
If it be your will to let me sing
From this broken hill all your praises they shall ring
If it be your will to let me sing
If it be your will, if there is a choice
Let the rivers fill, let the hills rejoice
Let your mercy spill on all these burning hearts in Hell
If it be your will to make us well
And draw us near, and bind us tight
All your children here in their rags of light
In our rags of light, all dressed to kill
And end this night, if it be your will, if it be your will
Inside the Mind of Isadora 