Finding the Way

                 

The lovely pathway that I walked in Castleknock, Ireland 

from my hotel to the bus stop to catch the bus to Dublin.

Finding the Way

As we walk along life's path, 

eventually, we acknowledge

 that creative ground which supports our steps. 

Longing to find the way, 

we clear the path of debris, 

 as we accommodate His Divine footsteps

 that gently lead us forward.

 Fortitude emerges with the recognition

 that we have the power to

 adjust, adapt, attempt, achieve, affect.  

We move toward the goal. 

We make a difference.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me recite this verse, just click HERE.

Benoit Mandelbrot, the 'Father of Fractals'

Benoit Mandelbrot

Examples of Fractals (photos from Google Images)

Ever since I learned what fractals were, I've been absolutely fascinated with them. The man who brought us face to face with the beautiful link between mathematics, art, and nature through the fractal equation was Benoit Mandelbrot. Below is a link to an article about the former Yale University professor, Benoit Mandelbrot:

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/insidenova/2010/10/goodbye-to-the-father-of-fractals.html

Also, below is a link to a lovely musical/artistic tribute to fractals:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8ZjPgEF5aI&feature=related

The Brook's Treasure

I wrote this poem many years ago from a memory of seeing a brook, bubbling in the middle of the woods. It's a pleasant rhyme that, hopefully, will bring a smile to your face and a 'treasure' to your heart as you move through your own circuitous path. Enjoy! 

 Photo of a neighbor's pond, fed by a little brook

The Brook's Treasure

For purposes I did wander

For answers I did look

until I finally came upon 

a funny, little brook. 

The brook was not a shallow one,

nor was it very deep,

but in this funny, little brook 

a Treasure I did keep.

The Treasure was a happy song

of life, of hopes, of joys,

and in the interlude there was

a melody of Peace. 

 

The song did have its high notes.

'Twas not without the low, 

and yet, I found that as I wade 

the song would fill my soul

with rippling harmonies

of peace, fulfillment, and the best~

a very special kind of Love

which called me to the test. 

 

I knew, as I sat wondering 

upon this brook tableau

that this was what I muddled for

so very long ago~

a song to fill my soul each day

a song so rich, so rare, 

a song composed of harmonies 

expelling through the air

and filling every twist and turn

with one selected Force~ 

a resolute assurance

of a Treasure true to course.

 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me read this poem, please click HERE. 

A Long Sentence, Silence is.

Below is a poem inspired by a number of events involving my family and friends in which the long wait in a hospital sometimes has felt like a sentence. Waiting for word from medical staff on the outcome of a loved one leads to the mixed feelings of worry, loneliness, and hope. I wrote this as one very long sentence with the subject Silence and the verb, is because in these moments, we gain strength in the silence. 

 

Coole Park, Ireland

A Long Sentence 

While moist eyes wait

for word of your condition,

inquiring of God 

if I will experience your vibrance again,

though the response is "I don't know,"

though I smile to hide my tears,
though my heart yearns to beat

with the rhythm of your joy,

waiting

for the word that brings hope

for the song of your smiles 

for your breath of “yes”

within is the silence 

of a long sentence

and outside:

the wind,

the rain,

a lone lea,

me,

then the sun.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem on Pod-omatic, click HERE.)

Goal: Inspiration

Me, on my side deck, years ago,

reading Sydney Owenson's (Lady Morgan's) Book of Memoirs

Goal: Inspiration

With each cleansing breath 

she inhales 

the aroma of the glow, 

releases 

toxic confusion,

breathes 

purity of heart and mind,

feels

the respiration 

moving through her body.

Through her brain,

each thought

dances

to effervescent stirrings 

as her dream

evolves

from ache to inspiration.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear my reading of this poem, please click HERE .

Upon Viewing the Bog Bodies Exhibit at the National Museum of Ireland

On one of my research trips to Ireland, I visited the National Museum and viewed an exhibit of Bog Bodies. These were individuals who had been discovered buried for centuries within the bogs throughout the country. I was struck by my own emotions as I viewed these remains. At one point, I just wanted to place a warm blanket over their leathered remains and wish them a safe journey to be with our Lord. 

I took this photo of the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin, 

whilst sitting on a bench just outside the National Library.

Upon Viewing the Bog Bodies of Ireland
Inside
the exquisitely sculpted rotunda,
behind exhibits of gold and amber adornments,
exposed in tombs of plexiglass,
lay remains of people
who once held hands,
smiled gently to their loved ones,
kissed softly on moonlit nights.

Centuries pass,

and as her silent witness meets theirs,
she senses a tear's warmth
and whispers a prayer
that their spirits are far away
and at peace.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

You can hear my reading of this poem by clicking HERE.

When in France...

                                         The view from a hotel room in Reims, France, taken some years ago.

A few years ago, I presented a paper at the annual Association of Franco-Irish Studies conference in Reims, France. Ever since I spoke that first French word in my ninth grade French class, I've longed to go to that country. Finally, decades later, my dreams were realized, but not without the unfortunate discovery that there were no washcloths at my hotel. So.....

When in France

In a French hotel in la cité de Reims,

an American searches for a washcloth. 

Alas, she finds none in this room,

so she must make do. 

This is France after all.

Sparkling white tub beckons her.

“Okay, Okay!”

She turns the water handle to HOT

and gently pours shampoo into the steady stream,

splashing the rising water to create more bubbles.

Then, smiling, she steps into the steaming water,

now filled with mounds of fluffy, fragrant bubbles,

closes her eyes and whispers to the 13-year-old girl

sitting in a French class, south of Detroit, decades ago.

“Oui, Jeanne ... tu seras en France un jour.”

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me read this verse, please click HERE.