The answer to Thursday riddle poem #17

pile_love_letters
Image via pileofletterstumblr.com

Thursday riddle poem #17
By Annette Marie Hyder

I fly through the air though I am sans wings.
I carry births, deaths, marriages
love, hate, and gossip —
a myriad of things.

I’ve been in existence since ancient of times
in diverse languages and all different climes.
I have been metal, lead,
wax-coated wooden tablets,
pottery fragments, and animal skin
even an apple (says Ovid) was used
to send me from Acontius to Cydippe
inscribed.

At one time horses carried me
racing through day and night
to keep me on track.
Now airplanes and trucks
load me onto their backs.

I’m mentioned in the Illiad by Homer
and also in works by Herodotus and Thucydides.
My arrival is like the coming
of a friend to your door
but sadly my use is
becoming a lost art anymore.

What am I?

A letter.

Thursday riddle poem #17

By Annette Marie Hyder

I fly through the air though I am sans wings.
I carry births, deaths, marriages
love, hate, and gossip —
a myriad of things.

I’ve been in existence since ancient of times
in diverse languages and all different climes.
I have been metal, lead,
wax-coated wooden tablets,
pottery fragments, and animal skin
even an apple (says Ovid) was used
to send me from Acontius to Cydippe
inscribed.

At one time horses carried me
racing through day and night
to keep me on track.
Now airplanes and trucks
load me onto their backs.

I’m mentioned in the Illiad by Homer
and also in works by Herodotus and Thucydides.
My arrival is like the coming
of a friend to your door
but sadly my use is
becoming a lost art anymore.

What am I?

Take a guess! 🙂

Change is good

fridayswing
Digital Art, Fairy Queen, by Steven Stahlberg

I have been moving my blog, Ad Libitum, over to WordPress. I’m doing this because GoDaddy is discontinuing their Quick Blogcast products and services in June . I’ve moved all of the content over there and renamed my blog, eponymously, Annette Marie Hyder

I think WordPress is a superior platform and it will provide a richer and more rewarding visual experience than I have been able to offer heretofore. It also has a lot of features that have not been available to me here on Quick Blogcast.

Please bear with me as I figure it all out and iron out the HTML programming kinks. I’m having to go in and manually correct line breaks, divisions, URL permalinks, and the like. Can’t find your favorite post(s)? There’s a search bar for that. The posts are still archived by category, and date too. And come June 25th, when GoDaddy eliminates Quick Blogcast, the new address is the only place you’ll be able to find them (they wont exist anymore where you presently have them bookmarked).

I am excited to finally be getting on board with WordPress and am looking at updating my website too and getting away from GoDaddy entirely (I despise their history of sexism in marketing).

I’m moving! So bookmark my new address, Annette Marie Hyder, and consider this post your personal invitation to the party! I’ll see you over at my new place!

Chasing the day!

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Image via Pinterest.com

Sometimes the light shifts and you can chase it for hours, but it wont stay still in one place and wait for you. The shadows, plain and clear, follow your steps and fall in line with your rhythm. Where you walk, they walk. Where you run, they run too.

I have found that both the sunshine and the shadows have their place and beauty and that when you make your own path and chase your day without concession to the light — that is most often when the light comes right to you.

Happy Wednesday! ❤

A free bird takes to other skies

mayaangelou
Maya Angelou in Porgy and Bess, 1954, Courtesy of G. Paul Bishop Junior: Photographer

Luminous author and poet, Maya Angelou, has passed from our world at age 86. Source

She leaves the songs of her poems and writings behind for us: haunting melodies that will be sung for generation after generation.

She was a respected spokesperson for African Americans and women. “She became a poet and writer after a series of occupations as a young adult, including fry cook, prostitute, night-club dancer and performer, cast-member of the opera Porgy and Bess, coordinator for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and journalist in Egypt and Ghana during the days of decolonization. She was an actor, writer, director, and producer of plays, movies, and public television programs.” Source

And she knew why the caged bird sings…

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
By Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

The rain tapped insistently

The rain tapped insistently on my windowpanes this morning. It got me to thinking of how my mom would tap on my bedroom door in the mornings to wake me up for school. She had her hands full when it came to getting me up in the mornings. I have always been a night owl and I had many approaches to avoiding her early morning mission of shaking me from the comforting folds of sleep.

I would kick the comforter off the bed and then roll up in it — on the floor near the bed — so as to look like a discarded blanket. I would hide in the laundry room, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the side of the clothes dryer and out of her line of vision should she look into the laundry room. Leaning against the clothes dryer, its gentle warmth and movement rocked me (rightfully) back to sleep. I even hid in the linen closet. This small closet was so stuffed with sheets and pillowcases and towels and blankets and pillows of every sort that standing in the closet with my back to the linens and closing the door in front of me provided me with a really comfortable bed. I only had to lean back to fall back into the arms of sleep. The door kept me positioned against my clandestine cushions.

Each time my mother opened my makeshift boudoir door she and I both screamed: she screamed at the sight of a person in the closet and I screamed in alarm at being reawakened by such an urgent assault on my ears.

She sure put up with a lot of shenanigans from me. I smiled as I thought of her and got up to start my day with no one to hide from but myself and long ago done with that. The rain’s insistent tapping turned to music, clouds-full. And the music of the morning reminded me of how (and apparently I do this too) my mom always hums when she is happy.

I am humming along with the rain, thinking of my mom, and wishing you a happy Tuesday.