Thursday, January 29, 2009


Getting Caught up on all the Laundry
Sending Birthday Cards -on time
Bacon - yes bacon - i am about as bad as those beggin strip dogs
there are precious few things not improved with its addition-
YES -i know where it comes from - but i love it still.
letting people who only have a few items go in line in front of me at the store- I love
to do this little kindness - their surprise and thanks makes me feel like
Old music - real old music- i have several recordings form the late 20's and 30's
the pleasure I get from this music almost curls my toes- it's the tiniest bit like time travel- and I love to think of that music still being played
Oh and my latest issue of Glimmer Train - love this collection of stories

Tuesday, January 27, 2009


Oh my heart is beating hard today, hard today
it wants so bad to fly away
Beating against my throat like
a caged thing.
I want so bad to follow your flawed soul
deep where we've been before
where the red sands sing
and the stones bleed at sunset.
I long to loose my head in the clouds
leave these lonesome crowds far behind me.
To fly by the hawks feathers
scattered in the ditch
And remember when you were next to me
I belonged nowhere and to no man
And I was free.

Happy Birthday Mr. Carroll

I remember the first time I read Through The Looking Glass

It was magical - and I never wanted it to end.

It made me believe that you could grow up

and still have a fantasy world in your head.

So many phrases and images -

Thanks Alice for being an Inspiration.

Monday, January 26, 2009

La Coeur

So now they tell us

they can see into

the heart of the universe

and what will they find?

Mirrors and rabbits?

All the things we've lost,

gathered there together?

Fireworks and turtles

spinning out into

the midnight velvet

of spiders and stars.

The answer, it's the smallest

things we miss

isn't it?

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Remember Me

The roadside shrines
drip homemade grief
blurring the side of the road
with loss between here and there.
Names and dates
etched alongside the asphalt
witnessed by the trees.
Who comes to remember Michael
and place the flowers for each seasons' holiday?
Sacred space, hallowed ground
where the souls have slipped away
remind us who they were, and when they left us.
Hungering for their faces and the easy laughter of the lost.
The flowers heavy with memory.

The Mercy Seat

This man is walking slowly
towards the mercy seat
pushing his cart full of redemption
shuffling in shoes of his own device
on a cold winter morning
his great bald head
covered with steam of his efforts
moving so slowly
as to appear solid in time
his thoughts escaping
in great gray clouds
wisp up to heaven
long before he arrives


It becomes complicated
when you can no longer see the stars
When things become too tight too slow
like the century plant - frozen in the snow
The unwinding begins
things begin to reach slowly into the past
moving blindly like a thing unborn
through the cave of memory
creeping slowly within
to withdraw and wait
until the sky clears again

Thursday, January 22, 2009


Religious Art- all kinds all flavors all through history
I had a teacher pass out a replica of
the Venus of Willendorf- when I was in
second grade or so - and I was in awe
still am -antiquity amazes me

That I live in a country that is closing Gitmo- oh- rah
That with all the people in Washington D.C.- no arrests were reported
The faces on the kids of the class of 2012- as they watched the inauguration
oh and this quote- that hung over my office door when I was a social caseworker
" Never Doubt that a small group of thoughtful people can change the world, indeed it is the only thing that ever has"- Margaret Mead

View From My Desk

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Thinking of The Parades

I'm thinking of the parade
I will miss today,
and how I would
take my son every year.
First in his stroller
Then in my arms,
then on my shoulders,
and then by the hand.
And tell him to lift his face up
and remember.
You may kill a man
but you can never kill his dreams.

Saturday, January 17, 2009


She thinks the dead are only sleeping,
swimming through the milk of dreams,
in their red shoes.
Whispering ,
"where are my gloves?"
"did you find the train tickets?"
lives lived full of unanswered questions.
They wander through the mystery of loss.
Just beyond her reaching arms.
So she cooks their soup and bread
lights their candles, feeds the lonesome dog.
The dead come round the table,
called home with the sweet smells ,
and the names of her children.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

doodle of the day


Dia De Los Muertos Art

Being Left Handed

Watching the Birds At my Bird Feeders

Beaches - any beaches anywhere

the sheer bliss of reading in a hammock

Thursday, January 8, 2009


The way it smells in Mexico

Found religious tracts- i love that someone I don't know worries about my eternal damnation

1930's Fonts and Graphic Design

Truck Stops - for oh so many reasons

Images of Ganesha

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

One For Joan

Standing in the smoky Paris rain,
In front of Our Lady.
Admiring the lace of the Rosettas
and the wardrobe of the tourists.
I stand before her,
The Maid of Orleans-
Proudly riding her pony -
leading the children into battle.
What must it have been like to hear the word of God?
To be a true believer- the brush of angel wings amongst the wheat
To take up arms and follow your fate
Headlong into the fire.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Help Help I can't Feel My legs

oh wait I don't have eyes yet either!

My latest crafty project

Wee felt bunnies- under construction- approx 5 inches tall- seated

I find I can never make one of anything

so he will have lots of other felty friends

I see an albino- and a pink one and a yellow one and.....

It's my way of dealing with post holiday blues

start making Spring!!

Saturday, January 3, 2009

Friday, January 2, 2009

Where Are You

I wish that you would haunt me

toss an unsuspecting tea cup

or pull at my heel as i leave a room.

I awoke this morning with

leaves and smoke in my hair

a phantom braid.

Pull with your slender fingers

the tangents of my dreams.

Weave me a nest of memory

somewhere to place my tired heart.