Perspectives

Am still a bit adrift--quiet and in my own world. The vase one of mine, a vintage Sascha Brastoff--mine is chipped and not collector quality--one that I love, I think it is the lines, the comfort I find in circles, a sense of being without begining or end, continous-and its imperfection- A friend of mine posted a painting of a vase of flowers-- his painting reminded me of this vase. A circular thought. The first photo--one of the vase with artistic filters, the second photo one of the vase on the dining room table.

Of late I have nothing much to say. This tree has a name in a language that is not written--a name that is passed from lips from old to young. It is not a common name for all trees of this species. It's name is specific--unique-- it's own name. I have had the honor of meeting this tree several times, I hope I am earning the privilege to speak it's name.

All of these and the sound of water

Water rushing---a line from a poem, one of mine I believe, one I can't find. A line that will resonate in my brain until I find the poem of it's origin. It could be a lost line, a line that I edited out--a line that didn't quite make the cut--one that likely found it's way to the Isle of Lost Lines--

I wonder what lines have washed along its shore, what words are wedged in the crevices of rock, slipped into an abandoned shell--do they eventually enjoy a symbiotic lifestyle with other bottom feeders, befriend lonely hermit crabs? Does all poetic detritus (regardless of poet) end up on the same isle? A cut line from a Shakespearean Sonnet next to Joe's limerick, a Whitman wedged between Molly's poem of teenage angst?This brings to mind the old adage,

One person's trash is another person's treasure

I like the thought of all of these lines in the same trash pile--bits and pieces perhaps forming new poems--a sort of poetic compost heap; ripe for growth.

I am not very good with money. Not the math part, the saving part. I can do math asleep on my feet, so I know exactly how much money I am not saving. I suck at the saving part. I am trying to learn ( I was going to say relearn) but honestly I have never been good with the saving part, the rainy day, the plan for the future. The only good strategy I have is tucking things away out of my reach (like 401ks) and being married to a man who is better at the saving part than the math. I am working on educating myself on the definition of the need--of realizing what is worth paying for and what is not worth paying for and sticking to the plan. I have also decided to divorce myself from Peter and Paul (robbing Peter to pay Paul) and to stick to the plan. This will be hard for me, I have grown quite comfortable with Peter and Paul---I thought they had my back. I was wrong. I am learning.

U is for Untied

Last weekend our girl scout troop went on a photo scavenger hunt--one of the prompts was the alphabet- This week has been a week of highs and lows, a bit of emotional rollercoaster--with uncertainity--one also of growth, of honesty and unconditional love. I truly believe that God's hand has been working in my life and I feel such emmense gratitude for my happiness. I am still writing in fits and spurts through the month of November--this morning I wrote poem 5 on Day 19--I am hopefull that I might manage 10 by the end of the month. Yesterday my friend Valerie Fox sent me a copy of her new book--The Glass Book published by Texture Press--I am happily digging in. I am taking a few days off next week and I hope to find a bit time to nourish my creative side with camera and pen. I am feeling whole--and it feels fantastic.

Feeling Blessed

I might be the luckiest person in the world. I have family and friends who love and support me and a job that gives me personal and professional satisfaction. I am amazingly happy and content these days and that scares the ever-loving shit out of me. I have been a bit worried about waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop--a bit neurotic approach for a person with strong Pollyanna tendencies-but human. I realized yesterday when the new company that bought the company my husband works for started moving people around, that this may be the dropping shoe. Instead of being worried, I feel resolve and strength in my family, of our ability to weather any storm and gratitude for God for giving me such a strong base. I realized that it doesn't matter if the other shoe falls-we will tighten our belt--keep our sense of humour and continue to be groovy. I am making a silver lining list---the kitchen will get painted, the hall cabinets refinished, the house uncluttered, and maybe my family can travel with me a bit this spring--we will have to forego a 25 year anniversary trip, eat a lot of rice and pasta, drive my old car another year and Rach might have to use her own money for gas--but even with the other shoe teetering on the edge of falling, all I can think of how incredibly blessed I am. No complaints from here from the peanut galley.

A drawing Rach did in Paint when she was about 4--one that has been my screen saver off and on the last decade. One I love.

Stay-Cation and a Poem

Today is Veterans day, I ask that we stop and we remember. Honor. Today is a holiday for me--no one in my house is off---I am here myself, just me, in my space for 6 solid hours. I'm having a mini-staycation, in black leggings--a cutout-t-shirt that says Danger in the Dirt ( a memento of a hazardous waste clean-up with sensationalized press coverage-graphic includes oily pits and civil servant skeltons hung from trees) and my hair in a pony. I am going to work on photos, submit my recently rejected Death and Dying Poems to somewhere else ( please send positive thoughts their way)--finish reading Robert Wynne's Book--Museum of Parallel Art ( a must read), and sit outside in the sun with a cup of afternoon coffee with my old friend Blondie, then I am going to make eggplant Parmesan for the natives when they come home. I am brain-tired, nesting but mostly groovy. A poem I wrote several years ago for my Uncle Sherman--who died in the service of our country.


A scene in a snow globe, a funeral, a mourner suspended in time
(To Agitate Time, To Invoke God and Child)

Shake
i.
I hold the globe to my ear like a sea shell
Amazing Grace teases my ear
within the inner sea’s roar.

ii.
Snowflakes fall at the cemetery;
mourners matchsticks dipped
in white.

iii.
Gunshots slice air,
threaten the glass in my hand.
A middle-aged man, gray mourning clothes,
tenses, relaxes: 21 times.

Shake
iv.
Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
Coffin draped with postage-sized flag.
It covers bones, broken, chipped, dust,
flesh and cells sloughed off for renewal
in a Vietnamese rice field. A B-52 lost,
found, life for country. Family
on the nightly news.

v.
My cousin sits.
Still a boy to the man when
the plane went down. I remember
the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

vi.
A surrogate big brother, torturing
big brother style. Camping trips woken
by a pull of single strand of hair, hiding
rubber hoses under
sleeping bags. Screaming
“snake!”

Shake
vii.
Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched, beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
the basic white.

viii.
They fold over this way, then the other,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

ix.
Cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for each year.
One for each year categorized “in limbo.”
One for each year unforgotten.
He lays them atop the triangle
of red, white and blue.
A scattering of silver on Old Glory.
The sun reflects, rainbows on snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years, I brought him home.

Shake
x.
My mind drifts to Iraq
Life’s sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

xi.
Taps plays; remains lowered
into darkness dug into snow.

xii.

Snowflakes are resilient at this ceremony,
fully-developed and morphing in wind
crystalline lattices dance.
They fall, one delicate prism
on bridge of nose, uniquely slowly
melting from the heat of a sentient body.

November is National Novel Writing Month...

so I am writing poetry. My goal is to simply write poetry--because old habits die hard, I am calling it a 30 day challenge, though my goal is to write every day, perhaps not write 30 poems in 30 days. I have had an incredible long dry spell with my writing for a myriad of reasons/excuses/choices, though primarily because of commitments (other commitments and lack of commitment to writing). I miss the poem but am no longer willing to fore go everything else for the poem. I also realize that I have raised my internal bar and I loathe a large percentage of my first drafts--and that writing a poem I truly feel good about--a fully cooked poem--takes time--and my time is thin. I am not all that into sacrifice---and don't buy into the belief that poets are anymore insightful, sensitive or thinking than the rest of the world. I don't do the tortured/persecuted artist routine very well; I don't have the personality for it. I miss everything else when I write and miss writing when I do everything else. I am re-engineering how I write a poem--my goal for November is to write a bit every day--whether I squeeze 15 minutes or an hour for the words-----30 poems, 15 poems or 5 poems---it just doesn't matter.

November Poem Two


Living Room

Unmarked from my scent; It is free
from clamor, the contents from newly emptied
pockets, and the guilted horse ridden through child dreams.
The palomino died of sleeping sickness, an omen, in retrospect
of rooms that replicate folding back onto themselves, inside
out and backwards. Reversed mirrored images of my parents house,
Left behind…before happily ever…and after once
upon a time. This new room unfettered by oily fingerprints
could be any ones room. No ones room. Blank. I imagine
some one other--cradled in beige's warm haven.
I have banished (temporarily) the clutter
of sentiment, And for now. I inhale quiet,
embrace starkness; my things wrapped in cellophane;
gathering dust in a teak box of ash.

Day 300

Day 300

and I haven't.....

lost 20 pounds, cleaned my office, closet, spare bedroom, car....,finished my chapbook, written more than 30 poems, had my camera cleaned, heard back from Sentence, submitted more than 5 times, visited friends more than 500 miles away, thrown away the hole ridden Tigger towel Rach has had since she was 2, organized my photos, my poems, my life or cleared the clutter from my brain.

Us Guys

This is Us Guys, a term my daughter coined to describe the three of us when she was around three or four. Michael and I she referred to as Guys and herself as the The Baby. We have very few picture of Us Guys, for a number of reasons, the most selfish one on my part is that I loathe pictures of myself, the other a more pragmatic consideration is that there are only three of us, and someone must take the photo. I remember an incident when she was in kindergarten, she needed a picture of her family, I gave her one of her and her Dad, and one of her and I. She stomped up and down and said NO, NO, NO---she wanted US Guys,, and she preceded to count us on her fingers, Momma, Daddy and Baby---all in the same picture. I believe I asked my sister-in-law to take a picture of the three of us. As I type this I wonder where that picture is, I will have to find it. Over the years it has been Rach that has insisted on the few family pictures that we have, inviting her friends over to take the photos, hopeful that we would send out Christmas cards with the three of us, all smiles. I think only one year did we actually make that Christmas Card and I censored who I sent it to---I thought I looked old and fat ( I am old and fat). I believe I gave the cards to Rach and she handed them out to her friends and our closest neighbors. She hasn't asked me since. It's funny how things turn around, it was I who insisted on the photo above, I who asked Rach's friend to snap the shot. I who wants to hold on to Us Guys as she prepares for adulthood.

T.G.I.F.

A long week, the upcoming weekend--a much needed brain and body break. The house is not done yet--the floor company installing our floors has much to learn about craftsmanship and customer service. The flooring itself is beautiful, the installation a nightmare . We are not done yet. Seems that the company (whose name is InstallRight) installed it wrong. The second attempt at placing the stair nose failed miserably--the color right this time, but they were a foot short on the material needed and the mitered edges don't quite meet. No amount of floor putty can fill in a 1/4 inch gap. Would of/could of/should of learned how to use a protractor in math class? The installers themselves were nice enough, but they weren't given a project layout from the measurer, did not lay the stair nose out before they cut it, and could not use an engineers triangle to figure out the mitered cuts. Perhaps you should teach your installers the realities of an older house--where all angles are not perfectly right ( I can't believe I used the word perfect with right). These are our frustrations, I am hopeful for a positive outcome ( it's that Pollyanna mentality of mine).

We are in the process of lightening our load, clearing out our accumulation of things. I have a friend who he and his wife go through every 5 years and burn what they haven't used or missed, he calls it a scorched house policy. I am not quite ready for the metaphoric bonfire--my husband loves this idea--but I am beginning to see the beauty of less. I am going through my house trying to find homes for things that I have accumulated that I love but don't want to keep--a set of music box carousels are going to my friend Bonnie--and I think my friend Patty might want my display case for her husbands archaeological finds-perhaps my sister Michelle will want my rattan dining room set for her covered patio-the rest of the things will be donated to Good Will. I am actually getting excited about the less--the empty--the openness of space---of course we will still be buried in books, photographs and computers---and the sentimental--the Snoopy Lunch Box, the vase Dr. Quane gave me when I married, the first picture of our daughter, the wood carving Margaret gave me of mother and child, Rachael's Doogie Dog, the bowl Rach made me in 3rd grade---the poem written by my friend Nicole---all of these pieces of heart and more I shall keep.

The photo, one from Galveston Beach, I wanted to hear their wisdom, to speak gull--I prayed for the gift of understanding, to be able to speak in the tongue of the gull, much like my grandmother was given the gift of tongues. A translation inspired by the grace of God. My grandmother a devout Pentecost--her gift forgein, to my Methodist ears--

I have not yet imprinted this place with the sound of my noise. It is unfettered with the essence of our life, it could be anyone's room--or no ones room. It is a blank slate. I imagine someone other--living here--surrounded by beige's warm tones. I have tempararily stored my noisey fetish's, quirks and penchants in a teak box. And for now I shall sit in the quiet, embrace this bareness and leave my things, gathering dust in the middle of the spare room.

Letter Fodder and other Obscure Observations

We are home from the Wizarding World of Harry Potter and it feels good to return to Muggle status. We had a great vacation at Universal Studios and Cocoa Beach. Of the two I preferred Cocoa Beach. Perhaps I have outgrown theme parks, or more likely as it is with movies, I simply prefer books over cinematic interpretations of a book. While I thoroughly enjoyed our vacation, I found that I kept running list of the bothersome--a mental eye tic of sorts, one that I feel compelled to share. An affectation of my personality that manifests itself in the form of letter writer. I am evolving into that person, that letter person that makes mental notes and fires off the unsolicited letter to business establishments, manufacturers of odd products and hotel management. Is it that I truly believe that these entities want and value my opinion? Or that I have some point of view so unique that it has not yet been vetted through focus groups that conduct consumer research for these mega corporations--not likely. Do I have some David and Goliath, Erin Brockovich need to be the little voice that could--hardly. It is more that I believe that feedback is a good thing, that without the giving and receiving of feedback nothing ever changes. It is merely my fear of utter stagnation that fuels my need to elucidate my point of view. I write letters in response to extremes, good and bad. I write snarky letters when fired up; and heartfelt letters of gratitude in response to a kind turn. I am not naive--I know most of these letters end up in recycle bins. Every now and then I do get a response other than the polite form letter--sometimes a small action. I am okay with that. That ticker gene of mine, the one that counts on fingers and simultaneously rolls eyes--the one that is not equipped with an off button--no matter how hard I try---took notes this weekend in Florida.


Artifacts of a noisey brain so to speak.


1. All rides end in a souvenir shop

2. Where were the healthy food choices (are the calories a fairy tale too?)

3. How many people, people and more people can you fit into a small wizard village? Inquiring minds want to know.

4. Why do parents bring children under 2 to theme parks (they are too small to ride and they won't remember--quit using your children to gain admittance--fess up-admit that you love HP and hire a babysitter)

5. Prevalence of mediocre customer service. (Does knowing this is a once in a life-time experience negate the need for service that might bring you back)

6. Hotels that do not provide complimentary coffee before the restaurant opens up and 3.00 a cup Folgers after the restaurant opens.

7. Door to Door shuttle services that stop at 5 hotels between start and end point.

8. Hotel Guest Services desk and information kiosks where service/information are contingent on a 1.5 hour time share sales pitch.

9. The unavailability of women's souvenir shirts larger than an XL. Honestly this fat girl is living proof that a mans 2XL is not a flattering cut on a women of size.

10. Why no where inside Universal Studios can you buy a Ogre Fiona Doll. I found it untenable that the quintessential anti-princess movie--one which celebrates the non-traditional hero and heroine--would not sell a Ogre Fiona. When asked if they were simply sold out of Ogre Fiona---I was told that little girls only liked the "Beautiful Princess Fiona"--and that they quit selling the Ogre Fiona dolls, even those dolls that were both Ogre Fiona and Princess Fiona. I did point out to the sales clerk, that both Fiona's were infact Princesses.

11. Families that wear Thing 1, Thing 2, Thing 3 and Thing 4 t-shirts.

I am still working on my letters--one to Universal for that Ogre Fiona snub and one to Holiday Inn for that customer service Thing 1 through Thing....


The photo of me and my Michael, one I just love. No bearing on the post what-so-ever.

Sunrise in Suburbia

I likely have used this photo before, one I took the first day I had my Nikon. Tuesday I was backing up some photos and this was the last directory I had opened, today's shot courtesy of pure laziness on my part. I had titled the photo Sunrise in Suburbia, add recycling to my offenses today. Today we get floor, tomorrow we get carpet and I will be not be here to see the first look of everything put back together, which oddly makes me sad. My daughter has fall break and we are going with my best friend and godson to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. I am excited, I loved the books and the movies and its been about 5 years since we have been on a trip with Trish. When Rach and the boys were young we went most every year, and then puberty and mid-life care of parents hit and we kept running out of both time and money. We had been holding off to take the kids to Europe, but frankly we simply can't afford it. Rach is applying to go to Iceland through Girl Scout Destinations in Summer 2011--and I am hoping that she will get accepted. Several girls went last year and between fund raisers and scholarships raised most of the money themselves. So perhaps she will get a bit of international travel next year. Universal has some great trips including air-fare, hotel, tickets and round trip airport transfers the cost worked out to be around 500 a person. We simply have to not go overboard on Harry Potter goo-gaas (licensed merchandise) and 5-star restaurants.

I am packed and ready to go. I have a magic carpet bag, a rolling angled laptop case/overnighter with pockets for everything. I can pack my olympus point and shoot, computer, phone, ipod and 5 days of clothes in this bag or all of the above, my nikon and 3 days of clothes. I have become a connoisseur of luggage during my 25 years as a road warrior. I packed for 5 days in a third of the space my daughter did. I am hoping Michael will send me a pic of the living room when it gets done, and I will send him a pic of Hogwart's.

Considering Opting Out

I am thinking about opting out of such things like Facebook, Twitter, and MySpace, I miss the blogosphere, when most of my friends kept blogs--and we visited each other and left notes, it seemed more cozy and less frenetic than the mass social networking phenomenon. I have a 176 friends on Facebook, most of those I know through poetry, high school, family, friends and work--and a small percentages of these friends I have known most of my life. Without Facebook I would not have an extended network of writers or have been able to catch up with high school friends. The remainder of the friends I have not lost contact with and can pick up the phone and talk to them anytime. I would love to start a letter writing campaign--I love to write letters, to receive letters, to communicate fully through the written word. I don't want sound bites, 140 characters poems, clever wordplay, or hidden innuendos--I like people, I like to talk to others, to share ideas, to explore thoughts on politics , the environment, child raising, the changing role of woman, the pressure on girls, how to get a B student into a decent college, what it means to be wife, mother, writer, photographer and environmental scientist. Okay maybe not politics as I myself am pretty politically neutral. A dear friend of mine describes Facebook as an opium for the masses and I am beginning to think he is right. Perhaps it is time to opt out.

Santa Fe at Sunset

My friend and I went to see the Aspens turn colors, drove up a winding road through the mountain to the ski area (which actually we never saw) as we stopped to gawk and photograph on the way up,and the sun set about a mile before our final destination. I took over 150 photos, still processing them, finding the ones that I like the best. I generally only like 5-10% of the photos I take. Much like my poetry, I tend to generate alot of excess before I find one I like.

Nic Sebastian has a fantastic new audio journal, Whale Sound, guidelines for submissions can be found at Whale Sound and Very Like a Whale. I would highly recommend you check it out. I have three poems up at Flutter, (Thank-you Sandy) and a few more forthcoming in Red River Review (November)and Illya's Honey(November).

I have one sub out that I have been waiting 127 days for a response (if your counting) that I'm nervous about. The sub is for what I call my Death and Dying poems, ones that I feel strongly need a home. I read three of these poems at the DPC First Friday Poetry event. I was nervous reading as they are odd; I was unsure if they would translate to spoken word. My voice shook and I felt like I was in junior high. The poems were well received for being a bit on the macabre side.

My poetry toe is still broken and I am struggling with finding the time to write well. I am not sure how this will resolve itself, I wrote a poem in response to a prompt recently (something I loathe doing) and I pushed myself to completion. I haven't yet decided if I like the poem. I am excited/relieved/proud of being able to craft the poem. The poem of course,a bit dark--which I find odd as the happier I feel the more macabre the poem.

Do you know

The way to Santa Fe? Photo taken on the road between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. I love the southwest, not sure why, just it makes my heart smile. Perhaps it is the green chili stew, the discussion of new projects at work and the company of one of my dearest friends. I am groovy, hope the same for you.

Gene Pool

These are my feet at a hazardous waste site. I am not afraid of working in chemical goo--I am trained, proficient and experienced. I can take samples from tanks all day long. I am comfortable in this environment. I am however inadequate in all things domestic. I do not have the M.S. (Martha Stewart) gene. I am not a domestic....diva, engineer, or miracle worker. I never took home economics in high school. I was too busy breaking the gender barrier in Agricultural Science--I was on the Dairy Judging Team. To this day I can still recite the Future Farmers Pledge(FFA) and say the greek alphabet 3 times holding a match (ADPi). Skills that might come in handy during a discussion of stupid animal tricks, but are absolutely useless when one is remodeling. I have been way out of my comfort zone since we started this project. Do you know how many choices of flooring and carpet are available? That there is laminate, engineered wood and wood flooring. Wood flooring can be scraped, hand scraped, stressed, distressed, strips (2.25 inch) or planks (3 and 5 inch). We went to Floor and Decor and I nearly had a panic attack, rows and rows of tile--so many choices of color, texture and material--that I was literally frozen to the spot overwhelmed by possibilities. My husband and I walked every aisle like we had never been to the big city, mouths open, mind numbing. So we decided to hire a professional---first question out of their mouth was "What do you want?". Floors can be wood, tile, carpet ? What I want is to go to bed and wake up with a completely remodeled living room...Can you do that? I want you to send me on a vacation and come home to the perfect house (I know it happens that way on T.V.).

We are at week 3 of the remodel (of course the wood we finally chose was back-ordered and the carpet can't be laid until the wood is in). We have beautiful haze colored walls (the color of the sand on the mesa); white ceiling and trim, faux-wood blinds (actual material not specified); a new fireplace mantel--no furniture and concrete floors. This weekend we bought furniture--to be delivered on October 13th (provided floors arrive). I drug my husband to 10 furniture stores from low-end to high end--over two days, we must of looked at hundreds of sectionals--we loved only two--one at the high end of the low-end and one at the low-end of the high-end.

We opted on the high end of the low end--mostly because it could be available by October 13th, we saved about 800 dollars and our daughter could sit on it. The other sofa might be ready in time for Thanksgiving; but for sure by Christmas. The low-end/high-end also contained down pillows (which our daughter is allergic to); the salesman said they were hypo-allergic and sealed-- We were unsure if this was a pro or con--

Pro: It would ensure that the our daughter and her flock of teenage friends would use the den and leave the living room to us

Con: It might also cause our daughter eyes to swell shut (like when I surprised her with down pillows--also hypo-allergic sealed) and we found out that she was in fact allergic to down).

We opted for our daughter to be able to sit in the living room with us (she doesn't believe us-but we really do love her). We are however not putting a T.V. in the room so that it can be a reading room.

Today we have furniture on order, carpet on order, wood on order, and a very big empty room with concrete floors in which we taped the dimensions of all of the future furniture (to ensure that everything will fit). If I close my eyes and tap my heels together 3 times I can visualize it done. I am simply praying that everything matches when it finally arrives. If it doesn't I am going to Garden Ridge and Tuesday Morning and purchase a "inspirational piece" in a bright color and toss it around the room in pillows, candles, drapes to tie it all together. That is what Martha would do.

10 Reasons

Why I'm not writing

My poetry toe is broken, currently immobilized
with violet athletic tape to my index toe

We are remodeling; Spackle covers everything
including my desk and folded grey matter

Our house echos without carpet
the noise of my words is deafening

It's annual bureaucrat bean-counting
time; I am a bureaucrat

I wrote myself out in 2008
I have nothing left to say

Sometimes when I write, I miss my life
Sometimes when I live, I miss the poem

I found out yesterday that a childhood friend died at 51. Our families where stationed in Alaska together, his sister my first best friend. His parents surrogate Aunt and Uncle to me and my sisters for a period of about 10 years. Over time we had lost contact, oddly my note yesterday mentioned his sister. Funny how the mind works. I remember him with love. When I was 6 he let me play battleship with him. When I was 18 in college, when we would end up at the same bar, he came over and played big brother. He would ask me if my date was behaving, and offer me a ride home if I needed one. Mostly he just wanted to let my dates know that someone was watching out for me. I never needed the ride home, but I always felt safe knowing that he was there. My heart goes out to his family.

Odd

I woke up this morning thinking about people I miss. Some have passed and some I just haven't been seen in a long while. Momma, Daddy, Barbara, Sherri, Trish, Heather, Judi, Michelle, Shane, Justin, Bonnie, JW, Aunt Betty, Sissy, Raegan, Maddie, Mel, Molly Jenkins, Gran, Pa, Haddy, Mark, Michelle, Haddita, Granny, Tracy, Jen Jen, Aly, Uncle Shelby, Karl, Melanie Boyd, Leslie Smith, Jordyn, Wes, Jason, Susan, Uncle B, and where in the world are Kelly Jo and Bobbie Jean. Odd thoughts from an odd brain.

Random

We are remodeling. We are excited. We can't wait for it to be done. This is how we are spending our vacation. We are remodeling. I will never build a house from scratch. I do not have sufficient Martha Stewart type genes. We are excited. We are remodeling.

Rainy Days

It's been raining. A tropical storm ( I forget which letter and name) crawled up the coast, and we have been blessed with glorious rain-- I found myself standing at the window with my coffee cup in hand hypnotized by the rain. I toyed with the idea of swimming in the rain, but sadly common sense prevailed. Today I am hunkered in with deadlines and work--me, work I love, and the rain. Seems about perfect.

Orphanage Road

Moon Burn

My friend and fellow poet, Jayne Pupek, died this week and I am deeply saddened by her death. I have been going through the emails we shared over the last 4 years and I have found that within the letters she sent to me there is much discussion on writing. She befriended me (the new writer) within the confines of writers workshop, a place akin to the Betty Ford Clinic for Poets. We write. Simply. She took time to send me encouraging words, suggestions on places to submit, funny stories (we shared a wicked sense of humor)and we became friends. Of all of my fellow writers her and I shared many things in common, we were both Southerners, of the same age, mothers to teenagers, both successful in other careers, insatiably curious, and neither one of us took ourselves too seriously. I realized that I wrote over 200 poems with her and my other cohorts, supporting each other, whispering words of encouragement, it is a safe house. I am reading and rereading my emails, I hope to be able to sit down and pull out tidbits of our conversations on writing. What comes across to me is not the truly gifted writer but the wonderful person she was, she had an incredible beauty and generosity of spirit, she shone. I remember her as she is with her words, quirky, vibrant, challenging and full of grace and generosity of spirit. She rocked, She was one of my personal heroines, she challenged me. She will be deeply missed.

Moon Burn: A phrase my sister Sherri coined in a galaxy far far away ( a pasture in east Texas, in the last century) one I have always loved. This moon is why I get up at 4:30 to swim, there is something pagan about swimming under moonlight, perhaps in another incarnations of light, I was a pagan moon worshiper.

Open

Seems a bit how I feel of late. Open and questioning. I have been swamped on all fronts but amazingly groovy. I turned 47 yesterday and oddly the number 47 did not bother me at all. I love middle age, the sense of acceptance, of freedom, of wisdom that accompanies this in-between time is liberating. I no longer worry what others think, I am comfortable in my own skin, my place and it is in many ways a time for renaissance of spirit. Children are leaving the nest and doors open for new avenues for exploration. In these years I have returned to the passion of writing that I had in my youth, acknowledged that perhaps there was a bit of the creative in my nature explored the visual in both doodling and photography. My husband and I are re-igniting our relationship. As our daughter becomes an adult we are returning coupledom with less time being spent in the combined role of parent. She is not an adult yet at 17, though there are at times we get glimpses of the adult she is becoming and we relax a bit (as we believe she will be okay). I find that I love this time in my life and at 47 I am looking forward to learning new things, taking classes, and spending more and more time with my husband. We are going to take up hiking as soon as the heat gets below 85 in preparation for our trip to Kauai in May. I want to be able to explore the island with camera and pen, hand in hand. Color me romantic, but I am thinking this is going to be a great year.

Goose Flesh

Its August 23 and we have had 22 days of 100 degree plus weather this month with promise of likely another week of brutal heat. The garden is dead, the grass is near dead--the temperature of the water in our pool is 93 degrees. There is no relief for any living creature. We found a dead black bird floating in our pool skimmer. A young bird in glass eyed rigor. Did heat inversion make it impossible to fly? Did it land in our pool hoping for fresh water and the density of salt in water prevent it from returning air bound? Did my aged birder--my feline Sir Bug awake from a dream of feathers, longing for a hunt, stir from retirement to chase the bird toward the pool.

Yesterday when I came home from a meeting there were more than 25 birds in my front lawn, picking at the wet grass, turning their heads towards me slowly as if I was the interloper. A few of the birds flew-up and then landed on the far end of yard, as if to accommodate my need for entry, and to show me they would not be easily intimidated. They waited, all eyes on me until I crossed the sidewalk to the door. Goose flesh. Who in the future walks over my grave of decaying sinew and bone? Momentary glimpses of Hitchcockian deja'vu. I toyed with the thought of reclaiming my yard. A simple flick of the hand to turn off the sprinkler would dislodge the flock of blackbirds and the lone blue jay. I remembered the Birds and the lifeless juvenile I found afloat. Dead eyes reminiscent of obsidian, depth-inscrutable, glazed yet still open, and I wondered why I averted my form from his vacant gaze. I went inside and quickly closed the door.

Happy as a Toad in a Drain Spout

Going home today from a long and somewhat emotionally draining week. Tomorrow is Mom and Daughter day, and this weekend I am going to mostly be a home body. This fellow the only creature happy about the tropical rains this week. I laid down in the grass to catch his happy smile. It will good to be home.

From the Sky




I am learning how to use the panorama feature on my Olympus point and shoot. I took this photo enroute to New York. I still need practice. Today is day 5 of a 30:30 and so far I am limping along. I am creaky rusty and it is much harder for me to write than it was a year ago, part of it likely due to letting my tools get a bit rusty, part of it is my own dissatisfaction with my work, part of it is simply a matter of time and competing priorities. I am learning to be more focused in my work, what I call being a "grown-up" poet. I want to explore and develop poems on specific themes, experiment with form and hone my natural voice. Most of my work originates as a free write, and then after time has passed I can go back and mine out and develop the kernels that eventually become my poetry. Sometimes there is virtually no real difference between the free write and finished work, and other times they bear absolutely no resemblance to to each other. This process is hard to do in a 30 day forum, yet I love the creative energy of the forum. For now I am focusing on getting out the free writes and identifying those that are worth the investment of time. This from a women who has over 300 poems in draft and submits to less than 10 journals in one given year. Don't do the math its depressing. So for now I am going to feed the muse and see what happens.

In Transit.



I have returned to road warrior status for most of the month of August. I spent last week in New York City, a city I love, a city that speaks to me. I find myself engrossed in it's architecture, its people, its sounds and smells. I would love to go their on vacation, and simply spend time on foot walking and photographing, introducing myself to street vendors, talking to shop owners selling fruit and wine. Every time I have gone for work and spent 8-5 inside. I went to Brooklyn for the first time to see a hazardous waste site, of course I did. I loved the home feel of Brooklyn, the sense of community, brownstones and trees, flowers in pots, a much more familial feel than Manhattan. I made a mistake in bringing only my Olympus camera, as I missed the Nikon and I found by day 2, I didn't want to take pictures anymore as the discrepancy of what I wanted to capture on film and what I did capture on film became greater. I tried to take a panorama from the 30th floor, but the glass was so thick my image was reflected back on the lens.


In this photo both myself and the person standing behind and to the right are imposed on the landscape, it is as if we are ghosts that have been imprisoned on film. The drawing a 3-day doodle I completed during the meetings. This one perhaps not one of my best, but I am finding they are becoming more cohesive over time. Perhaps their is even a theme to this one? Not that I would reveal what it was, every person responds differently. The line between visual art and poetry is very slim for me, as in poetry I believe that each person brings their own experiences to the reading of a poem, a viewing of a photograph, a painting, and the intent of the artist and the life-experiences of the individual transform the art into something new. I find that exciting. I am not sure my doodles qualify as art, they are simply an artifact of the noisy brain, the need to keep in motion, a coping mechanism for a women with a bit of excess energy, a way to siphon the first layer of energy that allows me to listen with understanding. I do love them, I am thinking about putting one on a t-shirt for my nieces and sisters. I have a poem up at Red River Review. Big thanks to Bob and Michelle. I am groovy, I hope the same for you.

Bebe's Toes



When I first started this blog, the first photo I posted was the one titled "My Sister Toes in a Wetland" a photo my sister Sherri took and sent to me, which prompted my baby sister to send me a photo of her toes " The Baby's Toes on the Bayou" and to date I have taken countless photos of my toes. I have pictures of my feet in hazmat boots, hiking boots, on tundra, on the beach, in the ocean, in my garden, and in Niagra Falls. This is the first photo of them that I mostly like. I have ugly feet. I have Hobbit feet, short, wide, squarish and without the shaving of my big toe, a bit hairy. Technically they are deformed, my little toes grow sideways. I have 4 inch scars running from big toes to ankle due to surgery at 21 to correct foot alignment and genetic bunions. The surgery involved breaking bones and realignment, metal pins and reduced the width of each foot feet by 1.5 inch, stabilized my arch and, eliminated constant shin splits and the need for orthodoctics. The pins were removed later and I still tend to hide my feet as someone will almost invariably ask me about my sideways toes, I love my deformed feet they serve me well. Tomorrow these feet are going to walk right over and join my sister's on the side bar.

Sky

I am in love with the chameleon sky, I find myself watching the movement of clouds. I am star struck. I am a child of 4. Covered in wonder. I believe I love dawn and dusk best because of the fickleness of the sun's light as it flirts with the clouds. I am forever running inside for my camera to somehow preserve that instant of awe and wonder.