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.