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.

Lost then Found and the Honest Truth about Doodlers




This week I graduated from the Leadership Development Program where I work. The program took about 10-15 hours a week of my time over the last 4 months, most of which I had to do at home, except for the meetings which were about 4 hours a week. I felt a bit of pressure to apply for the program as I have routinely refrained from applying for any other jobs or promotions, primarily because I love my job. It is a good fit for me and my family. I prescribe to the adage if it ain't broke don't fix it. I took the class as a way to explore my own motivation for retaining the status quo. To critically examine if my attachment to my current job was out of love of mission or out of love of comfort and fear of change. I am proof that a confirmed eye-rolling cynic can learn a few new tricks. Surprisingly after 4 months I answered that question and much more. I learned much about how I interact with others (Imagine my surprise to learn I was not perfect :) ) and more importantly I learned that there are times when I need to modulate my own natural tendencies. I had a face to face meeting with our instructor and he said something to me that was one of those gotcha moments and has me chewing cud (ruminating). For me Frustrated =Pissed Off. I actually smiled when he said it as I recently posted a blog over at Jumbo Petite about being pissed off and how pissed off generally resulted in action for me. It was like a sound and much needed slap in the face. I have always prided myself of being slow to anger, even-tempered, pragmatic and somewhat logical. I hate conflict and will try every work around to avoid conflict(likely some Freudian thing and I probably know the why-perhaps another story for another day), conflict shuts me down. I knew this on some level already as I generally tell people after about 3 tries on my part, I shut down, I no longer hear you. I also learned that sometimes when I get pissed off, I do my best work. The doodle the one I did as I was listening. I have to put a plug in for the honest truth about doodlers. Doodlers pay attention and are generally intelligient; check out these articles, Time and this one on a teachers website. I had left my notebook at the training facility and was bereft that I had lost both my doodle(inside cover of spiral) and my notes from the training, thankfully someone had picked it up and when I sent out a mass email it came home. Honestly it was the doodle and not the notes that had me bereft. I have a friend who calls them art, and I insist on calling them doodles, my reaction to the loss of one was much like losing a part of me. How silly am I. This doodle sparked a poem. When it is ready, perhaps I will share.

Twenty-five Year Celebration and a Draft Poem

Michael and I are coming up on a 25th wedding anniversary and we are thinking about celebrating in a big way, so far we have agreed on a real honeymoon. We were married back in 1986, both 22 years old. We worked for a grocery store chain and had a total budget of 1000 dollars for our wedding. Money my handsome man made available by selling his Fiat X-19 he had been painstakingly been restoring. Amazingly we had a beautiful wedding, I recycled bridesmaid dresses, borrowed my dear friend Bonnie's wedding dress and Momma made my wedding cake. Bonnie and I made all of the flowers and decorations. We had the wedding in the Methodist church I grew up in, much to the dismay of Michael's Catholic parents (they forgave me later-they always treated me like their own daughter). Out oldest friends Bonnie and David threw us a big party following the church reception at their first home. Michael and I had two days off and we went to Galveston for our honeymoon. I was a pretty reluctant bride, my parents divorced when I was 15 and I watched my Momma work two jobs to put food on the table. I was unconvinced that marriage was a good deal for a woman. I loved Michael and he grew up in a home with parents who had been married more than 35 years, and it was his insistence, how he talked about his parents coupled with my love for him that allowed me to take that leap. Honestly we were babies pretending to be grown-ups, but I knew that day walking down the aisle as I saw him smile, that I made the right choice. Our marriage has not always been easy, but it's a good marriage, a strong marriage, a love-filled marriage, one that I am proud of, one I choose to celebrate. I am in the process of scanning some of our wedding photos, and will be posting them over the next week or so. The photo at the top a wedding dress I like(it's the top runner) for when we renew our vows. We are still deciding if we are going to do it just ourselves on our honeymoon or have a small ceremony with our friends. A poem I wrote for My Michael (a draft poem like most of mine)

If You Want to Know Why

Not the sputter of the engine
a Fiat Beretone X-19 on cinder blocks, or
the thick streak of oil across his nose
as he breathed life into dreams roaring
inside his head. Nor the dog-eared pages
of hand drawn modifications.

Four hundred dollar Italian-English manuals,
carefully labeled diagrams, pencil marks,
micrometer readings or how he sat
cross-legged books in lap,
in the middle of the water bed.

Not, the speech he gave me
on the Art of fine-tuning a motor,
his smile that first day the engine purred.

It's wasn't the orange flare of the nitrous oxide booster,
or the sonic boom when it engaged, the moon, the wind
or the Targa top down on the way to the lake;

or the sound of rubber slapping pavement,
the sensation of being airborne at one hundred
miles an hour. Not even the glorious freedom
of moving at the speed of sound; or the feel of water
against bare skin, or the heat of hot metal on my back.

It was later, a shoestring slipped through an oil plug;
he hung from my neck, a story with the use of a metaphor
of how he drilled it out of the oil tank; to unfreeze a clutched motor.
Ten one hundred bills in a white envelope, pushed into my hand;
one word; in precise script: underlined: wedding
and the sounds of hands clapping in an empty garage.

Inside


Another photo of my white hibiscus--a bloom in the process of unfurling, the edges a bit blurred. I was focusing on the interior of the flower; my skills and lack of a macro lens left me to choose between an inside peak or outside clarity. Perhaps one day I will have both the skill and the equipment to take the image exactly as I envision it. This weekend I am flush with family and simply enjoying everyone. My Momma is here and she looks pretty damn good for a woman who nearly died in September. She has gained 15 pounds from the 87 pounds she was when they released her from the hospital. She is still not completely smoke free, she is however earnestly trying to stop and is smoking no more than n 2-3 a day. The oxygen she uses at night seems to allow her a bit of quality rest and she looks more like herself. It has been a wonderful visit. There is one thing absent from her visit this time, and I realized this morning what it was. The racking cough that has been her constant companion these last ten years. The one that had me watching the rise and fall of her chest as she slept. The one that never allowed me to fall into a deep sleep so that I might hear her if she needed me. The one that forced her to sit in a tripod to allow more oxygen into her war weary lungs. The one that kept her home and unable to visit. The last several nights all in this house slept well, how damn cool beans is that. I am feeling very brave; today I am going to get a few family pictures, and my Momma and my sisters are just going to have to Woman Up and let me take them.

Alternate Realities



A doodle from my steno-pad. Last week was a brutal week as far as work goes, I worked on this doodle off and on through many meetings. As always doodling calms me and keeps me focused. Last week without my doodling crutch, I would of likely beat my head against cinder blocks or ran from the room screaming and frothing at the mouth. I named it alternate realities as last week I felt the intense need to be anywhere else, anywhere at all.

After the Glorious Rain





I spent a bit of time this weekend taking a few pictures in my garden. Alex brought us bands of much needed rain, the patio was strewn with rose hips, delicate blooms of hibiscus, and leaves of oak and cotton wood. A fine film of pollen coats the prismed glass of my patio table and yet I find the aftermath of this turbulent display incredibly beautiful. The pictures are children of perennial hibiscus, they come back each spring and grace me with their beauty, two of my favorite bushes. I am enjoying the long weekend mostly still enjoying being home, and putzing around the garden and house. Yesterday I started work on a new chapbook, twenty-two poems that all need serious revising. One that I am unsure I will ever seek publication, but one that I feel committed to completing.

Blackbird Up at Flutter




One of my favorite poems Blackbird is up at Flutter. I'm not sure as poets if we are supposed to admit which of our work we truly like. If that's a creative faux pas, sorry. I always get excited when one of my favorites gets picked up for publication. Big thanks to Sandy for including me with this fantastic line-up of poets. Check out poetry by L. Ward Abel, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Bob Bradshaw, Bebe Cook, Dr. Charles Frederickson, Howie Good, Karen Kelsay, Robert Laughlin, David McLean, Corey Mesler,Michael Neal Morris,Sergio Ortiz, Alex Stolis, and Martin Willitts, Jr.

Mini-Cation

I went to a concert. Experienced the gift of musical genius. There was a minute I felt as if I was part of a greater song, my heart beat in time as it to offer its own feeble accompanient. I stuck my toes in the Gulf of Mexico, felt the sand shift beneath my human mass as the tide lapped my ankles. I spent 2 days in the company of a kindrend spirit; both of us lovers of music and water. I had a fantastic time. Thank-you Kim.

Out of Character

I have started asking my friends for pictures of myself and them which is out of character for me. I hate having my picture made. Generally it sends me to the extremes of self-loathing. For every photo of me I share there are at least 100 rejected to get to one that does not send me over the edge. I think this change of heart was perhaps sparked by my grandmothers death and the photos of us she kept over the years. Going through the photos I realized there were very few of her with us. I found myself wishing for a photo of the time we talked her into wearing shorts, of her talking with us around her table, of her filling the number 5 washtub for us to use as a swimming pool and of her and I at Uncle Charlie's funeral. I pushed her wheelchair and she cracked jokes about how fun the ride would be down the hill, if I simply let go. She said Brenda Sue do you think you could run fast enough to catch me at the bottom.

I am short-fat-round with a goofy smile and hair that I can not color fast enough to hide my near 80% gray, I know that. The people in my life know that. I guess if I can capture those people I love with me in a few snapshots here and there thats a good thing. Granny, I let go and am simply enjoying the gifts of a shared journey and friendship. The photos: Patty, Haddy and myself at Patty's farm 2010, Trish and I at I-Hop June 2010. Life is groovy and I am simply.

Happy Fathers Day

A poem I wrote for my Daddy during one of my 30 day challenges, still in its raw form (meaning still a very rough first draft) and most likely to stay that way. The photos I took last year in 2009 at Camp Caswell. Rachael is working on a Camp Caswell Scrap Book for her Papa, I might clean up the poem and have her put it in the scrap book before she gives it to him. Happy Fathers Day to both my Daddy and that handsome man I married.

Camp Caswell: August 2007

I’m never there after the big melt, when
Daddy brings up the downed logs
felled by winter snow.

He tells me it is an old skill; preserving
the beauty of the log. He uses coarse
marine rope to tie off the 3-point harness.

He hauls the logs one at a time;
behind the four wheeler to the edge
of the woods back behind the cabin.

The secret is in letting the trees season. ‘Bout August,
when the salmon quit running ; when you visit
each summer. He sits on a crude stool he fashioned

from an old stump a few summers back;
with oil, flint and a sharpening stone he hones
the drawknife balanced between two knees.

Its sharp enough when he hollers Brenda Sue;
and yanks a single strand of my hair and draws
it across the edge. Both halves fall as I settle

on the porch. A large coffee mug nested in my hand;
he hums old Merle, Johnny, or George tunes under his breath.
Every now and again I sing the Tammy, June or Dolly parts.

Neither one us of can hold a tune worth shit;
I watch him slowly remove the bark, He sits, judges,
sometimes adjusting the pressure on either side until
the rich marbling of the log begins to reveal itself.

Lines

I am torn again between the color and the black and white photos. I was trying to capture the effects of all of the lines and shadows. I am happy with the general effect, except the tables are washed out and I am unsure how to compensate for them. I am weening myself off relying on the auto settings on my camera. Yesterday I learned that my camera had a in-between setting of P, which is how I took these photos. I also took some on pure auto, and these came out better. Victory dance for the learning photographer. I learned this a fellow photographer who gave me the gift of time when I started with my long list of questions. Thank-you. I have been thinking a lot about creativity and perhaps a bit about my goals ( or lack of goals) for both writing and photography. I am happiest when I feed my creative side, whether in the form of photography, writing, or doodle art. I also am happiest when I can manage to stay balanced between my roles of mother, wife, environmental scientist, friend and creativity. I am working on the right mix. Today I am going to see two of my oldest friends, Patty (35 years) and Haddy (29 years), and I believe it was this time last year that we were last able to get together and that makes me a bit sad. It seems we rush around and so often we don't find time to connect to those we love. I am excited. Patty has a menagerie of critters, I am taking my camera. I am mostly groovy. Hope the same for you.

From the Garden




Still mostly home wallowing, and still enjoying simply being home with my family. Last weekend a wedding of the son of one my oldest friends. A member of what I call My Pack or as my friend Bonnie says My Peoples, there is beauty and acceptance with those you have known for close to 30 years, a confirmation and celebration of shared triumphs and sorrows. Friendship is a gift and I have been damn lucky in mine. Jeff and Tuesdee had a beautiful wedding as individual as they are, the bride forgo the traditional wedding march for a country and western ballad, the recessional was done to " I am a Believer" and the reception was done elegantly in a local winery. At each place setting was a beautiful decorated box made by the bride that we were instructed to fill with candy. Perfect chocolate and wine. Congratulations to Jeff and Tuesdee. I am thinking maybe Mike and I need to throw a big party for our 25th next year, a chance to celebrate our love with those who have been part of our journey. Maybe even after Mike and I can take a 2nd Honeymoon.

Pond


I took this photo at a native prairie where one of the fantastic girls of Troop 1900 built a bridge for her girl scout gold award project. There were chiggers. Lots of chiggers. The itching stops after about 7 days. I found myself coming back to this small pond to take photos, to see the reflection of the prairie in the water depths. I love water. I also love benches. I could of sat on these benches forever, a friend recently commented on my eye for benches, and I wrote this in an note to him

Yes I love benches, there is an expectation about an unoccupied seat, an essence of all who have occupied them, a resonance of untold stories, almost as if our energies, both fragile and human have imprinted an inanimate object, when I see a bench, it is opportunity, it is refuge, a thread that loosely binds the occupants, past present and future, in the knowing of the feel of the bench, the view, that shared moment. So I photograph them, and I sit on them and simply absorb their stories. I worry that my pictures like my poetry at times becomes a bit redundant. I liked these benches because I was caught up in them being both singular and a set, much like us humans.

Perhaps at some point I might find a poem in these lines. I find that still my most favorite form of writing is letters. A lost art, the art of writing letters. I am groovy, I hope the same for you.

Webs



I found this industrious spider by my back door. He had spun a web from my deck floor to my roof overhang. When he first caught my eye he was busily encasing a bug into its threads. I watched him off and on as I watered the back yard and took a early morning swim. Eventually I came into the house to grab my cameras. I took about 20 photos between 2 cameras, and am unhappy with all of the photos. My favorite is one I took on macro settings, with a small light, it shows the web beautifully, yet the spider is a bit over exposed, this one the spider is perfect and the web a bit under exposed. I am still playing with them in Photoshop, this photo unedited. As it seems like most of the things in my life I have not yet achieved the right ratio of light and shadows, of balance. I am struggling these days in the roles of wife and mother. Perhaps it is simply more difficult to understand what a near grown woman needs. One day she is a mature young adult, seemingly aware, seemingly mature admittedly a bit quirky young woman. The next day she is a petulant child, demanding more of my time, angry for perceived injustices, and we become like oil and water, chalk on the blackboard. I go from being her beloved Mia to MOTHER in the heavy sigh that escapes through her lips. Parenting teenagers is very rough work and sometimes I wish simply to pound my head on cinder blocks. This week I have been both Mia and mother, and I am okay with that. I have been praying that this summer is the summer of transition for her, one where she decides to step up into her own life. To make the commitment to herself and her future. Once she decides that she will be a force of nature. She rocks, I only hope that she figures that out soon. This morning is mom and daughter breakfast with my best friend and her godmother. It is good karma. Today I will likely be Mia.

I started my day with dark french roast and this sky. It seemed to me a good omen after a very rough couple of weeks. I felt as if I had transferred my angst to this sky, allowing me a bit of respite. I have been a bit in turmoil between all of the roles in my life, and it seems I need to spend more time home, more time with Rachael and Michael, and more time simply with the earth. There is no one thing that grounds me more than my faith and my garden. The world makes me profoundly sad, and I look to the earth for signs of resilience, of hope and every time I put my hands in the dirt, my noisy self is stilled and I come away whole. My garden is suffering a bit from a late freeze and the early arrival of Texas's brutal sun. I am adjusting with hardy Texas natives, and perhaps a bit of pampering for those plants not suited for 100 degrees in June. Yet despite the interruption of seasons, the garden is thriving, and my perennials are like long lost friends, my lilies nearly a month behind bloomed this week. I found myself much like an mother, awaiting the birth of a longed for child. I of course had to take their "birth" photo. I am hopeless. Here is my baby.

I finally broke my submitting hiatus and submitted to 4 journals last week, so far two have accepted my work and I have not yet heard from the other two, I am going to try to submit a few more of my older work that is mostly polished. Last year I wrote only about 70 poems, of which I might like 7-10, I am going through those and seeing if any speak to me, and I am slowly beginning to write again. Not in the way I have in the past, and writing feels awkward and foreign to me. My work once again is evolving and changing, and I am unsure about its direction. I also writing environmental poems, which are part of my "Taboo" list, for now I am writing them, but not submitting them, a compromise of sorts on my part. The Dallas Poets Community is updating their website and I have a page on their site, which is way cool beans.

Have been wallowing in being home the last week or so, cleaning flower beds, laying mulch, planting here and there and enjoying splashing a bit in the pool. I am feeling recharged and focused. I found out I did not get the new job, and my biggest emotion was relief, and perhaps a bit of self-evaluation, asking myself what skills I need to work on, so when the job comes along that I want, I will be ready. Have simply been feeling thankful and grateful for my life. I started a 30 day poem challenge, again I made 3 days, but I am going to keep trying during the 30 days, I will likely have to start over at 1, 5 times or more, but if I make 3-4 days each time, I'll have 15-20 poems at the end of the month. I am okay with that. I have been writing environmental poems, something I joke about, as I always say I don't write environmental poems, thing is I do, often. It's an occupational hazard of being an environmental scientist/poet. These are poems I need to write for me. Of late I am still not submitting, and I am okay with that. This weekend I am going to take off Friday, so I can have a 4 day weekend, and I am simply going to wallow in being home and write. Yes, write.

Down Time

I took the day off to garden. My garden needs mulch before the fierce heat of summer and I need simply to wallow in the scent of being home. She smells good. The doodle, one I did during a 3-day class week before last. I like this one, so I kept it.

Caught Again





Looking Into the Sun

This week I had only my point and shoot Olympus, which I love but it is not my Nikon. There is no way to accommodate the fierceness of the sun, no polarizing lens, no light amber glass. It like me is unequipped to look directly into the sun and like me it could benefit from a few more filters. The photos an old tank battery. I will let them speak for themselves. I am mostly groovy; how damn cool beans is that.

I have gotten in the habit of taking walks with my camera. There is an up and down side to this practice, the up side is I enjoy the walk more, the down side is that I am not moving as efficiently to maximize the calories burned. I have found as I hoof it around streets and alleys that I experience the neighborhood in a much different way than I do by car. I find myself stopping and exploring.

Driving I make mental notes of shots to capture, thinking I will come back with camera when a spare minute surfaces. Most of the time that minute gets lost in the accumulation of minutes that make the day finding at times that I become buried by these minutes that pile up around my feet like leaves in a yard. This weekend we went to the college graduation of my nephew Jeremy. Jeremy is the son of one of my sacred friend Bonnie.

Bonnie is one of my sisters, my people, my family, no questions asked. He and my nephews Shane and Justin(who died in 2004) were the first babies of our next generation, born when my sisters were little more than children themselves. It was still the 80's we had big hair, suits with shoulder pads, no money, sexy leg warmers, lace anklets and patent leather pumps, and each other. We would hang out most Friday nights at Bonnie's and David's each couple bringing part of dinner, cheap wine or beer; to share our week. We ate a lot of pasta, casseroles, french bread, salad, hamburgers and hot dogs, drank an awful lot of pink wine from a box and in the purest sense broke bread in fellowship. It was good karma.

Watching Jeremy graduate from college, his wife and his mother both at his side was powerful karma. I felt for a minute caught in the wave of time, a sense of moving forward, stepping back, as if I was on a precipice of understanding, and I smiled.

The photo one of the blackbirds in my neighborhood, I took a series of photos of this bird, and I sensed as I was photographing him, a shift in his awareness of me, with each shot he turned his head until he could see me, watching him. He did not fly away.

Interlude

I Stopped

To Photograph the Sky

Last night I was the featured reader at the First Friday Poetry read of the Dallas Poets Community. It was the first time I have been the featured poet, and I was very nervous. I read poems from my Chapbook mostly and an Ode to My Teddy Bear, Mr. Teddy. Later today I think I might take some photos of my bear and perhaps I will post bear and poem tomorrow. My reading seemed to be well received, I need to practice reading, to become a bit more of a performer. I am improving, I no longer rush through in one breath, but I love when someone reads with expression, and I would like to develop that skill. As they say practice makes perfect. So I am going to try to go to more open mics to gain experience. The Dallas Poets Community is sponsoring a chapbook contest, I encourage all to think about sending in a manuscript, the chapbooks that are produced are done professionally and are quite beautiful. You can check out the guidelines at http://www.dallaspoets.org/.

The photo one from my last road trip, I drove into the street leading into my hotel about 8:30 and glanced up and saw this magnificent sky. I pulled over, opened up my trunk, grabbed my camera and starting shooting. A women taking a smoke break at another hotel walked over and asked me if I was reporter or a private detective. No I said, look up. She did. So we stood out there me and this perfect stranger watching the sky. After she finished her smoke, she went back across the street into her hotel, and I got back in my car. Drove Away.

Im taking today off. Charging depleted batteries. Celebrating my anniversary. The photos, ducks. Simply.