Saturday, August 29, 2009


On a rainy, blah blah day, it was a treat to discover the work
of artist Kate Clark at the Aldrich Museum. Her strange
and wonderful sculptures caught me the instant
I walked into the space. Oh this would be the kind of art
that could work perfectly on the cover
of a book -- one day in the distant
future--my book!

Friday, August 28, 2009

green soon gone

Dear One Absent This Long While


It has been so wet stones glaze in moss;
everything blooms coldly.

I expect you. I thought one night it was you
at the base of the drive, you at the foot of the stairs,

you in a shiver of light, but each time
leaves in wind revealed themselves,

the retreating shadow of a fox, daybreak.
We expect you, cat and I, bluebirds and I, the stove.

In May we dreamed of wreaths burning on bonfires
over which young men and women leapt.

June efforts quietly.
I’ve planted vegetables along each garden wall

so even if spring continues to disappoint
we can say at least the lettuce loved the rain.

I have new gloves and a new hoe.
I practice eulogies. He was a hawk

with white feathered legs. She had the quiet ribs
of a salamander crossing the old pony post road.

Yours is the name the leaves chatter
at the edge of the unrabbited woods.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009


The Spider's Web Speakeasy, 1920, Pittston, PA

Libra Horoscope for week of August 20, 2009

An epic treasure hunt will soon begin. Are you ready for it? I don't think you are. To get yourself in shape to perform at a high level, I suggest that you open your mind wider than you ever have before. The clues that will be most helpful won't resemble any clues you've ever valued in the past, and they'll be arriving from unforeseen sources. I'll give you a hint about what to look for in the early going of the quest for the magic boon: What circumstance in your life has a certain metaphorical similarity to a speakeasy during the time when alcohol sales were illegal in America?

Tuesday, August 11, 2009


Later I'm going to make golden carrot soup even though it's hot
and chocolate chip cookies with pecans because tomorrow
my friend is coming for lunch and I'm tutoring in the morning
so can't cook then. And over lunch we're going to talk about
our manuscripts, which we've been working on for a while
and finally exchanged about a month ago. Hers is further
along. Mine is in process, still figuring itself out.
Shall I tell you about it? Too soon.
It's not really 'about' one thing, but it does circle some
ideas, one being emptiness. Golden carrot soup even
though it's hot seems like the right food for poetry tomorrow.
And chocolate chip cookies are one of my favorite foods.
If I can get some tomatoes from a friend's garden, we might
have those too. I hope the heat eases up. While I was away, and
visiting Georgia O'Keefe's house, I had a revelation about my
book. So there are rooms in the book I need to go explore.
My friend's, on the other hand, feels more complete.
Not that it's finished, but the framing is up and good.
Anyway, we'll talk. And eat soup, tomatoes, some
bread and cheese then cookies. And unfurl our books like bolts
of linen. Who knows what I could make after such an afternoon.

Monday, August 10, 2009

rain dance

I rain danced during the downpour that caught
me by surprise during this evening's walk.
A soaking jig with thunder way off.
Then received my tarot reading via email.
The word gestation appeared and that's curious
as I've had several pregnancy dreams. Pondering.
Then a later email contained the news that some
poems are here at mungbeing, an online journal
recommended by Anna (thanks Anna!).
Maybe I should rain dance more often.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009


A picture up at Rebecca's blog reminded me of this
website -- Terrible Yellow Eyes. Check it out. Cory Godbey is inspired by the book and all the art at the site swirls around Where The Wild Things Are. It's a book I read over and over to my kids. Soon to be a movie. That worries me a bit because Sendak's illustrations and the cadence of the story are so deeply imprinted in me. I don't know if I can see the film.


Frida Kahlo's The Dream

Such strange dreams recently -- dead grandfathers, weird collections of peoples at parties, poet bloggers in the neighborhood, even a pregnancy dream! As Ashbery writes, "Melons bloomed in corners, shrimp blew away to be fecund elsewhere, next year...Somewhere darkness churns and answers are riveting, taking on a fresh look, a twist."

I think his poetry is infectious, perhaps invading my sleep.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

cloud (s)

The hawk is back today, plaintiff, calling
missing something as it circles the house,
the road. As have I. Thinking about my father
who died a year ago. A complicated, difficult,
incredible man. He loved music -- played
the guitar, piano, sang. I've been listening
to Hank Williams, Doc Watson, Paul Simon,
the Beach Boys and a host of other songs
as well as the hawk. A bit carried away
with cloud shots, which are over the top
but there you go.