total page views

Sunday, January 30, 2011


Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth. Buddha

I was engaged in a interesting conversation with Paul Macht of Paul Macht Architects. He is an environmentally-minded man who opened my mind to yet another possibility of the sun. While sitting in front of a fire in his zero energy green home, I commented on the heat and how I was in need of the sun. He said to me, "that is the sun burning right there in front of you. The tree grew from the sun and now it is the sun burning from the wood." He then went on to say how the sun is in everything and that thought inspired me. The sun truly is the universal giver of life. May we all feel her warmth today.


The zenith of the sun,
sun inside fire--
Alive in verdant trees,
olive oil, vitamin D, heat and energy.
Grows until death and
converts back to life.
Persecution of a pagan woman
for worshiping her love,
lifting and cultivating and living,
a cyclical glove.

All revolves around
the recycled one.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

La Rive Gauche Pense

On the first morning of my arrival in Paris, I found myself standing on Pont Nuef. The thing that struck me was the hundreds of locks linked on the wires of the bridge. I asked a local artist what it meant and she said it was lovers locking their promise to each other. It is a beautiful sentiment and the city itself has inspired not only my own muse but so many others. Make a promise to yourself and lock it to your heart and stand true to your word. And with attention and a bit of work each day, you will glow in the results of your work.

La Rive Gauche Pense

Notre Dame hides the sunrise,
streaks of purple burning blue
reaching for strutting steeple arms,
shadowing the temple with nobility.

am walking along Pont Nuef,
memorizing the rhythm of
the Seine River.

dark wet,
flowing like
Square gray stones
in stacked lines,
perfectly mortared
like lovers.

Steps of time
stand in as story keepers;
the cool air once yours, now mine,
fills my lungs, knowledge to my eyes.
Red wine quiets her chalice
fulfilling our shared hours;
locks linked for a lover’s promise,
art leaning on iron lattice.

Red apples fill worn baskets, rising
words slip easily from my lips
releasing the inner battle of my thoughts.
Secretly, once a dream,
rests on the statue of my sleeve,
I am living.

I stop and sit on the bridge,
the old, new bridge…
my thighs aching,
thinking thoughts in French.
Laughing freely…
does it take time to fall in love?
Or does it take time to be in love?
Who could know as clearly as an
engraved stone being worn by the
passing breeze.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

The Desire to Be Seen

A few years back, at a time when I began to immersed myself in the art of poetry, the journey of self discovery-- I desired more. I was taken to the Frita Kahlo exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum and was moved by the intensity of her art, by the intensity of her energy, by her pain, and by her unrelenting need to create. No matter what we don't have or what we might think is broken inside ourselves, we are each our own exquisite piece of art. May the diversities of your life create your masterpiece and let peace follow each discovery.

The Desire To Be Seen
The Exhibit of Frida Kahlo

The brevity of the trip, the air is electric,
the momentum of the street, the insanity of the city.
The weight of my person, the white of the lines,
the black of the tar, the mix of our minds.
The art is hiding in frissons of clay,
the woman is in the canvas I seek,
sweat pours out of me; it tells on me this day,
I can be part of her museum.

Eight deep breaths for every realization; I study art.

Art touching art, a broken start,
imprisoned in a wire corset,
naked breast, stabbing pain,
stainless nail piercing her brain.
Is she an impassive goddess?

Art that hangs motionless, whispering voices that rhyme,
effortless flowing of a seeker's sharp mind.
Ethereal lights glow, desires fall to marble floors,
filtered air is shared, her drive for passion is more.
She is skimming my skin, devouring a space that I once owned,
a solitary dance seeks my energy and permeates my soul.
She repaints my mind and imprisons the images I once did hold,
whirling thoughts are blistering each of my lungs.
I embrace my perfect ribs and feel the warmth of my blood.

Eight deep breaths for every realization; I study art.

Stone white column
standing in as her bones.
Anger, hurt, deep knives,
deceit, a drone--
Is it double martyrdom?

I am aware of the dance I am in,
a swift touching crescendo given the chance.
Spinning in spirals, smoothing sharp angles,
I surrender to the contours of me.
Perfect symmetry, rapturously intimidating,
all somehow are consuming me.
I turn and demand to receive her pain,
as I fall prey to her pleasure,
the palatable taste of her energy,
the complexity of her art.

The front of me,
the back of me,
all around me,
molding, moving
through me,
up and down
my spine.
Master of discipline,
life of porcelain.
I should not breath,
my heart, my lungs,
my art, my time.

I surrender and let violence abate; I study art.

Cremating insecurities, releasing demons,
pokers caressing, driven insane,
crippling her mind, abandoning her name.
Broken column, La Columna Rota.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

The Rare Moment When You Hear the Snow

On a road trip, to my dear friend Linda's new Pocono home, The Gap in the Clouds, I was inspired by the intensely moving and peacefully falling snow.  Nature has taught me how we are slowed by the intense heat and how we are slowed by the intense cold, and it is in those moments we should reflect, feel, and express. I felt comforted in the high mountains, while being blanketed in white, all allowing me to understand my past, devour my present, and invite my future.

The Rare Moment When You Hear the Snow

The equanimity of snow falling, cushioning,
lying laden on leaning branches--
a light blanket of white, a roundness of beauty,
amorphous shapes erasing sharp edges, all
poised on a January morning marching
and congregating on the roof tops of lives.

As shadows are rotating over the western horizon,
there is the beginning of a childhood—at day’s end,
her braided head rests on her mother’s lap, a working
hand smooths the winter’s cold from her face,
stories pass at fire side, photo albums, and wine are
traded from mouth to memory; traditional
voices enfold and hold images in the child’s mind as sleepy
eyes slip away and dreams curl into a rare journey.

Over time and outside, our hard edges are erased
exquisitely as the hard land is covered. Silent
pressure inviting tranquility to the living,
slowing the memory of a life’s journey
all falling in purifying flakes;
each individual crystalline dance
mixed into a spiritual tone of reminiscence.

In a snow storm, images exist in the memory of
a woman, once sleeping in a lap wrapped
in the warm whispers of history.
The history of war and loss and love,
the purity of white from blood.
The covering of pallor over death;
the quietude of colorless from hollow words.
The mission of love etched into hearts;
the illustrious birth of a yet another life.

In a spontaneous moment of difficulty,
in a white water of growth, we
live in the falling and rising shadows of sun
and the crisp alabaster snow-- all
swell in the shimmering patina of life--
encompassed in the protective powers of peace.

Friday, January 21, 2011

The Apparition of Communion

I took my mother to the hospital yesterday for a short procedure which prefaces a major one next week.  As we sat waiting, we talked of the power of women and the presence of angels and the apparition of the Virgin Mary. We felt hope together, the kind that comes with the unraveling of the meaning of life-- knowing some things should be left to faith and others should be pursued with passion.   

The Apparition of Communion

In the white and silver hospital room,
women- one sitting, one lying, both under
the two arms of the crucifix. Together they gaze
at the wood holding a metal human frame.

The women hold hands like rosaries, one hand tarnished from a
mountain of oiled worry, a precarious existence for beads.
The other meditates on the
mysteries of medicine and prayer and their meaning.

Thunder hangs low in the square room. No windowed sky-- anxiety glows a hole
through the unknown demands of a pale blue fabric wall.
The council of war decides on the other side--
nuns on knees, shoulders touching, pray continuously, no eyes necessary.

Physical and spiritual graces arrive with Angel wings, a feather’s weight
of devotion, laughter erupts from some concealed
dense core in the land of aged flesh; the soul releases faith.
“I cannot have hope.” The patient says.

“I will have hope for you.”
A river of tears cascade over the illumination of burden,
and freedom follows in the church of their hearts.
They cry until they laugh and freedom follows in their hearts.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011


Snow seems to capture the slow memory of each life's journey in each falling flake. Lovers,-In the warm of the night, invites the mystery of touch and the intimate connection we all desire. Tucked away in those quiet moments, as the silvery snow blankets and softens our earth outside, we are awakened to love.


In the warm of night,
powdery bed of down,
bodies of oil blend
into silvery shades
of white water.
Flesh arousing
smooth and brilliant,
falling and rising,
consuming air,
melting snow,
quivering drops of
cerulean salts.
echoes of pleasure
arched in
honeyed chambers
of our single heart.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Do You Believe What You See...

On an inspirational day of writing, my friend said to me... Write with the clarity of your vision. Write how you see the world through your eyes. So, I decided to take a picture of my face, which ended up with only one eye in the shot. I thought, is this how I see the world? Do I only see half of life? Truly, with two eyes open, this is what I wrote.

Do You Believe What You See

My eyes embrace the innocence in a baby’s foot
and the splendor in the unfolding of the American flag.

I kiss a child’s knee, scraped by concrete, where
red blood flows, and again, gains the depth

of a teary smile, all mounted on my touch. I saw you
look into blue eyes, no words dare change that excitement.

I see the lies from a teenager’s mouth. Snow storms,
saving lives, loss and sorrow, laughter and building a home .

I witnessed a shattered man with no shoes, a mother,
a woman beaten down. Did I see it? No, I saw it.

I see the majestic sun rise, hues of orange and rose, rain,
green, night, and hope-- all an exploding blue sea on earth.

Was it a yellow bumble bee or was it black? Or white?
Or was it a wasp? Will love be strong enough to change that?

Was it underage drinking? Butterfly wings fluttering?
Perjury? Stealing? Or a drug deal in the make?

Can we trust what we see? Seeds planted far away
in our dreams? A window of plans? An open door into life?

Do you have them?
Can you remember them?
Can you tell me?

Saturday, January 15, 2011

A Glass of Time with You

   Not long ago, I was in Paris and ventured into Musee d'Orsay, a converted railroad station, housing art from the early 1900's. The museum rests on the left bank facing the Seine river. I was drawn to the GIANT CLOCK on the top floor. I will have to estimate its size, 25 feet high! And to my surprise, and my photographic ability, you could see out from the backside of the clock. I could see behind time and realized this:
What we do today affects the future of our lives. Do well each day, in kindness and compassion, as time flows by.

A Glass of Time with You

sitting with you,
watching you and slowly truth is
showing you how to reveal your histories.
Blue temptation dances around your heart,
like mysteries opening as forgotten flowers,
and bloom into uncomplicated fields of ripened earth.

sitting with you,
the day heard simplicities defining wisdom,
the passion that envelopes reason,
the red wine burning down expected walls,
the sun glistening through many of our lifetimes,
a pair of white swans swim against a current
swaying between green leaves turning burnt sienna.

sitting with you,
inviting you to open the darkness of hidden questions-
time seems to teach how to master only itself- you
slowly expose each secret petal as the bee intuitively
is drawn to the nectar, taking with it the yellow pollen.
A testament to the constant flow of nature’s sanity,
tying us to the memories of our sweetened moment,
all understood in the hush of one day.

sitting with you,
you left a rippling presence today.

Friday, January 14, 2011


   A few nights ago, I had the pleasure of having a round table dinner with 9 powerful, intriguing, and beautiful woman. One can never underestimate the power of a friend. In the simplicity of a 50 word poem--I think of a friend equaling the bond of iron. Changeable when heated and beautiful when cared for and an element in our blood that allows oxygen to heal and give energy. The strength of that kind friendship should be trusted on a soul level. May each of you have a friend as strong as iron. I know I have been blessed.


Our connection,
like the nature of iron,
bends and molds and
conforms in heat;
steel tendrils curl
sturdy and steady
from a cold
reserved place.

A crimson gate interlaces
our hearts
in shelter,
blending and defining
the boundaries of
luminal breath,
wrought in the burn
of flesh and truth.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

A Woman Can Ride - Featured Reader with Mad Poets

On September 11,2010, I was a featured poet for the Mad Poet's Society's Autumn Madness reading. I am also published in Mad Poets Review, Volume 23, NECK. I chose to read a few of my favorite observational pieces, A Woman Can Ride is one of them. And it is a true story...
I was on a road trip with one of my friends. Two girls from the east coast sauntered into a country-western bar someplace in Kentucky. Sawdust and peanut-shells littered the floor of a huge warehouse looking establishment. Dead center, as if the prize of the place, was a mechanical steal bull, it seemed right out of the movie Urban Cowboy. The scene was propped with Garth Brooks singing, cowboys drinking,some handsome, all waiting for their turn to ride. The rest of the story is written in my poem. Read it or watch it, you choose and share my blog with a friend.

A Woman Can Ride

I was alone in a bar in Kentucky.
Me, some cowboys and a steel bull.
I can do it, I can ride a blanket covered
steel barrel. I want to be thrown to the
mattress-covered floor. I wanted to beat
the timer and prove the host wrong,
a girl from Philadelphia wants to ride a bull.

Intently I watched the locals ride--
hips swaying, arm controlled over head,
eyes hidden under a black cowboy hat,
tight worn wrangler jeans adorned with
a license plate belt, pearly-snaps stripped shirt,
soft leather ropers caked in dirt from the barn.
They rode. One man after another. And barely held on.

It made me happy to think I could achieve
an unbelievable ride on a bull, although mechanical.
I straddled my friend, rope wrapped around my fist,
and told them to turn it on. It was slow at first,
making sweet love to a hardened steel hull and then
in rhythmic rotations, a steel guitar purred in the background,
threw me to the stained mattress ground. I picked myself
up and found my beer and drank it all from the bottle.
And attested to their riding expertise. I studied.

I signed up again with a catch in my voice. I was
going to ride the bull. I felt an inner happiness.
Again, I find myself with reddened palm and sweat.
My thighs clamped tight, I could blend into the fight.
I am alive more than my friend, he was giving me the
experience of the ride. I became the wind, feather light,
a flag swaying, my spine disconnecting,
my bruised legs denting the body of my journey.
The music ended and I was still on.
I laughed because this woman rode the bull.

Saturday, January 8, 2011


Hand-knotted lace cloth--
tea-stained bodice
laced up to ethereal
bare shoulders-- creamy
skin, loose cameo curls,
peeking holes of desire,
candle light shadowing
the fire of her heart.
Unintended beauty
warms the affect, curves
of her working hands,
sculpting light melts into
the forgiving night.

Friday, January 7, 2011


Out my back door,
a sheet of icy slate
mantles the sleeping field,
beams slice through
peach and mango
hues, slight hip of
white cloud,
deep scratch of
blue across
bare back,
explosions of
splintered thoughts,
stripped branches
question the
endless sky.
My paintbrush--
the traveler of
intrinsic skill.