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Sunday, February 27, 2011


What are our definitions of creativity? Are we like street artists who have to be like guerrilla fighters--painting on the streets with minimal supplies, being watched as they create, being part of the tourist experience. Creating is an intimate act, and yet like voyeurism, we like to watch something as intimate as the process of inspiration and then creation. I suppose some wish they could paint or write or compose and what about the lovers of art, can they be a part of the process, the internal skeleton of creation? Can that be enough to keep the process going? The I Ching reads...

Before the beginning of great brilliance, there must be chaos. Before a brilliant person begins something great, they must look foolish to the crowd.

A Touch of Magenta One Afternoon

A confetti breeze is felt on a
gingerbread storybook street;
a luminous easel refracts
magenta from a mackerel sky.
A Machiavellian man,
a seraph of art,
paints from a somber palette,
hidden behind
a misconduct of reverence,
his nameless vice—
a nude woman.

Nestled close and woven,
observers matched in
committed fabric,
two women watch
the artist work; they are illuminated
by the moon, entwined arms, entwined breath.
Single words expose what they feel--
beauty, fluidity, passion, art--
All while sharing the affinities
of a tortoise shell hair clip.

Standing sealed, holding an
elbow to perilous advantage,
a compass of confessions,
a bright light of exposure,
a complementary portrait of
a silenced woman,
fragile as quiet lovers.

Art is a stroll, a beautiful place
on a public street of Paris; heat
fills hearts with infinite possibilities,
love is as elemental as color like paint
layered onto Sappho’s easel.
A brunette and a blond—roman a clef,
they hold their fears through the equinoxes.

The nude--a polarized myriad of surfaces
emerges off the face of the canvas.
Their minds—fractured
and overlapping with reasons.
No white purity of diversity while
allowing a tender joining;
beads hung low into
the cleavage of discovery,
all sewn into the
internal seam of a woman.
Once they’ve seen enough,
still arm and arm, they move on.

Thursday, February 24, 2011


We think we are seeing images, as they are, as we think they should be, or as our brain would like them to be. I find the mystery of perception to be fascinating. I find the world of creativity transformation into art compelling. I wrote The West Bank about Her Mother's Lover, (the novel Rachelle, my writing partner and I have laboriously given our souls too), as a artistic expression of the time period. In Paris, 1930, life was a mixture of art, feminine coquetry, literature, and dance all joined in one of the sacred temples of Montparnasse. As Hemingway said-- "If you are lucky enough to have been in Paris, then where ever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast." Allow this poem to move its erotic energy like a dance set to words and let it feast on your soul.

West Bank

A place of faces, underground,
pearls and ties share
souls of the
same kind. Stemmed
glasses of wine,
rocks in
bourbon or rye.

The lover sits at a small
round table, focused
on her other self.
Tango music arouses,
a pearlescent hand
from a French-cuffed sleeve
swirls caramel liquor, a burn
curling in the air--
A sultry masculine art.
Small shoulders held tall,
black leather belt
enhancing a curved waist,
and a white pressed shirt.

She is standing,
partnering a zinc bar,
Onyx slip-dress
opened dangerously low
to the small of her back,
delicate muscles
under her pale skin.
Waves of sienna hair pulled tight
in a French knot;
charcoal eyes,
crimson-stained lips,
swan chin,
shoulders soft-- her
lost femininity found.

Over her shoulder,
with an earnest gaze she
meets her lover’s eyes,
back suggestively curved,
charming smiles exchanged
“aime-moi, l'amant,” she mouths.

From the lover’s seat
she is driven,
compelled by
their secret.

Standing and drawn across the floor,
gliding through the air, cologne’s
breath wraps around
a familiar silhouette.
The lover has
memorized her flesh;
knowing fingertips
slowly slips inside her dress,
marrying her sensitive waist.

“Will you have a drink with me,”
her lover adjusts her tie,
her hazel eyes fixed
on the lips of yes, fingers
slip her necklace to her back.
Tiny pearls roll over her spine.

The woman in the onyx dress
is guided by her lover and she
languidly sits, her
fingertips smooth her lover’s
black trousers.
Her neck holds a strand of pearls.
She lowers her eyes from her lover,
her thoughts glazed from the heat
of conventionally known ways;
she is sure their legs are touching.

Others, masculine and feminine,
fill the sumptuous salon.
Her lover orders
her a Kir Royale.
Red lips touch glass with the softness
of letting go, hand holding the solid
stem of a flute.
Love fills their veins
with the sweetness
of shared beauty.

“Will you dance with me?”
Her lover whispers,
lips tender to the cup of
her ear.

Breath caught and with a smile,
she nods her head yes. Rising and
looking into her lover's eyes,
the sky opens wide,
the secret is broken.
Souls are free,
body to body moving,
slow dancing.
Her head lies on her
lover’s shoulder,
she breathes slowly,
slowly, slowly.

It is a surreal moment lost
in the West Bank of Paris as
souls wrap
the underground and turn

Monday, February 21, 2011


There is something HOT about heat when it is 7 degrees outside and snowing, and I am warm inside. Recently I have been fascinated by the power of the sun and the comforts of warmth and the sheer power of heat. Heat lives in cycles, in races, in love, in fire, in explosives, and in the invisible power of the hot transferring into the cold body. Heat spontaneously gives pleasure, power and warning until all is equal.
Heat cannot be separated from fire, or beauty from the Eternal. Dante.

Heat Shivers in Equilibrium

Heat breaks boundaries, thermodynamics,
latent and sensible forms taken for granted.
Fire, water, love, a momentary hot spell

breaking through polished sand, heating inside,
exploding outside, blushing pink flesh. Heat
fused between bodies burrowed under bed sheets,

passion heats within a kiss, the hot iron of a
skillet, heat from the sun transferring and flowing,
heat inside your mind craving droplets of living.

Your heart beats inside heat, 98.6, homeostasis.
Strong fingers rub heat into bones, blood moving
and turning her beauty into soft bodies of liquid

and lost within another thought, she becomes solid.
She opens her ceiling of another universe, seeking
the zenith, she transports into other heated forms.

Yellow heat lives inside eyes closed, it is hot.
A U of beach chairs in the middle of a living room,
the fervor of spinning molecules repels sleep, leaving

a room full of bodies in heat. Outside in the cold, silver
branches wait for spring and a black crow with oiled
feathers is perched motionless in the gray of the sky.

Heat escapes as blowing steam from nostrils;
a female red fox mainlines across fields of snow.
Hot blooded muscles frame fur-covered mass.

The heat of red wine settles down throats, raw heated
conversations, a fireplace consumes and returns warmth,
trees are flattered by the continuation of the seasons.

In nature, outside our bodies--inside our hearts,
Mother nature is a driving force on earth,
a spontaneous disambiguation of the final heat.

Turning Pages: LYRICS AND LIFE

Turning Pages: LYRICS AND LIFE: "IN HIS LIFE   John Lennon had magic in his mind.  His words and music brought people together, challenged them.  He stuc..."

I love the mix of emotion and passion, Roe you are an inspiration. Check out my friends new blog... She is a writer too.

Friday, February 18, 2011


Live in the moment. Feel the perfection of knowing you are exactly where you are supposed to be-- Ahh, yes. Appreciate your own beauty, allow chocolate to melt slowly on your tongue, smell the thawing earth, know who your friends are and tell them, and of course drink wine with them. Each day truly is a gift. Each day we have a choice to forgive and learn and change as we live in the present moment.

Enjoy yourself. It's later than you think. ~Chinese Proverb


In the body of an airplane,
freedom over state lines,
lost in pillows of
white clouds;

in the bottom of a glass
of dark red wine,
the chocolate slowly
melts inside
her mouth;

her lips, full, inviting,
enough to bite,
to taste the hidden
moment of life.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011


I am anticipating an early spring break, the budding crocus, the tender scent of melting earth, the turn in weather to be a dependable truth, but as a little girl has taught me, we can not judge the outside until we understand the inside. Some how we want life to give and yet it is all changing with a swift swing of words or wind or ways. Like a tea party set up on an outside table in the final light of a winter afternoon, we hope things will remain as they are until the morning, they might not be-- The world can change, people can change, we can change. Today, let us be present and know to enjoy the moment. Let us learn before we judge.

Pink Plastic Tea Party

On a Tuesday afternoon in February
when the weather is unpredictable,
when the earth is soggy with melting snow,
when the sun is on her slow faithful turn--
all defrosting her hibernating soul;
a little girl sets a tea party for four.

Moon follows and window
frames begin rattling,
heat pipes start banging;
waning leaves keep blowing,
no one noticing the carefully
placed tea party prepared
that day in the yard.

Each precisely placed plastic plate
swirls through the swollen night;
the dreams of imaginary playmates
tumble across the first scent of spring;
crocus silently pushing begin to emerge.

And on waking,
the groggy face
of a five year old
looks out the kitchen window
and discovers, under the
sepia sky, that life changes
with one swift hand
of the hissing wind.

Sunday, February 13, 2011


I have finally set up my own facebook account. I know, I know, so many thought I was a face book hater. I am not, well not anymore. Earlier in the week I witnessed a little boy doing something very sweet yet made me question how we interact. His endearing act inspired me to write Friend Me.I have battled the web vs. the physical contact of friends and it was one of the reasons I shied away from the social network. Now, I see the change in the world and how we have learned to communicate in new ways. Since we are friends, cause you are reading my blog presently and maybe read something I wrote on facebook, feel free to share my poetry and Friend Me!


It‘s a stomach virus
invading my house,
so I drive right to
Rite Aid to buy

a water bottle and Tums
for the upset stomach of
my nine year old daughter.

In line, in front of me, is a
little boy pulling at his
mother; shunned, he
looks at life differently,
patiently waiting for his toy.

His attention is attracted by
the magazine rack and
finally he settles on a face,
a mug shot, I might say,
of a man with
blue topaz eyes who is
staring eye level with him.
In a quiet mantra,
I hear the boy whisper--

“Your face,
a nice face you have.
I give you a kiss,
on nice lips, you have.” And
he kisses the face on the paper,
a picture looking oddly like a
computer screen.
“You have nice lips.”
The little boy continued to say,
to the freckled man
on the cover of Time magazine.

This face, on display, on
the cover of a magazine.
His face, a possible facebook picture.
THE face--
that taught the
world to be connected,
was awarded
the man of the year
at the swollen age of 26.

I can’t stop staring at the boy.
Does he think he is the real McCoy ?
I think his mom is facebooking; she fiddles
with her smart phone,
the cashier behind the counter
is counting on a lull… so he can do it too.

“It’s a nice face.” I hear
the 5-year old boy
say. “You have a nice face.”
And he kissed the face
once more. He stares at
the glossy picture, perched
like the head of a mannequin
on the silver metal magazine rack.

It’s Mark Zuckerberg, who
created an open information flow,
revolutionized and minimized, I realize.

The miniature gold-framed glasses,
balanced on a four-foot frame
reflects the face of
the youngest billionaire onto this boy--
not blocked by an internet firewall.

It’s cool to be a social net worker,
to jump the fence as a philanthropist and
a web protégée with almost a Harvard degree all
in the year of 2010, also studying Mandarin Chinese.
Can we guess why? I figure it is

nothing the little boy shouldn’t understand as
he stood there kissing a man with a nice face.
He is not misunderstood, he is free and knows--
we all want to be accepted,
to be friended, not unfriended, to be connected,
to be virtually touched, even if it is by a
face on the web or the cover of a magazine.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011


"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."

It is in our memories that we realize our lives have meaning. Memories are so important no matter how old you are or how many years have passed to recall them. Can we consider ourselves blessed if we can remember? My father passed when I was just 11, my memories are few, although they live strong in my heart. He was a powerful man who burned himself into the recollections of many untouched by time. My fathers favorite Plato quote was said enough times to etch the words upon his urn.

When men speak ill of thee, live so that nobody will believe them. --Plato


Sitting on a polished dock,
four dangling bare feet hang,
he weaves rope into
loops for cleats for his boat.
A taper candle burns between them,
standing in a puddle of
hardened white wax.
Nylon line singed on the
tips of his burned finger prints;
he does not even cringe,
as her father marries
frayed strands of rope
creating a noose.
She sits in silence with him
and waits for his approval,
he thinks of work,
she breaths in his sandalwood scent.

He moves in discipline,
as the girl memorizes
the meditation of his heart, and he
masters the ritual of his weave,
her bent legs swing in rhythm,
she stares.
Beads of sweat roll down his temple;
a mallard duck floats by,
looking for scraps left behind,
pushing his orange beak
through the brown Chesapeake.

His massive fingers braid shiny threads
until all ends become blended
into one rope spliced by two hands;
she braids her long hair,
pretending her hands are his.
The nylon melts, burning black,
sending little curls of smoke to
seal the fate of a secure loop.
She watches
the candle die, alone with the
setting sun, on the dock with the boats.

Sunday, February 6, 2011


I woke up last Thursday morning knowing I had to visit my mother in the hospital and then at nine o'clock I got the call from the school nurse. The day turns from morning to blur. With all the energy of life flooding my veins, I have to cover the care for my mother and be a mother to my son. His heart. The struggle of my childhood, the challenge of my adulthood, the source of beating life. It is all in our hearts, in the steady beat of our existence. It is what links us through generations. A grandmother, a mother, and a son.

Irregular Heart Beats

Bump, bump, bump, skip a beat.

A beaten ring murmurs from the grungy house phone.
A call from the school nurse--your son, please don’t worry,
has an irregular heart beat--I detected it at a routine exam,

here in the high school health suite. One, two, three,
irregular arrhythmia. I sent him back to class.
You should call his physician immediately.

Bump, bump, bump, skip a beat.

The Bell phone, with the umbilical cord attached to the wall,
shook in my hand; we never answer this line. I retreat.
My son inherited the broken heart of my father--I repeat in my mind.

Hopscotch, pig tails, running free, playing babies, ambulances
searing emotion into my spinal cord; I look up from pretending--
“Your father is going to the hospital, again.” My mother said.

The tightness in my chest demands my return to my full-
grown body--bump, bump, bump, bump. My heart is fine.
I live in the shadow of a throbbing silhouette of sorrow.

Through the phone receiver, a voice continues to whisper,
words like heart beats and skipping, irregularities and doctors,
all past history alarming my chambers, stifling my faith in mothering.

Bump, bump, bump, skip a beat.

I hang up the phone gently. Trembling still, the steady
beat reminds me, burning tears choke me,
my heart a Cartesian diver measuring the pressure.

Electrical impulses in his heart that coordinate his heart beats
don’t function properly, the pediatric cardiologist explains to me.
An EKG and an echocardiogram and a halter monitor, and we will plan.

Bump, bump, bump, skip a beat.

Sticky leads and wires. Fluttering red lines scratched on paper.
No irregularities. A cool dark room, warm gel, birds singing, Doppler,
ultrasound screen, electrodes, my son is lying shirtless, and I witness his heart beating.

The chambers are filling, the chambers are emptying; I am looking inside
the body of my son, looking inside his heart , one heart beating, and all I see
is an ultrasound of my baby inside of me, moving and beating in steady rhythm.

My son is living his life, sometimes with an indiscretion. I touch his head
gently, and I watch the direction of his blood, blue and red,
flood and squeeze and dance like a fetus, an entire life pumping continuously.

I listen to the lob-dub the muscle is making, the quiet chirp of the
electronic bird behind me, bump, bump, bump. I take a moment to breathe.
I am filled with meaning, with mothering, with what a heart provides--love.

Bump, bump, bump.

I take my eyes from the screen and look at my son, his body taller than mine,
chest hair, strong arms, blue eyes, he is my history and with two hearts,
I hear bump, bump, bump, bump. A perfect steady beat inside of him and me.

Thursday, February 3, 2011


Am I ready for death?
I sat in my mothers hospital room in a gray pleather chair; the respective place for a visitor or a daughter. She slept and slept the pain away from her back surgery; I waited in silence. Not that death is knocking on either of our doors, but I was compelled to ask myself the question? Am I ready for death or to experience death? Um...NO! Death is funny in hospitals. I rub my mothers head, and think. It lingers in the walls the way drunks hang at corner bars. I feel it everywhere, an institution for recovering health, and this leads me to think of how the human body has this miraculous talent to heal itself. And...the invisible drive to go on. It is the secret human power and when you feel the shimmer of life force, inside you, you know it is not your time.


The essence of what is left--
lingering, singing, laughing;
even in the coffin, her
energy feels like breathing.
Dirt on wood, wings escorting
a soulful journey--
shadows of emotions living
in recesses of quiet mornings.

Is it in death, we find life? Or
in life, we see the invisible?

Tuesday, February 1, 2011


Where does inspiration come from? How are we able to link what we see, our experiences, and what we touch, and turn it into paintings or poetry or song or dance? I, as a writer, have disciplined myself to step aside and allow the muse to flow through me. I believe we are each a work in progress and should practice living presently, and with that, try to pick pieces of life out of each day, whether positive or negative, and turn those experiences into something that creates meaning to all our lives. I challenge you to find inspiration in your day and create meaning from it. I am the POET. May the muse be with you. P.S. I took the picture below when I was in Paris at an American book store, I thought the irony in it.

Painter, Poet, and Priest

In difficulty, my vigilance helps maintain my strength,
I sit in the second seat next to the water fountain,
a fluorescent prayer candle helps illuminate my sanity.
Gates of seats, mine is also next to the magazine rack,
I face the front of the reception desk; I watch patients
being greeted by an elderly woman. Please take a seat.

Under construction, the hospital is, a painter
wearing white Sherman-William pants, covers
black marks left from gurneys and carts and
rubber tires of wheel chairs with white paint.
I sit, as my mother is being prepped, and on his way
to another place, the painter stops at my row of seats.
He casually asks if I am deep in thought and if I am okay.
“I am passing time,” I say. He understands. Life is long.

It is the look on my face? Is it the waiting room?
Is it the white paint I need to cover the dark worry?
Is it a life time of visits for the grace of my parents?
A priest comes along, white collar, concerned compassion.
“You are in deep thought. Are you okay?” I really start to
wonder; I look down and check to see if my white shirt
is unbuttoned. Can they see into my broken heart?

I shift in my seat and think about a drink--
not from the water fountain, and answer,
“It is a short procedure.”
“Is it serious?”
“It’s not death.”
“I understand.”
Does the priest see the cloak of loss on my face?
Does he think I should let God whiten my way?
Maybe the painter and the priest are special today
because all I want to do is poetically capture their peace.