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Friday, April 29, 2011


May I quote myself: Know who you are and there you will find yourself.

“Independence - is loyalty to one's best self and principles, and this is often disloyalty to the general idols and fetishes” Mark Twain

Attracted to Royal Nectar

In escalating silence, Madame was significantly bold,
waiting, waiting, obsessing,
on crimson heart beats and blossoming love.

Intended for permanence, her passion jets in, guided
by the wind and wraps her gossamer wings around a
hummingbird’s fluttering heart, leaving her


Emerald feathers flush in solemn crucifixion,
her nature leads her, her wings of age define her,
and her hovering pain equals the weight of her tears.

Wings perfectly folded, two black pools stare, refraining
an urge to preen, and search for purple and yellow and
red nectar flowers, an undeniable urge to be her,


Blue trails of wake crash into passions chest petrifying
the truth that secretly exists, a surprising vortex
of feelings like impressionistic paintings

suspended between the wood and the air
solidifying a hummingbird’s plea and un papillion’s
desires. The two question where their next sip of nectar lives.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011


The memories of childhood can sometimes flood into our conscious world and I ask myself, why? Why do all of the sudden we remember something we have not thought about in decades? Is it a lesson that has implanted itself in our minds? That we need for our futures? Does that make life an arranged journey? So many questions and I have come up with this one answer for me, so I can write poetry!

“Intellectual growth should commence at birth and cease only at death”
Albert Einstein

The Tracks of the Cornfield

Mesmerizing cornfields
in Maryland,
open car windows,
we drove on
traffic free roads until rising
in the distance was a diner,
The Paper Moon Kitchen,
which shared the dry
over-farmed, forgotten earth--
the soft brutality of life.
I was a kid, 12 or so
years of precious life,
1 harvest or so after
my father’s death.

Through tall August grass,
the creamy brown
kind that tickles your legs
as you skip through it,
sat a deserted and dented
black freight train cart;
an insignificant tombstone
standing solitary in a
neighboring field.

Sitting at the square table,
blue checkered curtains,
the grownups talk in code.
The 5 of us are released with
legs in full throttle,
stinging blades of dried grass
slapping any bare flesh;
we approach the carcass
of forgotten locomotion,
leaving tears far behind us.

We descend upon our train cart
climbing inside, on top
like a congregation
of cawing crows.
We talked of trips to freedom as a
dry summer breeze came through
the broken bare windows;

I stare and pray for my freedom
as I imagine my leather luggage
stored in the outside compartment,
and how my train was moving
into my future
I asked the conductor,
“How long is this trip to somewhere?”
as I fixed my bonnet and
straightened my plaid skirt
while sitting on a dusty wood
floor of the shell of a cart.

The dry air moved through
a train that did not travel,
like the stillness of a
storming summer heat.
I see the reality of
the steal in a weathered train,
the cracking erosion of red paint
snippets of our lives,
home to times wrinkles,
a memory of a passing life.

The sun starts to set in rays of
burnt orange and caramelized yellow;
a mother’s call is carried by the wind.
We all climb back into the
paneled station wagon and leave.
Many see nothing but a train,
a myriad of images
with emotion stuck on them
and if you chose to ride your life for
someone else, you pass your own.

Sunday, April 24, 2011


All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full.
To the place the streams come from,there they return again. Ecclesiastes 1:7

I love the way the world works whether it is the omnipotent spiritual nature or the earthly steadiness of life. I believe with each breath, we have the opportunity for change, with each step we have a choice to move forward, and with each life time the blessing to learn. Taking all of our experiences and blending them into a balance of holding on and letting go with a bit of prayer to aide us might be called life.

Every act of creation is first an act of destruction. Pablo Picasso

A Hidden Miracle

We pray as the used
amniotic world splashes to the floor,
shiny blue squares under foot,
a soul emerges from another Cosmos.
A blooming red bud,
rivers turned to blood,
a new born, the first growing breath,
a wrinkled chin pushes to heaven,
saying goodbye,
with every thought we pray.

And with every thought
we pray--
pray for the blend of gods,
the black spotted sky of birds,
green grasses growing out
of cracked cement in the ghetto,
tiny spiders spinning webs,
weaving patterns of our invisible soul,
our slow rotating earth communing
with your beating heart,
pounding steady inside creation,
reverberating inside the cowhide drum,
universal ribbons connecting our
prayer reeds rising in a wet marsh.
With every thought we pray.

We pray as a mother prays for purity
in life’s first bloom of birth;
silence enters, holy waters touch,
as she holds her own exhausted lungs,
and her tears blend into seas,
the salt of times many oceans.
A school of fish swim into
the dark underworld, alone.
We exist and then we are gone.
The perfection of life.
We pray and begin again.

Thursday, April 21, 2011


Let it be said: I seek the muse and pray she is in love with me.-- Tracy Greenlee

At any rate, let us love for a while, for a year or so, you and me. That's a form of divine drunkenness that we can all try. -:-F. Scott Fitzgerald

Fingers Fall on Keys and Then on Me

Long, bony fingers play sideways
pounding fear into white keys,
soft black keys speak seduction,
notes flowing mysteriously,
eerily different to me,
melodies pushing into me,
coaxing me to fix love.
It will break your heart, if you still have one

A wooden piano bench supports a
black cotton shirt, a second skin to
a composer’s curling shoulders,
slowly the piano player is
slipping into the metronome of self.
It will break your heart, if you still have one.

Your tune of truth, reversing rest,
your neck bows, lips part, time flows,
words ribbon, foot drums, eyes glazed,
and your fingers and back and soul
evolve into a broken love song.
It will break your heart, if you still have one.

You are possessed by the song;
you are solitary in the stone room.
Your solo spotlight is burning, rearranging
over and over again as your psyche plays.
You flip the music sheets like years,
you play rhythms to suit your moods.
It will break your heart, if you still have one.

And my Halcyon days sway in and out,
inside love and contemplation and still I wait,
until you try and hearken back to another time.
It will break your heart, if you still have one.
When you try and find me,
it will bring you heart, if you still want one.

Sunday, April 17, 2011


Happy Birthday to my dear friend Linda and my new friend Chris.

Through our walkabouts in life, may we always find the answers to mysteries and love in friendships. May we find the one thing that brings us happiness and let it lead us on the unknown path to our truth. This poem is the description of a man seeking the mysteries in a life we may not all see. The life of a man.

“I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”
Robert Frost

The Walkabout Gentleman

On the train, wet lips whisper seductively,
a muffled whistle is consumed by the wind.

Eyes watch crowds of barren trees standing
in winter woods, waiting for spring it seems.

The pristine hotel, “Good Evening Sir,” neutral
hallways slowly collide, pushing the gentleman

into time and memory. Boots hunger for the crisp
city streets, a red light shines, there is pause;

what does the gentleman take in? What does
he leave alone or contemplate? He is drawn to

a white sheer curtain in a second story window,
blue jazz, fighting, rituals, lovers, and stories.

It is his midnight walkabout luring him and
teaching him the intricacies of his fertile mind.

He turns down West 20th, a diner winks “Open”,
a movie of sorts called the secret life of a man.

It is a sporadic interruption from his daily life;
it is a customary walk of an aborigine’s heroic life.

A horn screams from a yellow taxi cab, a manhole
spits steam, a tall woman is wandering, he is on foot

alone. It is the walkabout he chooses to fade into,
the gripping songline of his need for experience.

Why do any of us go for a walkabout through an
unknown wilderness like it is our inner most home?

Friday, April 15, 2011


All my life I have had the fortunate habit of staring. I am fascinated by the way people interact, how they dress, what their mannerisms are, their eclectic personalities, and how intrinsically different and yet the same we all are. Do some staring today and see what you can learn about yourself and the person you are staring at.

The writer should never be ashamed of staring. There is nothing that does not require his attention. Flannery O'Connor

Park Bench

On a dedicated park bench
I watched a man just stare,
Staring into the air,
staring into colored leaves
memorizing something unseen,
staring around the barren branches,
staring into moving water,
where the fallen leaf once was
floating. He was staring.

Today I found my self
on a cement step staring.
Not at the trees or
their magnificent colored leaves,
not the brown brittle oak leaf
shaking like an aged hand
falling quietly to its end,
not at the creek that effortlessly
flows. I was staring.

I was staring inside myself
Watching my heart beat,
With my staring eyes open
feeling the coarse of my hair,
I was staring inside my being
Asking it for answers to questions
that I hoped age would answer.
I was staring at my tattered soul
wondering what went wrong
And what I think I found out is
we all stare.

I was staring like people I watched,
and realized we all have questions,
we all have sadness and loneliness,
or a broken heart that is bleeding
staring brings silence in solace,
sometimes tears running like rivers
or colors of unwanted choices or
a moment of discarded emptiness.
We all were sitting and staring
waiting for our answers.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011


The story starts at home. Even though the structure may not withstand the rigors of time, the energy of home is locked within our hearts, and that is where the story begins. The ghost of this Susquehanna house still lives inside my mind as someone's home every time I drive by.

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Robert Frost

Demolished Home

Last night,

I drove down Susquehanna
and your hazy road shivered,
as I recalled, where your lonely
dignity once stood proud.

Palpable white and silver stones piled
near, lingering echoes of crashing memories,
mortared phantom dust settling on
a disappearing silent home.

A child playing hopscotch on a
hot sidewalk,
ice-cream dripping, making patterns
of splintered star bursts,
red and yellow tulips,
cracking the green earth,
blessing your door step:
all vanishing in one day.

And in the moonlight,
searching the arc of your site,
a bony tree waves goodbye
and I bless your vacant

Saturday, April 9, 2011


I have learned about the power that lives inside of me by the way the season change, by the way the world changes, and by the way I change. I know that power is a matter of my mind, a matter of my soul, and a matter of my strength. I trust a feeling of peace in my heart because it comes from honoring my womanhood.

Women are like teabags. We don't know our true strength until we are in hot water! Eleanor Roosevelt


Every morning, about this time,
a church resting about a mile from here,
rings their bells. A lawn of
apple trees, heavy with fruit,
bless the manicured grass.
Colliding pregnant clouds
mosaic the rich blue of the sky.

The church structured from
gray rectangular bricks,
planks of hard wood,
a black medieval door, a steeple
housing the flared dome of vertical music,
all equally rich in their tone,
know nothing is permanent.

When it's breezy, as it is this morning,
I can hear the echo of the bells,
a practiced toll
whispering your name in my body,
allowing me to believe in
the beauty of the universe.

I am drinking red wine in bed,
knowing the breeze this morning,
with you--
sharing the dance of church bells
feeling the damp changing air
warm, kind mottled earth,
visiting my square window.

Under the white sheets,
the downy-soft cream of feathers,
I watch you,
as you
slowly, as to not miss the silky bouquet
of swaying berries drawn to your lips, and
shimmering tendrils worship
your regal purple cheek bones,
laying in lassitude, I am
struck by being a woman.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011


Touch the intimate quietness of your heart and in that moment, find peace.

"They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered."
— F. Scott Fitzgerald

Two Bodies

Come lay with me
on mirrored sheets
of time,
cotton worn thin from weight and oil.
Come lay with me
and blend your body into
the warm core of mine,
come lay with me and
quiet the squalls
of screaming words.
Skin to skin,
two breaths,
nursing baby,
red grape into wine,
water soaking into earth,
a blanket stealing a chill—
come lay with me
and make me forget,
forget my troubles of the day.

Saturday, April 2, 2011


Through my research of Paris in the 1930's, I found the nocturnal pleasures of Paris luring me to want to learn more about it. A whole universe lived under the cover of darkness, a shower of violet sparks. Could the mysteries of another way of life be devoured simply by reading about it or does it have to be lived to truly understand it? Is it out of necessity or out of want?

“The artist never entirely knows. We guess. We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark.” Agnes De Mille

The Secret Femme of Paris

Is it night time yet, kiss curl?
devourer of the dark,
gray smoke spiraling,
scavenger doves
picking at the cobble
stone streets,
white breasts skimming
black tuxedos,
enchanting beguine.

A towering gas lamp
a beehive of artists and
buzzing and proclaiming
Parisian mysteries--
dance halls and cafes,
blood-red lights
reigning Joan of Arc.

Flowing incense from far away,
surreal portraits,
cubism countries,
impressionistic policies,
loves’ debauchery,
poetic prophesies
of a frenzied city spinning
in a tornado of coquetry.

Is it morning yet, naiad ?
The naked silence of drunken bodies
mirrors the sumptuous
sacrifice to the Sapphic alter,
a warm cayenne current
rippling to a slow
fidelity of affairs.