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Friday, July 29, 2011


Counting on the balance of the tides, the moon, and the sun, we are blessed. Thank God for my July.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown. T.S.Elliot

The Long Song of July

The sunrise gave me chills today;
the sun was kissing my face goodbye.
It’s Friday; I habitually pray.
It’s my last Friday in July.
Every 823 years,
my birthday is 8-23,
it is auspicious,
I believe. Life happens—
5 Fridays,
5 Saturdays,
5 Sundays in July.

My kids, flying kites,
jumping from pilings into the bay, back flips,
crabs biting tiny feet,
ankle bracelets,
beach combing collecting shells, or
dead horseshoe crabs named Mr. Shoe.
Dance parties turning zumba,
bike rides flying into adventures,
writing song lyrics, poetry, prose,
catching crabs, drinking beers,
eating lobsters and soft ice cream,
watching my 20th sunrise on Sunday with you.
Wave jumping, wave diving, boogie boarding,
belly laughing,
loving, oh so easy to love you,
formal dress equals bikini.
Ruby Jersey tomatoes and mac and cheese,
150’s exercise program, 2 minute plank,
showers outside in the rain,
sometimes under the stars;
how can I ever shower indoors?
Dolphins dancing, fish jumping
friends visiting,
sun setting, church bells ringing,
bong, bong, bong, I’ve so enjoyed the bells,
fine bottles of red wine,
sandy feet, sandy sheets,full moon,
gritty teeth, ocean owns salty hair, not a care,
front porch lounging, ocean breeze blowing.
I miss you with my body and soul.

Friday, July 22, 2011


I have been writing for the month of July at a beach house that is decorated in the original decor of the 50's. I could not help but think of the history that a kitchen table has seen, felt, and fed. Between swimming and cooking for my family, I wrote a poem for the past living in the present.

“Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title” Virginia Woolf

The Betty Crocker Life

On the margins,
written in #2 lead pencil
or blue ballpoint ink
cursive words form a second life
in The Big Red cook book. An icon
gifted from a mother to her wedded daughter
sometime in 1950 or was it '51? Notes
combined with cheery all-American recipes,
on the pages unfolds a family's history.

There was a baby boy born March of 1950.
The exact date of a son or a brother written
in the corner, a keystone in the arch
of freedom. Cloth diapers, next is war.

Kennedy was assassinated on 10/22,
a rainy Friday afternoon; there are
stains on the page for double pie crust.
Are they tear drops or fingertips of Crisco oil?
There are no faint hearts written upon
the burnished cook book paper.

The price of bread, the price of love,
the price of gas all noted on the column
where the meatloaf with mashed recipe is.
Lists of errands, phone numbers, dates
of deaths and births, measurements for
a vanilla cake with the exact baking time,
August 8th was the day the neighbor gave it.

What is hidden on the pages of a solitary
life? The history of the past, the mechanics
of two hands cooking in a kitchen,
momma’s words helping a soldier march
through the fields and one day he will go home
and on and on the words and numbers go,
and soon we will all go home.

White holidays and a questioning family,
the traditional brown gravy spills on embroidered
linen, mother’s wrinkled hand trembles and she stares
looking for responses to a thousand questions
hidden somewhere in the margins; a dictation
of her life mixed into misery’s crippled step
trying to make the basis for an old time recipe for
her family’s Sunday dinner in the 21 century.

Sunday, July 17, 2011


Faith... Have faith in the dances that you cherish as the moments move on.

“All lovers live by longing, and endure; summon a vision and declare it pure”
Theodore Roethke

Sun, Sand, and Moon

I confess to the calling as I am awakened from my dreams,
our iridescent morning is tiptoeing to the ocean’s consistent edge.

The awaiting vivaciousness of the eastern burgeoning sun;
the calm and steadfastness of the western moon settling.

Both are breathing just beyond the reach of my fingertips,
a polar parallel of tangerine cerise and pale fairuza.

Teasing, distracting, solemnly forgiving, a full lotus closing just as
the silver piercing arrives, they don't realize that each is chasing the other.

Simultaneously, the untamed are face to face in each other’s sky,
sharing the same heavens, the revolving pearl and the sun’s arriving heart.

An aching love affair wrapped in a beautiful symmetry. The sun
asks the moon to press his white face upon their eclipsed lips and kiss.

She is saturating his opal mind with a heated drawling shine
until his fullness is weak and waning and falling back into darkness.

Two universes share the lapis sky for only a short time. Their
interlude, their burden of knowing the fate of the other will fade,

only trying to get closer to one another’s destiny, an endless attraction,
the clockwise orbit of their love will never allow them to unite.

Two lovers meet at sunrise for a dance upon the beach
only having to separate when the silent internal music ends.

The pound in my chest ceases momentarily consummating my faith.
Confessing to me, when this day is over, night will start again.

Monday, July 11, 2011


Ahhh... Summer vacation at the beach.

If you wish to experience peace, provide peace for another.
Tenzin Gyatso, The 14th Dalai Lama

Ode to My Beach

I am watching the sun burst
through the nighttime blanket, pink and
sliver scales dancing over the ocean.

I am rising with the tides, days like blinks,
and study the constancy of ocean waves
moistening the rising auspicious heat.

I am digging my toes in the hot sand
and find later in the evening the cool
refined crystals feel like grains of silk.

I am walking in the summer rain,
holding my daughter's hands, and
we each feel and give the same peace.

I am swinging on the aged porch swing,
knowing how I have come home to
breath in the settled air of my life.

I am creating my future with words
and know it is not cloudy anymore
in the four chambers of my heart.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011


Like a tattoo forever on your flesh, connecting souls can leave the same mark. Each of us has our own way of remembering what our lives have blessed us with.

Strong characters are brought out by change of situation, and gentle ones by permanence. Jean Paul
Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Pablo Neruda

The Spanish Bee Keeper and Me

Yesterday we were crawling into a tent
under a blanket of heavy stars,
a dew soaked field and
the sounds of the night drumming
in our hearts, telling us
to pull each other closer,
to lock our breath,
to synchronize our heartbeats. In the heat,
me pretending he wasn't leaving,
he whispered that I was beautiful, and
my body is a map of my life. All in
a night we didn't want to end.

A kiss, an embrace and no promises--
only hopes and dreams and ink marks my
memories of the dusty Georgia road.
The wind of our motorcycle ride vibrating
another line of history across my flesh.
Our sensual dip in the sacred river of time,
a fire he started with a rock and a knife
to illuminate the beginning of our endless night.
I got a Spanish bee tattoo kissing my
shoulder. He is the only bee keeper
enduringly etched onto my heart.

The morning sun, the stolen night,
we said good-bye, but we meant
see you later on the island or
on the farm, or on the road.
I told him I’d miss him.
He told me he loved me.
Firmly planted
on his bike, he left the tattoo shop.
I watched him drive away with
one last kiss on my lips and
his angelic totem hovering over a red poppy.
Pain lingering on my artistic witness, I
felt a loss, a tenderness
I had forgotten I possessed all leaving
my heart sinking more than I imagined.
I ask, is anything permanent?
Nothing but besos y flores
spoken by a Spanish bee.