Thursday, June 28, 2012

back to the future

Remember those notes you passed in junior high ?
( yes, I said junior high. not middle school. )
( ages me, I know .... )
yeah, yeah .... those notes . . .
between girlfriends - boyfriends ... wanna-be-boyfriends. But some where down the line, one was always intercepted . nabbed by some saggy, scary study hall teacher ... and it was always a bad one ... either about making out, smoking weed, or cutting class. and shit hit the proverbial fan . .
those notes.
I am slightly uncomfortable with social media, and the forum it presents for discourse. particularly when it comes to those things that ... well, not-so-long ago ... would be done only face-to-face ... or over the phone for the passive aggressive approach.
we loose the nuances of expression, the non-verbal cues, the passion that lies underneath things .... and well. let's be honest .... I'm not one to shy away from confrontation ... I can say what I mean ... but am amazed how fucked up things get, and well, it's like those notes ... you just wish you had said less, more ... or said it better, not said it at all, or at least passed it thru Jordan instead of Karen . . somehow ... got it right.
but, every day , we see on blogs & fb ... the friend quarrel, the family squabble, the back & forth sniping between siblings or spouses.
we also rant from our sparkly pink unicorns ... pushing the visual or verbal envelope ... are we hoping to raise awareness, or are we merely strapped in on some virtual roller-coaster-mirror-ball-ego-ride.
I don't know ....
I like my pink sparkly unicorn ..
I think I can sometimes see a clear way to the balance, the clearest, brightest path.
it has also bit me in the ass. words turned, and not heard. intent forgotten, or lost in the boiling of blood.
tonight, I am thinking about my father ... how he stood up to injustice & segregation. how he continually pushed me to be more, to take notice & pay attention. he was never a bully . . but he was Irish fierce with a poets heart ... a champion of the under-dog. a champion for me.
tonight, I am thinking about my daughter. she is not what she seems ... but ohhh so much more. she is beautiful, and irish-welsh fierce ( that's my mom showing up ! )
she is an artist at heart, and a champion of the under-dog.
tonight, she has grappled with a wing of the family over social media in a way that made me proud of her, breathless & stunned by her savvy, class & humor. she was succinct ... could not have said it better.
and i was simultaneously shocked, pissed and heart-broken over the way family continually allows their political or religious agenda to trump love.
I should quit being surprised by the behavior of people .... but I'm too busy riding my sparkly pink unicorn.
meanwhile, my daughter has become her own champion.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012


evening falls
and it carries upon it the barest chill & trace bird song
fleeting dusk it is ....
and it removes us from the coarse, narrow existence of our day ...
allowing us to 
as the chill settles about the green-growing-things 
and scarlet bruising of my knowing heart....
wait for me ...
just beyond that curious twisted tree ...
as i am meant to hold that hand
& tender your worries ...
slow your pace and
for me 

as i discovered the strength & ability to wait for you ....

Monday, June 25, 2012

One Lovely Blog Award

I love circles, and the swirling-nautilus of connection that can happen in a blink of an eye,  a turn of a page,  over the tic-tocking of a day …. I was tagged into One Lovely Blog Award by L. Dean Pace-Frech.  L. Dean's blog is prairie-sky-wide : in subject & heart …. leading one into true love & the silly, turtles & ruby slippers. & the dust of every day .
Read it in the morning, and fill up your heart.

Now, the rules for this are to pass this honor on to 15 fellow-bloggers … and to write 7 things about myself ,,,
do they have to be actual, real things … or can i invent some stuff up ??
Almost every blogger i know is in the middle of some wee event ; some cosmic, personal shift or crisis ….. and i might be killed if i were to tap them in without first going thru some transcendent vetting thingy ,,,

so, i may add some of you word warriors at a later date … but let's get this 7 thing over  . . .

7 things … ok.

1. i write because i have to ,,,,  it's just there making my socks wet & my senses full.

2. i could exist on water with lemon, fresh bread & olive oil & escargot.  Oh, and beignets …

3. i have 3 dogs … stella, huckleberry & wylie (coyote) ….

4. i have one child …. daisy.  i love her to pieces -  to the moon & back.!!
she is so much more than i bargained for, and everything i could ever wish for ,,,,

5. i like : tattoos, johnny depp, bracken, beowulf, mr. darcy & tom robbins, the night sky, dear friends, the smell-you-get-in-the-moutains-that-fills-your-soul, i soak up stuff,  & i like coffee - rich, dark coffee

6. margaritas =  my summer drink.  on the rocks. no salt.

7. my husband ❤….  a cowboy at heart ….

8. it is a hot, wet-sticky-green, over-cast day ,,,,

Yes  . .  that is actual 8 things ,,, and maybe a wee bit more, because i tend to over-acheive on mondays.

stay tuned ….. 

1.  DiAnne Ebejer

2. Niamh Clune

of course … 

3. L. Dean Pace-Frech 

Saturday, June 23, 2012

new moon

opalescent sliver
fragility outlined by night
exquisite whisper of light
celestial tempest drawn delicately thin
barely substantial
yet ..
so there
in the west so piercingly bright
rising ... rising ...
seeming to magnify
from inconsequential things :
particles of dust, storms & days
sorrow, forgiveness & clouds haze
funny ....
how very almost-not-there
it is
yet ...
it remains always illuminated
gravity held
waning ...
jumping cows & mischief makers,
storytellers & film-makers,
astronauts & huckleberry friends,
spectral visions, midnight riders
that love that knows no end

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

The Butterfly Effect . . .

As a wee seed of PluM TRee BooKS , I was asked to join in a blog tour for The BuTTerFLy EffecT , along with a cocoon full of poets, artists, photographers, storytellers, fortune tellers & roustabouts …. promoting those small ripples we create that can change the world . .  
I am perpetually honored, humbled & stunned by the craft & heart of this group … follow, dip, dive & FLY in … the time has come !!!

IN Summer's Solstice we pause & breathe . . .
recalling the thunder toil of Spring's release 
ordinary becomes the divine 
 we suck the marrow in every step 
reach for something fine , , ,

Nectar sweet lies under skin taunt & ripe 
indigo plum with a sparrow's bite 
in ego's surrender 
don't look down - only imagine the tender 

touch . . 
we hold, we ponder 
plums & gamma rays
a hand, a heart
… a story 
the the cost to stay 

In Summer's Solstice 
we pause & breathe . . . 
awaiting thunder 
tucked under verdant leaves 
change, hope 
taste the wonder of the plum 
all of love's fragility . . 

Please visit our pages :

June 11th Niamh Clune
June 12th Marta Pelrine-Bacon
June 13th Tonia Harris
June 14th De Ann "Native" Townes Jr.
June 15th Nicole Smith
June 18 Marla Todd (Juliette)
June 21 Susie Bertie
June 25th Beverley Ann Hoyle
June 27th Niamh Clune
June 29th Brianna Solkowski
June 30th http://www. Janet Beasley!Home/mainPage

Sunday, June 17, 2012

a sunday kind of missing

someday I will go to New Orleans

on this Sunday after CBS Sunday Morning  & 
Meet the Press
Sunday . . . 
Sundays were reading the funny pages together, pot roast & golf-on-tv-days
sleepy nappy days ..
when I was very small
I would steal away to your bedroom with some treasured book &  fall asleep  -
my cheek waffle-printed from that nubby white bedspread
that smelled of Canoe & cigarettes 
sleepy nappy days ....
and yet today, I am thinking about all the things you saw in your lifetime ...
things beyond pot roast & Sundays :
your childhood, illness & fishing and that big brother you idolized ...
the complete wrapping love of your mother, and the brutal Irish-Love of your father, fishing, school, excelling in every sport you tried your hand at, poverty, and going to war,
your love of New Orleans, more fishing, how you extended your hand & your friendship across lines of color, crossword puzzles & reading and 
golf -  the lives you touched, the stories you unfolded, the generosity of your heart.
I miss you  ... not just a Sunday-kind-of-missing
but an every day kind of missing
it is a sleepy-nappy-Sunday-missing
that leaves it's nubby-white-waffle-print forever pressed upon my cheek & heart

someday I will go to New Orleans

Thursday, June 14, 2012

canis major

.... if we were to sleep
in a bed of tangled amber silk or quilted hope
i would lie my weary leg alongside your steel warmth
rooting myself to your verdant masculinity
trying hard to not be knocked senseless from the regret .
if you were to sleep next to me ....
i would wonder as your easy warrior breath
fireworks into canis major
discovery lies in the strength of your hand,
the roughness & smoothness of you .
if i were to sleep
aganst your electric-blue ....
i would wear pajama's of pre-cambrian yellow
so as to paint some dark-dream canvas of drowsy comfort
evenings' elephants romp about
as we sleep,
content to still some cosmic time-piece
of our worthy love ...
nestled   tangled   rooted
vain-less & rumpled.
sweet night

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

moonshadow drawing #9

Stealing beside me
an ochre whisper
defines your phantom presence
a whisper . .
classically soft
erasing all negative space
blooming into darkness &
the quiet burn of a million stars . . .
"Make a strong line, don't sketch it out -
be sure when you draw", you told me that . . once.
"be sure"
drawn then . . .
held strong
on a kiss that carries the paisley weight
spin of this blue rock
containing the 1939 World's Fair,
the soundtrack to Fantasia
& maybe The Partridge Family
calliope hummingbirds land on our tongues
flying into our stained-glass souls
as the 2:17 rolls thru town
a kiss . . .
stealing all measure of wound & rumpled sorrow
pheasant feathers & words are weaved into
patchwork succulence
skin is diffused, scarred & forgiven - effervescent almost
inconsequential to the heart of the matter
draw sure …
linger into this slumbered ghost kiss

Sunday, June 10, 2012


Tepid day - 
hanging garden of fissured possibility
inked in spaces left by who i was
who remains
fractured mist rising 
an ancient cigar tin 
smelling of longer days 
and the pulsing iridescence of 
the coming rain  , , ,