Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

I don't know how to do this now. So, here goes.

I have forgotten how to post here, but my daughter does not like me posting things about myself on facebook that she feels make her sad and are too personal. So, I am back. I don't know for how long, And, I want to post a song, but I have forgotten how to do any of this.

Sunday, June 21, 2015


I was telling Wes how it seems strange how much movies find a way to interject themselves into what we go through. This weekend, in the loss of a loved one, I was listening to all of the voices speaking, the children laughing and playing, the food being prepared and eaten, watching faces lifted in laughter and tears rolling down cheeks, & I thought about this scene in the movie Philadelphia where friends and loved ones had gathered together to remember the loved one they has lost to death. Had I not heard this song nor seen this movie, I don't know where my mind would have gone at that moment. I am not sure how I feel about that. To a novel or poem, to a previous experience, to thoughts of mortality and the loss so hard to articulate? I don't know. Grief takes us so many places. Memories flood over us and we are awash and filled with the colors of loss, of having loved deeply, of carrying on, or summer and watermelon or fireworks or the brilliant blue sky above.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015


There is no one. I must find what it is I seek inside myself.  I am not alone, but I am. And, I am terribly lonely.

Friday, February 20, 2015

Opening the Tawny

I had forgotten
the simple, complex
subtleties the tongue

holds in its bumps
and ridges. The nuances
of currant, vanilla, and orchards

exploding like a supernova
in the mouth. My mouth.
My tongue, exploring again,

doing the reminiscing dance,
wanting to catch your tongue
up in the whole thing. Sirens

halt the stir, wail mournful
and loud as hounds at work.
Let them leave me

in my reverie, glass to lips,
memory intact, and harsh
as the brutal ice falling outside

my window, memories
sepia-colored and clear,
Grant me the grace

to lift the port to call, again
and again, leeward and starboard
and full steam ahead beneath

the gathering stars.

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Sunday, March 23, 2014


The husband chooses to spend his Sunday
searching for wreckage from years ago.
The wreck of a wife he has spends her Sunday
wondering why she settles for being left alone.

She can't tell the kids. One of them would not
care, one would worry too much, and one
is just indifferent to the parental drift. The wife
decides to make a beef stew, carefully chops

celery, carrots, onions, garlic, and fresh herbs.
She isn't thinking of the husband much, more
of his elderly mother who will lavish the meal,
lick her lips in gratitude. The wife doesn't know

the husband is out joy-hunting for his lost youth.
She only finds out later, after cooking the meal,
doing three loads of laundry, sweeping dog fur
and beer caps from the kitchen floor, and walking

around in a funk all day, about the fun he had. He
shows her the picture of the car bumper found
in a ditch, laughs uproariously as he tells the story
of the friend who ditched the car after he lost a race

at some small town speedway. The wife just nods
her head and says: So, this is what you did today?
A look of subterfuge clouds his atypically young-looking
59 year old face (the face having been burned

in an accident many years ago which resulted
in what the plastic surgeon said was much like
a surgical peel, the wife the one who tended
to him and made sure he took care of himself

and who made sure he took his meds), and says
"Well, I was just there about an hour. I was working
the rest of the day." The wife knows she has lost
this whole thing--marriage, her once lovely figure,

her young face, her wit, her ability to amuse. She
can do nothing but say, "Really? You were out
today looking for a wrecked car someone chose
to throw in a ditch?" She knows the husband will

never know how she has suffered, what she has fought
for and against, how much ground she loses every
day in her struggle to find some meaning, how much
she really cared about whether the beef stew was meaty

and rich, the taste of fresh herbs invigorating.