Monday, August 29, 2011

Sunday, August 21, 2011




















Love this: On the far left is my grandson, Isaac throwing artichoke petals, and Jon's nephew, Eli, watching him and wondering, "What is this kid doing?" Jon, my son-in-law (now!), is the one with his back to the camera. My oldest son, Christopher, performed the wedding ceremony. He is standing behind the podium. My niece, Anna, is the first bridesmaid on the left (to the right of Christopher), and my youngest son, Wes, was the Man of Honor, and he is on the far right with the bridesmaids. The ceremony took place in the street next to my daughter and son-in-law's home.

Friday, August 19, 2011

The Walk

I don't know when I've felt so good in a very
long time, sitting here, licking the sweat
above my upper lip, my tongue reveling
in its salty pleasure. Just a thirty minute
tromp with my Molly. Thirty minutes
and Main St. All the hot chicks and dudes
standing in front of the bar, the cars streaming
lights into promise, Molly and me just hanging
with it all. Then the alley with the tattoo
shop and graffiti, the artist somewhere
holed up in ink, not noticing our passing.
Past the playground where thousands
of children have laughed and loved and lost.
Past the old haunted house where the grey
man watches from the upstairs window,
the porch swing creaking in the evening
breeze. Cross the street by the bottling
plant and the stonemaker's shop, headstones
with names etched on them wearing off
now from the years they have waited
for those left behind to come claim them;
past the polar bear who has kept guard
there for years on end--someone's Look
Homeward Angel gone north and shape-
shifted. And on down the last two blocks
where we meet a man who remarks
on my dog's beauty. Finally, the back
street home where I decide to take
a shortcut and come through the overgrowth
which has covered the back entrance
to home. And I fall in the dim light,
my leg hurting, Molly standing there waiting
for me to rise, me laughing at my own
stupidity in my own backyard, my over
grown lovely backyard. I rise and we
resume our 300 feet or so to the house,
me feeling like we've made it now girl,
only to get caught in the thorns
of my Impressionistic rose bush,
my head now a crown of thorns,
hair sticking out like the odd one
at the school dance, with no one here
to notice.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Not much time

for photos lately, but the sky was so lovely tonight.

Life does go on. We must choose what we will do.

Tonight, I chose to take some pictures, cook some
good food, take Molly for a very long walk. Be alone.













Monday, August 08, 2011

john prine...hello in there..



There are so many John Prine songs I love, but this must be my favorite. I certainly post it often enough and think about it so much. So, here it is again.

Johnny Cash & Bob Dylan - One Too Many Mornings




Just like my poem below--one too many mornings. What does it matter? Love this song

Sunday, August 07, 2011

The Picture I Could Not Take

I wanted to take a picture
of them, two white heads

so close to one another,
his long, pale neck--slender as a swan's--

turned toward hers, toward the light;
she there in the chair next to his bed,

speaking his name, her speckled
hand on his bruised and swollen arm,

these two the most delicate, yet strongest
of the late summer blossoms, leaning

toward one another, toward the light,
nearing dawn, her eyelids closing

like the moonflower in the morning sun;
death enveloping them like the morning fog.

I had planned to bring my camera
back to the hospital that morning, back

to the large corner room where his sons
and wife kept vigil, his breathing labored,

the hiss of the oxygen the only sound
for minutes at a time, but life had other

plans, and death--well, death lifted,
just as the fog had done, and took

with it any uncertainties, and gave way
to a room filled with sunlight and farewell.


Wednesday, August 03, 2011

Emmylou Harris - All my tears + Goodbye




Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden