Category — poetry

“We can only be me!”
shouted Little Girl,
anxious arms raised overhead,
a frantic octopus showing off stress.

“We can only let it be,”
answered back the Small Woman,
(half) bluffing wisdom, (half) self-assured.

“Look –
sometimes we will nail it,”
she went on.
“The flavors will mix together and – viola! —
a blend of strict rules with flexible rhythms,
both learned and innate.”

“Other times, frankly – a misstep will lead us
a direction we never planned
and all we are left with is
bacon in green curry.”

Little Girl put her head in her hands,
at once thrilled and exhausted by these prospects.

“Bacon in green curry, you say?”
After a quick pause, she lifted her face,
and as though accepting her fate, resolved,
“I guess there are worse things.”

I’ve been drawn to winter trees lately, if you couldn’t tell from the blogs current redesign. Something about their skyline tops contrast against a crimson and violet sunset, their naked branches reaching outward and upward to grab the sun with all their little paths, and paths of paths, that are hidden in high summer. Now exposed, they showcase the most intricate designs, unique at each intrigued gaze, new distance and fresh perspective. I can’t stop pointing my camera at them, hoping to spot a bird or two, who are usually far too quick for my slow trigger finger.

Enjoy this set from an early evening family walk in the park yesterday…

“The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing –
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.

Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history –

Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietàs?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.”

-Sylvia Plath

It was one of those clear, sharp, mustless days
That summer and man delight in.
Never had Heaven seemed quite so high,
Never had earth seemed quite so green,
Never had the world seemed quite so clean
Or sky so nigh.
And I heard the Deity’s voice in

The sun’s warm rays,
And the white cloud’s intricate maze,
And the blue sky’s beautiful sheen.

-e.e.cummings, “The Eagle”

Sticky (almost) Summer
is the odor of tea tree oil
– noble attempts to keep mosquitoes and ticks at bay,
and
fingernails dipped in
distinctly tomato branch aroma
– pinching off aphids and spraying with soapy castile water.

Two hundred (and some odd) birds
putting on a Shakespearian tragedy in the trees
and
the steady spinning of the house fan.

Chilled Sauvignon Blanc
swishing down chicken salad and strawberries
– cooling internal temps on a blanket
in the shade of a Red Bud.