tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171964002011-07-28T13:02:14.023-07:00:: a few feathers dropped :: poems ::MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.comBlogger3421100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-91688445325094351482008-07-18T08:53:00.000-07:002008-07-18T09:27:21.679-07:00

Blooms wet with rain. All photographs taken back in late May, in Portland. Click images to view larger.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-77935866211931992192008-07-14T17:33:00.000-07:002008-07-14T19:08:34.412-07:00

Click images for larger views.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-12931593203526535392008-07-09T16:43:00.000-07:002008-07-09T16:43:01.016-07:00

And clear was the paley moonWhen his shadow passed him by;Below the hill was the brightest starWhen he heard the houlet cry, sayingWhy do you ride this way,And wharfore cam' ye here?I seek the Witch of the West-mer-landsThat dwells by the winding mere.The call was like a high, soft whinny coming from high up in the trees. As if someone were calling without wanting to be heard. A quiet, cascade of

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-8209250436663601402008-07-01T16:23:00.000-07:002008-07-01T16:23:00.643-07:00

30_33dark pines on the sage hills, yellow-, blue-, purple-sprinkled muddy meadowsbursting with fresh green grasses —the valley itself more colorful thanthe lines that pull us across the mapClick on photos for larger views — it's worth it.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-14850063505534338612008-06-27T08:43:00.000-07:002008-06-27T10:02:47.248-07:00

30_32suddenly we remember what they are —shooting stars —littering the bright valley floor,fallen in pink and purple pools,their brilliance competing with the snowy peaks,still blown-back, nodding, bobbingClick to view bigger

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-13164209724277003862008-06-26T12:53:00.000-07:002008-06-26T14:12:22.989-07:00

Seen on the back of a box trailer:CarpentrySheet rockFencesPlumbingMental dexterityPaintingTree trimmingClean-up24-7and ----French tutoringEquine boardingFree adviceOpera is the ultimate art form

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-18667092479601124892008-06-26T12:43:00.000-07:002008-06-26T14:10:15.979-07:00

30_30A young man in black suit and tie dashes through the gates, dropping bags. Family bearing welcome banner extend the hall's width. His embrace knocks his mother onto the floor.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-71142558949265763962008-06-25T12:33:00.000-07:002008-06-25T12:33:00.494-07:00

30_29Yeah, we’re done performing now. We're down here between the Christian fanatics and the pirate band. Don't worry, we'll just watch for you — the river of people levels out here.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-718282040276287792008-05-28T07:43:00.000-07:002008-05-28T10:59:35.303-07:00

Under the morning’s overcast sky, brilliant scraps, wind-blown, caught against the branches, against the wet green leaves, bits of yellow, orange, fluttering, quietly, open, folded, open again, wings, feathers, petals.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-602681793714200352008-05-16T05:53:00.000-07:002008-05-16T05:59:44.377-07:00

30-28Chauffeur, wardrobe consultant, photographer, personal assistant, designer, mother, gardener, dishwasher, editor, maid, trip advisor, musician, message runner, dog walker, coach, wine steward, dreamer, programmer, cheerleader, cook, lover, wife, writer, magician.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-84092383982474212912008-05-15T06:53:00.001-07:002008-05-15T07:02:58.115-07:00

30-26I found a helpful note in my inbox today:HIGH QLTAUIY RECPILA WHEACTS - The Higseht Qialtuy Pssbiloe!- ICAIDTNEL To The Ginenue Barnd!- Spiphing To Any Contruy Wroddlwie!Svae The Most!

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-73008540750917482132008-05-13T07:23:00.000-07:002008-05-13T07:32:05.430-07:00

At last!In springtime, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.— William Shakespeare

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-33570735721310282302008-04-28T08:33:00.000-07:002008-04-28T09:46:42.607-07:00

30-25Sing for the tomatoes. Sing for the sun hiding around the corner. Sing for the smiling baby boy dancing with no shoes on. Sing for this morning, the only morning.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-40269008331149318722008-04-25T08:43:00.000-07:002008-04-25T10:05:14.286-07:00

Views of Zion.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-7412669078762460612008-04-23T08:03:00.000-07:002008-04-23T07:18:33.808-07:00

Click on images to view larger. Better that way.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-76791268871927558202008-04-17T08:13:00.000-07:002008-04-17T07:56:01.279-07:00

30-24Two days ago it was eighty degrees. Today it snowed.Spring's coming in, wrapped in chintz and ribbons, weaving herway, all hiccups and ruffles, green buds in her hair.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1687808869772787052008-04-15T16:43:00.000-07:002008-04-16T10:39:04.893-07:00

There are stories this land writes in stone, patterns of wind on rock, water on sand. There's calligraphy in a coyote's lope down the draw, a vulture's wings spread against relentless blue. In the near blackness of midnight,wind roars down canyon like a flash flood,blurring everything, raining sand onto upturnedfaces, making the stars invisible.A tumbleweed appears like a silent animal,suddenly

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-10362669420780877952008-04-14T16:53:00.000-07:002008-04-14T15:58:54.176-07:00

The color of these stones is inconstant as the sky. While the day's shadows travel their surfaces, their hues shift like a modulating chord. Dust, water, air, light: canyon suite.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-69657768067505191942008-04-11T08:41:00.000-07:002008-04-11T07:38:05.711-07:00

30_21I'm not fast as wind but I can blur. My teeth are not sharp like coyote yips or midnight stars. If I stop will you see me as a stone?

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-91441327464934910202008-04-10T16:24:00.000-07:002008-04-10T14:44:16.224-07:00

30-20Breathless, squinting. The dry, crunchy, vastness glares like a snowfield. Constant, vicious wind tries to push us over, throws salt in our eyes, peppers our cheeks with miniscule stinging pellets.Click on image for a larger view.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-14318710468731221372008-03-31T16:43:00.000-07:002008-03-31T15:44:24.427-07:00

black bowlerleather jacketsitting cross-leggedon the streetcorner, handon the blackdog's backmuddy pawstucked inblack on nightsheen from thestreetlightcaught likestarlight

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-26051067600320880742008-03-19T07:33:00.000-07:002008-03-19T07:03:20.259-07:00

Going increasingly underground, lost in his own hometown. You may see him but don't think it's him you see. Keeps walking until he finds himself again. Keeps walking. Keeps walking.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-57045633734558377852008-03-13T12:53:00.000-07:002008-03-13T13:17:32.505-07:00

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-49867404678490724972008-03-07T16:43:00.000-08:002008-03-07T15:44:25.007-08:00

She was tired this morning.It was all more than she could take.She knew she could ask for help but for the last time she went back to bed.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-70357508683577510702008-03-05T16:33:00.000-08:002008-03-05T15:40:03.107-08:00

Click on an image to view larger.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-11848572324196515732008-03-04T08:07:00.000-08:002008-03-04T08:33:03.535-08:00

Sitting in his lawnchair on the front porch, wool-muffled, stargazing, sipping hot tea, he happened to spot the silent blur of a panicstricken black dog dart across the pine-shadowed snow.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-59713552772975254672008-02-29T07:33:00.000-08:002008-02-29T07:43:57.967-08:00

Arms thrown overhead in loose curves, her body lay motionless on the pavement. The driver pulled out his cellphone. Papersfluttered into the air. Beside the silent car, onlookers clustered.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-14615257882053247122008-02-22T07:03:00.000-08:002008-02-22T07:10:06.748-08:00

He held her word still on his tongue, like a pearl cradled in moist muscle, feeling her meaning and intent radiate in the darkness of his mouth. And then swallowed.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-83560667381696394132008-02-21T07:23:00.000-08:002008-02-21T07:27:17.832-08:00

Click on an image for a larger view.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-80589464928907447342008-02-19T12:43:00.000-08:002008-02-19T12:27:30.080-08:00

Toes dug into the cooling sand, heads thrown back, we gazed at the limitless pinpoint stars above. "I've never seen one fall," she confessed. We sat, astonished, in the darkness.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-86078758544115371732008-02-15T15:03:00.000-08:002008-02-15T14:01:02.478-08:00

He stood, wobbling, before me. He spoke of opera and far-flung places. His tiny, leashed dog leapt up my legs. I wondered what story brought him to the cathedral doorway.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-24113377964756583842008-01-02T12:53:00.000-08:002008-01-02T11:56:50.606-08:00

A party, a dance!But this is not the poem.Find more over here.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-23063718168525182332007-11-02T07:33:00.000-07:002007-11-02T07:06:33.314-07:00

like the morning sunbehind the hill, stillrising throughthat broad and tender blueyou, too, return dailya lambent lighttonguing across thesurface of a lifeand seeping deepinto the weavedown where the deepestthirsty roots cleaveto the familiar soil'stangled tenderness —here in the muddy roots' roil,your star bathes darkness

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-55089455027009426312007-10-31T07:37:00.001-07:002007-10-31T15:51:27.064-07:00

Trust October to provide the ambience for Halloween! On a hike through a ten-year-old burn I found some pumpkin bushes, witchy trees, and a very creepy crawler. The bug was about 2 inches long. I'd never seen one like it before. It is a Jerusalem cricket.Update: Thanks to Dave for pointing my our way to a howling good time at Trees of Halloween, the Halloween edition of the Festival of the Trees,

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-14128400037537831372007-10-17T08:43:00.000-07:002007-10-17T10:02:22.544-07:00

My poem, What Begins, was published today by the online literary magazine qarrtsiluni in their current issue, Making Sense. There are some marvelous other contributions.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-55379054339790559902007-10-16T16:23:00.000-07:002007-10-16T15:32:27.244-07:00

from a patch of striped nightin the arms of a shadowy treetwo sudden stars shone brightpeering down at mein a gesture of charm and guilehe sharply cocked his earsoffered a Cheshire smileand quickly disappeared

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-83933384983883897022007-10-09T07:53:00.000-07:002007-10-09T09:19:47.201-07:00

while the days slipinto winter's tightnesseach morning the sunrises without repeating

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-79929844671167820562007-10-02T08:13:00.000-07:002007-10-02T08:20:28.660-07:00

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-40683427268732060422007-09-20T18:03:00.000-07:002007-09-20T17:02:45.838-07:00

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-78683382478124764222007-09-18T15:03:00.000-07:002007-09-18T14:06:10.495-07:00

monday, he broke the gate and ran awayyesterday, he clawed the plaster walltrying to get out the locked doorthis morning, curled on the floor, he droolsand shakes, ears back, teeth chatteringlike the low grinding of some machinewhile the relentless sound of a nail gunhammers through the wash of daylighthanging across the streethe remains silent butthe big brown eyes turn up,wide open, whites

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-17259682924692132572007-09-12T15:33:00.000-07:002007-09-12T14:35:23.523-07:00

One hand holding my guitar, I bite into a cherry tomato, the taste of my garden floods my mouth, seeds spill across my tongue. The glass slide's melody buzzes insistently in my ear above the rapid heartbeat of bass. The window is dark. I could love a summer night.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-46373148744068927252007-08-16T15:33:00.000-07:002007-08-16T14:50:07.103-07:00

like a dance floorit waitsbirds skid bylaughingdoesn't matter howyou get hereif you have the gutsto trythe wind blew throughyesterdayblew the cloudsall awayleft me and the skybreathlessme and the skybreathless

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-55248515363322332112007-08-09T12:33:00.000-07:002007-08-09T12:41:02.341-07:00

Make no bones about it, you are more thanRubbing elbows, more than shoulder to shoulder.You’re in the blood, after all, in the flesh, in the Same breath, joined at the hip, body and soul.So move in close, as close as you can get, Put your back into it, get under that skin, Straight to the bone, touch the nerve, until You are the blood from the stone, Until you are the sweat that pearls your skin.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-77808086887593028222007-08-07T08:23:00.000-07:002007-08-07T08:54:30.567-07:00

the starsare glinting pebblesin the rushing river of the nightthe moon dips oars in the clear darknessdreams lap on the shores of sleepwhere we meet

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-74475629585380611802007-08-03T08:03:00.000-07:002007-08-03T10:11:06.977-07:00

we wake to yellow lightwatch a heavy, orange sun pullup over the hilllight presses across the gardendeep shadows stretchingbelow the leavesit burdens the grasseven the bladesleave marksthe still sky is a dull canvas,impasto of flat greys dense blues, hinted greensbits of ash fall the leaves do not stirthe warm, bitter air

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-25623979763083000872007-07-30T08:23:00.000-07:002007-07-30T10:32:10.539-07:00

incandescent bellsunder brush of softer leavessummer heat pulsingyellow orbs shiningmelody of bittersweetheat rising to lightdribbling juice tastes ofbass notes, damp soil, earthy hopes the longest days' end Photo: Morning glory bud

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-86027557735817331792007-07-26T08:13:00.000-07:002007-07-26T08:03:54.230-07:00

You've had more than your fair share,I'd say, if I had an inkling what fair might be in this world. You've left daily clues —Strawberry blossoms and green fruitInexplicably vanished overnight, summer squash nibbledAt the tender tips, apple cores abandoned on the fencepost — But it wasn't until the day I sawYou deftly removing a prickly zucchini leafFrom its stem, holding it like an umbrellaBefore

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-72448739977956662042007-06-06T08:23:00.000-07:002007-06-06T07:30:13.103-07:00

Two gate posts still stand almost a hundred years later in the green darkness where the hill curves under the weight of the wet woods, and the smooth, widepath is no longer rutted by wagon wheels. We stop to listen for the sound of voicesof children like our own, for the sharp clatter of rulers, the softer scratch of chalk,quick spurts of juice from apple skinsrolling down as teeth sink in. We

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-20437668205538544322007-05-15T16:03:00.000-07:002007-05-15T15:23:10.908-07:00

light pours like waterfrom the vessel of the skyand through the air flows the sharp, sweet scent of grassand the darker sweetness ofnewly turned soilso many waysto find home

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-57249637977496126522007-05-07T15:33:00.000-07:002007-05-07T14:50:46.589-07:00

There are potters who intentionally fracturetheir elegant vases, gluing the curved clay shards back together.There are those who claim, true or not, that bonesare stronger where they've mended.Vase and bone are momentarily motionless,held within the sure arc of our arms,while the world's vastness spins out its unceasing gyrations,the grinding and shattering of an unpeaceable kingdom. For this

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-10957360940921633222007-04-27T09:03:00.000-07:002007-04-27T08:32:57.281-07:00

pink-tipped petals spreadrippling into memoryof warm wind and lightClick on the photo for a bigger view.Thanks again for all the support expressed in response to the previous post.It helps.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-88636454269122006922007-04-24T09:37:00.000-07:002007-04-24T08:38:08.260-07:00

My thanks to those of you who kindly inquired about this blog being quiet. I'm fine; life is busy these days with performances, spring projects and other activities. It's likely that I'll be posting less frequently for a while as a result.Life has also included the unexpected, as follows.*** It’s a strange and creepy feeling to read a poem on another blog and recognize it, word for word, as your

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-51019448102539788932007-04-12T08:43:00.000-07:002007-04-12T07:47:07.661-07:00

you can sing in the darkbut remember to listenmake space in the darkfor the light to fall inClick on the photo for a bigger view.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-31591982591779766022007-04-02T20:33:00.000-07:002007-04-02T19:48:03.359-07:00

I am an April fooldwelling in bright uncertainty —hope strung sparkling acrossthe teeth of darkness —drinking from the world'selusive green whorl.Sabal palms. Click on the photos for more detail.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-6113936029658423702007-04-01T15:33:00.000-07:002007-04-01T15:23:03.513-07:00

Perched on a ledge,I watched from the edgeof the slow moving, brown river,scanning for a telltale quiver,a slight ripple of lightto prove his move —unlike the heron, skinny-legged and lean,stepping with care in open air, its hunger keen,its glance oblique over a long, set beak,pacing the lapping, salty waterstalking a single, silver slaughter —no, all teeth and claws this silent dragon was,all

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-34579775693799992007-03-23T12:03:00.000-07:002007-03-23T11:00:27.815-07:00

Not enough sun has my rhythm sprung.I'm in pursuit of rest and restoration,heat and humidity, waves and warmth,beaches and baseball, saltwater sailing, lizards and live oaks, alligators, egrets, manatees and mangroves, pelicans and palms.Back in a week.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-54895555838791287502007-03-21T09:33:00.000-07:002007-03-21T08:48:00.932-07:00

It often takes me a while to get through a book because I tend to read a half dozen or so of them at a time. So I’ve been savoring my way through Mary Oliver’s collection of poems, Thirst. I keep returning to these compelling lines that may speak far beyond their already intense surface meaning. Clearly, this is a poem that expresses grief over the loss of a long-time partner. But, bearing in

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-44189166946895126382007-03-15T12:43:00.000-07:002007-03-15T13:05:43.941-07:00

The sunlight is brilliant and warm, but there's no sense of that inside. I am drenched by waves of incoming requests, concentrating and working hard to keep the boat afloat. Outside, the house painters have darkened all the windows with masking paper and plastic film, further dimmed by overspray of dark red trim paint. From in here, it's as if the unnaturally opaque and crepuscular air were lit

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-55057829010862942392007-03-12T09:13:00.000-07:002007-03-12T09:36:55.056-07:00

skinwatersoaptrousersshirttiecupspoonshellphonedogjacketdoorgearshiftluggageescalatorticketlips***The latest edition of Ringing of the Bards: First Things First poetry carnival is up at Tiel's blog.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-53937392577702187022007-03-06T16:53:00.000-08:002007-03-06T16:21:44.439-08:00

the past tense was easyso was the future tensethe present tense was most demanding the sun roseyou woke under the covers silentlyeach momentmore real than a solitary rosary bead

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-8074033564693719092007-02-28T09:03:00.000-08:002007-03-03T15:42:04.365-08:00

like notes from a far hornforlorn and slowwhite egrets flow to and fro below the setting sunone settles on a limbits slim silhouetteabove the wet and heaving wayis charcoal grey, a starkmark on the bright end of daywhere we stray, far and latewe wait for the water's shiftwatching it lift and sighlike the shifting cries of settling birdsheard through the darkening airand look, there comes the

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-29601003271165299212007-02-26T08:33:00.000-08:002007-02-26T09:31:35.456-08:00

she stood at the dry wellunder the blush of eastern skyand looked inheard the shadowsof water lapping the stone walland the crackof a pebble skittering downthrough slivered light tosilvered shadowwhat is darkness buta pool of color restingawaiting replenishmentshadow is onlywaiting forthe return of lightClick on the photos for larger versions.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-6126289410758544142007-02-23T08:13:00.000-08:002007-02-23T08:43:04.238-08:00

hiss of tea kettleclatter of pans on burnersdrip-dripping of coffeescrape of chair legs on floorsoft crack of spoon on eggshellslurp from a cuphum of the refrigeratorbeyond the windowabove silent, new snowbird songClick on the photos for larger versions.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-61837992036838146512007-02-21T17:53:00.000-08:002007-02-21T16:55:44.761-08:00

today is as good a day as anylet me warm my cold handsin yourslittle oneremind me to gatherthe warm blanket of gratitudeand feel the lovecoursing througheverythingall that ever matteredin this worldall that ever meansanything at allis hereClick on the photo for a larger version.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-9475050716752433472007-02-15T07:53:00.000-08:002007-02-15T12:57:06.021-08:00

The grey days crowd together like piles of fish in the market. Short and slippery, they go by quickly, flashing into the deeper nights. You're drawn under and you hold your breath while your head throbs. Looking up at the dim and dappled blue light, you wait, tumbling like freefall, like a class IV washing machine. Until one day the undertow shifts and spits you out, wrinkled and gasping,

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-84629482504101534152007-02-14T07:33:00.000-08:002007-02-14T07:04:09.312-08:00

A little sampler for you today:"Sometimes it's a form of love just to talk to somebody that you have nothing in common with and still be fascinated by their presence." — David Byrne"For this was on seynt Volantynys dayWhan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make."— Geoffrey Chaucer, Parlement of Foules"To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-64966100911235099152007-02-12T07:43:00.000-08:002007-02-12T08:23:10.759-08:00

Such a simple thingto ask that an arm move theway it is meant tobut each day brings morehard work of moving what stilldoes not want to move.Like scar tissue stretchedtaut and short, this shoulder hasbeen a pinioned wingheld tightly down foraching months of silence. Nowit lifts just enough.My arm can againwrap over the guitar andfingers reach the strings—patterns of quickfirecelebration — sweet

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-79723705610428214382007-02-08T12:33:00.000-08:002007-02-08T11:35:48.753-08:00

Honesty, you snake, I seeyou sidle into bed with mepinned by your riveting gaze I hear your passionate whispering in my earyou make me write the things I dowith centered certainty shot throughas sure and shaped as if each tempered lie were trueClick on the photo for a larger version.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-21017253562806434322007-02-07T08:33:00.000-08:002007-02-07T07:37:50.049-08:00

on the verge of the road it is hard to see just where the gravel shoulder mergeswith the lapping, dusty sagebrush seaI wake in the rumbling darknessnestled among the sliding, brushy slopes of sage,from dreamingthat I am driving the carthe length of yourlong, glowing thighI want to enter your oceancompletely, I want to tasteyour salty margins, I wantthe wind of your kissesto engulf me so that

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-68799525185479206942007-02-05T08:23:00.000-08:002007-02-05T10:25:39.535-08:00

the tiny stars shiveramong the dark curtainsof night, blue lights flickeringin silent overture forthe listening mindacross the broad scrim ofdeep sky the moon rollsyet again in its comfortable rotation,a graceful dance, tracingstaves for a canon of lightClick on the photo for a larger version.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-17830561959405549682007-02-02T03:33:00.000-08:002007-02-02T14:21:20.255-08:00

crack open the day —see the sun's yolk slipover the curved lipof the earth's smooth shellinto the dark interior of nightand slide, with itsbeautiful blue albumen,into the sky shimmering aboveClick on the photo for a larger version.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-26453585771760988712007-01-31T08:43:00.000-08:002007-01-31T10:28:43.954-08:00

I discovered the other day that Jean of this too tagged me last week when I wasn't looking. I enjoyed reading her post and some other lists of "5 things you might not know about me." I was taken with Marja-Leena's story about her childhood artist's garret. It reminds me of the cozy cedar closet I had when I was five. My mother hung a little lamp inside and, in its pool of yellow light, I sat in a

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1170024282571502542007-01-28T14:33:00.000-08:002007-01-28T15:03:20.613-08:00

I have spent a very long and uncomfortable week in bed, in the company of an especially vicious flu virus. It will be a bit before I regain enough strength to get going here again, but I am on the mend.Click on the photo for a larger version.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1169334582075167232007-01-20T20:33:00.000-08:002007-01-20T19:36:10.903-08:00

all the breath and all the windI have gatheredhas not cleared meof your touchwhich reached under my skininto my blood and bonewhere I hold you, stillclose to my heartcurled deep inside meglimmeringlike a sleepingstarClick on the photo for a larger version. It's better bigger.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1169060747598924012007-01-17T12:33:00.000-08:002007-01-17T13:51:59.230-08:00

Tip your nose to the scent of sugar,your eye to the ferris wheel!High above a tiny toy townfeel the pulse of the vertigo reel —don't you dare look down!The noise of the crowd will keep you afloat —breathe in the sparkling glitter, plastic and paint, balloons and lights,the sweat and sweets and shouts,crane your neck, don't miss a thing,bump your little car down the long, dark tunnel of this

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1168967484437065082007-01-16T09:03:00.000-08:002007-01-16T09:56:26.530-08:00

smoke trails grey into the rosy-grey skywith aflock of palerdovesrising ina swirling fanabovechimney topsand bare branchesunderash andcharcoal, burns fireClick on the photo for a larger version. Much better bigger.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1168488355685992832007-01-10T21:13:00.000-08:002007-01-10T20:33:15.266-08:00

The way her arms happened tocradle them, they lookedlike rounded fruit, pastthe firmest stage, butstill sweet. Her daughtersand sons may remembertheir tenderness as they lean in for a hug. But who maps the contours of her orchards now? Who knows that crocuses will still spring up under her step after winter?This is a manipulation of a stock photo.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1168272548147042882007-01-08T08:03:00.000-08:002007-01-08T08:11:24.713-08:00

the land is sleeping mud and icepatches of snow in stiff, dry brushbroad shoulders and hips of hillsstill and mute in thin sunlightthe land is dreamingof something meltingof being swollen and wetready to greenone day the moon will riseover that big shoulder and heara new wind whispering a warm songinto the ear of aspens by the seepand the tongue of the creekwill tumble warbling downhill

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1168023104169192192007-01-05T00:03:00.000-08:002007-01-05T11:06:01.580-08:00

cracked china cupgilt edgedexquisitely hand paintedsitting off kilter on the saucerstill warmwithtannin stainsabout your ankles

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1167928090499722912007-01-04T08:33:00.000-08:002007-01-04T08:29:33.290-08:00

the light falls just sogold on black icetime does not stopneither does loveClick on the photo to see a larger version. Much more interesting in detail.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1167771664607037312007-01-02T15:33:00.000-08:002007-01-02T13:28:28.136-08:00

this is what it wasa grave, a quiet spotaway from the madding crusha place to breathe your face emerging from the soileyelids closed to sun and starsnose clear and breath slowedlips sealed and unmoving I look at you as if for the first timeand with my small handwipe a bit of soilfrom your cheek your eyes still want to closesilence covers youjust as you covered yourselfin the earth what

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1167616939460817562006-12-31T18:03:00.000-08:002006-12-31T18:38:29.996-08:00

in the thinning lightof mid-winter we watch asthe year's end takes flightMy best wishes for the new year to each of you! Thank you for reading — those who comment and those who do not — you're all appreciated.Click on a photo to see a larger version.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1167329977695134872006-12-28T11:13:00.000-08:002006-12-28T10:21:54.880-08:00

"What is to give light must endure burning"— Victor FranklClick on the photo to see a larger version. The quote is thanks to Heron Dance.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1166929500230364182006-12-23T20:03:00.000-08:002006-12-23T19:08:03.763-08:00

A snowy afternoon and the light in the canyon really was blue. On our way into the woods, we surprised three deer. We walked down the snowy road and found the tree on a small bench above the river. It was growing with a number of other small fir trees, overtaking a stand of ponderosa pines. The dog watched with great interest. Trudging back in the dropping temperatures of late afternoon, we

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1166729261719892972006-12-21T00:33:00.000-08:002006-12-21T11:28:55.510-08:00

sky writes a poemspinning itself out intosentences of whiteStock photo

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1166675954348471692006-12-20T20:33:00.000-08:002006-12-21T09:16:55.756-08:00

a very kind artist named Lorilovingly takes inventoryof her pantry's contentsto make Christmas presentsof apricot-dancing rum-glorythe multi-talented Witzel,well, you wouldn't believe how she puts allthe rum she can bakeinto fruity fruitcaketo get all her blogfriends kerschplitzelledshe warned me her fruitcake would oozewith apricots, pecans and boozeI didn't believe her,but the overachieverbakes

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1166545223876722752006-12-19T08:03:00.000-08:002006-12-19T08:22:24.953-08:00

Life sometimes manifests as confluences of currents that combine to increase the overall sensation of speed. Perhaps you've already noticed. I have. I will be busy enough this next week or so that posts here are likely to be sparse at best. We'll see what happens. Meanwhile, I send out wishes for warmth and cheer to all!Click on the photo to see a larger version.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1166314545842843802006-12-16T16:03:00.000-08:002006-12-16T16:15:46.803-08:00

Petals fell onto the piano. Ah, week's over.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1166138019852329832006-12-14T16:03:00.000-08:002006-12-14T15:15:57.323-08:00

the way you used to touch my hair,the words you once used for me,baskets, pottery, antlers,shards and discards,sound of your voice,remains of a day,dust on a shelfthere is a certain finality I cannot faceI never have done this well —brought the end into focuscut, trimmed offand left hangingraw or, worse,empty —I want to feel the continuity ofthe thread that courses through everythingI don't want

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1165937233896353362006-12-12T07:23:00.000-08:002006-12-12T07:28:22.086-08:00

This being human is a guest house.Every morning a new arrival.A joy, a depression, a meanness,Some momentary awareness comesAs an unexpected visitor.Welcome and entertain them all!Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,Who violently sweep your houseEmpty of its furniture,Still, treat each guest honorably.He may be clearing you outFor some new delight.— RumiClick on the photo to see a larger version.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1165595142090215552006-12-08T13:33:00.000-08:002006-12-08T13:11:24.736-08:00

in the silence the woman stood stilllistening to the stolen landscapeabsence of footstepsabsence of wingbeatsthe river's song rising to nothingthe stones standing mute the fluid hills stilledthe air no longer moving at allshe raised her head, gazing outletting her eyes soak in the stain that dimmed the airlistening to silence, she found the rhythm of her bloodand something small began to spin

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1165448628861149402006-12-07T07:33:00.000-08:002006-12-07T07:05:28.140-08:00

a dark silence glided across the hills like a black bird, silent and steady, barely noticeableunless one were specifically watching the silence landed on the cloudsand draped them across the lowangled sun, pulling them together into a long shroud to dim the light the silence landed in a treeand waited as the leaves crinkledand fell, faded and dry, into stillpiles below the spreading branches the

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1165428217184162782006-12-06T09:33:00.000-08:002006-12-06T10:39:02.036-08:00

The things you do not have to say make you rich. Saying the things you do not have to say weakens your talk. Hearing the things you do not need to hear dulls your hearing. And things you know before you hear them, these are you, and this is the reason you are in the world.— From William Stafford's Crossing Unmarked Snow, quoted by John O'Donohue in Beauty, the Invisible EmbraceClick on the photo

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1165260367919903772006-12-04T12:33:00.000-08:002006-12-04T11:27:13.370-08:00

I rake the leaves up every fall,gather the piles in a garbage can,tote the can and dump them all,and start the process over again.The compost pile, high and brown,rests all winter without care,until in spring, I dig downto mine the wealth that's buried there.That sweet-smelling black gold,warm from the bottom of the heap,is like a story still untold,or the dreams of leaves asleep.And when I

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1165014000547709722006-12-01T16:33:00.000-08:002006-12-01T15:33:19.786-08:00

the dog hesitates,slinking low with claws spread wideon the narrow pack bridge high over the broad Salmon river once on the other side, we make our way up the side canyon where we see a fire burned over the summer — the woody brush is blackened and the grass bunches are scorched to stubsrounding a bend, I turn over in my mindthe way green and brown must have turned to red and orange and then to

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1164829053461584192006-11-29T04:13:00.000-08:002006-11-29T15:22:01.120-08:00

insomnia sitson the cracked shell of dreamsand stares at the night-stained wallsshe keeps companywith grief and guiltsipping frequently from worrystars that peek through the web of memoryoffer little heat or heart in the mean hoursand the clock's red eyekeeps a bleary watch against any crooked finger of restthere's a twistto the sheets and to the mind that doesn't sleep

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1164734662700356192006-11-28T21:03:00.000-08:002006-11-28T20:19:53.116-08:00

morning sun, suffused by cloud,glowing at the brink of the hill,casts a shaft of yellow lighton the pale trunk ofthe bare sycamorebirds in the branches aboveare singing, tooClick on the photo to see a larger version. This isn't the sycamore; it's an ash. By the time I got back outside with my camera, the light had shifted and much of the snow melted.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1164678872445075032006-11-27T17:43:00.000-08:002006-11-27T17:56:25.440-08:00

we wake slowlyemerge from our bundled nest tobreathe in the chill beforethe sun breaches the ridgelinehigh on the hill, leaveslie still underthe first slight snow thatsoftens all contourssmoke from the fireswirls in slow circlesleafless branches gently scratch theflat, pale grey skyClick on the photo to see a larger version. It's worth it.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1164136115927815742006-11-21T11:03:00.000-08:002006-11-21T11:09:39.326-08:00

I've much to be grateful for this holiday. A roof, food, health, warmth, love, words, song. Life. What are you grateful for these days?I'm going to temporarily abandon my accustomed roof to spend the next couple nights in a tent. I'll see you next week.Click on the photo to see a larger version.

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17196400.post-1164127387693512032006-11-21T08:33:00.000-08:002006-11-21T08:46:50.056-08:00

the sky hangs close a blanket wrapped about usspun in greys and bluesher shining hazel eyescarry meto early years —small upturned faceeyes and mouth blinking opencatching treasured dropswordlesslyClick on the photo to see a larger version. It's worth it!

MBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515233228776181123noreply@blogger.com11