Of the Earth's Wind

The winds have arrived,
safely again,
reminding us of our childhood nightmares.

Pale fear and violent desires coalesce,
whipped, folded, and colliding.
Colliding with concrete and trees,
that is we.

Strength in the wind, auspicious bond,
gathered like tribes over land and sea.
In close battlefields, the whispers of the trampled are carried.
Through depths of oceans, the soft lilt of forlorn shells are revealed
in the great roaring wails of the wind.

Of the earth’s wind,
we shake our fists in righteous disappointment.
Cursing the ineptitude of invisible sovereign’s,
we search as mad headless ghosts for refuge,
as if we
were not born
into
complex
ash.

The wind ,
gorgeously maiming our lucid delusions.
Nights of falling shelters and interrupted morning's.
Light of steel wool streaming through the window
in unruly blades.
What say you to our task?

Until we are able to converse with the wind…

Urban Crows

Infallible routine, impeccable timing...

The brotherhood of crows in their
early evening flight.
These are the rotund shadowed moons
that gawk and gallop about concrete streets
feeding on our poisoned bread.

In the evening, stout communication
and godspeed,
they return to their urban roost.

Voluptuous ballerinas covered in soot.
Your grace inhibited on earth seems only realized in swift motion.

This honorable and redundant journey provokes responses of gleeful awe and subsequently a need for devotional words and phrases.

What can we offer you in the form of libations or litanies?

Because our own ill-fated relationship with time inspires shame.
It is we, that must have the experience of you.
You are flying.
We have failed. We fall short.
You hop off rooftops, undaunted.

Why can’t you just be a crow?

And yet I still wait for you,
with ferocious eyes and misunderstanding.
And I recall the words of an elderly man in the hallway,
He is watching the cars go by at dusk,
We have to do something.

Gluten Free Halloween & Day of the Dead

Best dance video ever - from East Oakland | OaklandSeen | Community News

Best dance video ever - from East Oakland | OaklandSeen | Community News



This is as beautiful as I've seen.

Garden Bounty October 2010

These amazing folks are my employers!!!

Innocent When You Dream

The bats are in the belfry
the dew is on the moor
where are the arms that held me
and pledged her love before
and pledged her love before
It's such a sad old feeling
the fields are soft and green
it's memories that I'm stealing
but you're innocent when you dream
when you dream
you're innocent when you dream
Running through the graveyard
we laughed my friends and I
we swore we'd be together
until the day we died
until the day we died
It's such a sad old feeling
the fields are soft and green
it's memories that I'm stealing
but you're innocent when you dream
when you dream
you're innocent when you dream
I made a golden promise
that we would never part
I gave my love a locket
and then I broke her heart
and then I broke her heart
It's such a sad old feeling
the fields are soft and green
it's memories that I'm stealing
but you're innocent when you dream
when you dream
you're innocent when you dream

With Family

Writing of love...of love and family...of relationships and of mirrors. What seems to be missing..what I ache for and yearn for and know now, that there need not be a resolve for. Irrefutable in its strength of bond there is joy and sorrow in the greeting of eyes. In the familiarity of this gathered kin, we celebrate and we share stories from the ancient battlefield.To be with family is not contingent on sharing physical space in the same geographical location. I am with you family at every moment. Presently you are here, on rain dampened city streets and bridges, by the river..with wind and the soft deliberate flight of evening birds. Watching this beauty unfold together.
Together.

Vanda Scaravelli

"Like Gods, we must have time, infinite time. Gods are not limited or restricted by time as they have a different perspective.
For them, a whole life can last only a few minutes. To have time implies that quality of elegance and ease which gives poise to our movements and wisdom to our action.
Pushed by rush, most of the time, we are compressed, mean, and narrow-minded. Why not open the doors and let air, wind and sun penetrate into our hearts?"

The Queen's Lands

Outside
the benevolent hum of commuting automobiles
buzz saws
hydraulic cranes and
wailing children
persuaded
an exhausted spine,
aching for reprieve,
to curl
rapidly
towards the cushion.

A mind clenched in disordered thoughts
warily moved into sleep.

Shadowed forms cloaked and hooded
in
blackened vellum
danced
the steps of
beguiling lies
as the drifter
abdicated from the throne.

Walking
in humid meadows that had once been flood plains
she couldn't hear a thing.

Hopelessly exposed
to a light
that relentlessly plunged into ancient spiderwebs
and beheaded
the most alluring
of nettles,

the walking turned to plodding
and
as milky air parted between the footsteps,


there was before her

A heart.

Yes!

A heart

This heart!

It could be seen on the horizon of
a blushed cream sunset.

And this heart
was envenomed
in envious threads
and this heart
was guarded by
nefarious ivy.

Yet what was realized

what was made very clear to the onlooker
was that this heart was as any other
this heart was not special
this heart was not different.

This heart longed only for a mother

a mother with a thousand hands

a mother who hears all the cries of the world

this mother.

And what came forth,
before,
and after
was a
great
heavy
sigh.......
one that could awaken

and
as the dust from shattered concrete
swirled
and began to settle
in the doorways
eyelids softly murmured open.

A pale hand held open
in a vulnerable gesture
and in the palm

a fly

resting,
in a tiny heap
of shattered armour
weighed heavily .


Her eyelids stopped flickering and settled
to feel
the end of its life.

She arose and cupped the fly
in her hand
and as she brought this hand
towards her mouth
she whispered a few
careful words.

Outside
the trains had ceased running
streetlights began their nightly duty
shhhhhhhh.......

come on
let's go.

cow patty

We are fellow travelers
and when we meet we learn to listen

That hate is a cow patty with tire tracks
running through it
she said
and it's been so long all her life
and her face is an injured eagle

time has passed and the
cow patty
is an
asphalt continent
creaking and cracking and groaning
oh,
it's breaking away from
its raft

And when you meet a fellow traveler you hug her

cradled in the arms
of a mother bear
we were safe as houses

A fellow traveler
She said
god is the space between us
right now
while we're in these chairs
while we're holding hands
and we're not thinking
about our
empty glasses

When I saw these eyes that I had known
and the fellow traveler
he said
You are your fathers daughter
and before you leap away little one
just as you're used to
take my arm.
What will you remember tonight?
My fellow traveler
you are still here

When you meet a fellow traveler
don't you hate her just because her hands appear useless
abandoned to daydreams of tasks
eyes that once were chimes
now sit as
empty catacombs

and

try not to hate him.....
he's as frail as a poisoned fairy
pursued by angry tumbleweeds
though he believes
his hands are useful
oh dear
yes he does,
and they're holding pretty words
while they
wait

well,

maybe
when you meet a fellow traveler

you might drop your weary shoulders
and let your jaw become soft

even if your mouth is wired
even if you know
even if you're right

we just need you
and
we just met.

dogwood

Now do not be distracted

One can't promise the spring blooms
will listlessly fall into your lap
whispering
with the elongated sighs
of the wind
here we are always

Do not be distracted

One can't misuse a day
of blah
blah blah
blah blah blah blah
blah blah blah blah blah
blah blah blah blah
yes
Do not be distracted

The story is painful
As forests animal forms
children parents
shoes schools markets
and flags
exploded with mechanical contempt
transformed to heated ash
a brother, with a firm hand
on the shoulder
of a brother
speaks deliberately,
-You must look-
And do not be distracted

The story is soft
and cloudy with feathers of a
golden goose
and horses that
dance on water
dipped hyacinth
night blooming jasmine surround
the guarded meadow parties
lit with music
endless beverages
and intricately decorated treats
both sweet and savory......
still and still
and
still
Do not be distracted

Perhaps
the devil is the cat peering from behind the heater vent
and faces of terrible ghosts stare glacially through
the linoleum
and "Oh what fun it is to ride
as she'll be coming around the mountain!"
Can you repeat?

Now
do not be distracted

And one can't promise
and
one
can't
promise
We can not promise
yes...

Please
Do not be distracted

Thank you my dear Mom

Out Beyond Ideas

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other" doesn't make any sense.

mevlana jelaluddin rumi - 13th century

Dahlia in the garden

Time to buy a car

We lost one another
that tooth and I
one bitterly cold Sunday morning on Burnside st.
Among glass chunks and bits from the Wild Turkey and Coors light family
my old empty friend left my side

My sister my hip has taken a break!
It's work all these years,
impeccable and kind
by way of searing and polite
dictation has let me know that my
days as an ugly gazelle
are over.

So this morning, if I'm asked
to dance I'll beg that small steps and
little hops be enough
and they will be
because trying to explain pain
is like telling a goat
how to build an iceberg
and thinking about pain
is even less special.

Smells Like Sunday by Joan Elliott

Smells Like Sunday

When I was a child, my father would pile us in the car on Sunday mornings to go for a ride. Most of the time we would end up in Dingman’s Ferry which is a small town set on the Delaware River in northern Pennsylvania. The smell of my father’s cigar permeated the car making me slightly nauseous during the hour and a half trip. We would cross over the toll bridge and on the right side of the road was the Riverview Tavern. My father and Uncle Karl had owned the tavern in the 30’s and Uncle Karl kept it going during World War II when my father was in the army. When he came home and he and my mother decided to stay married, my mother convinced him to sell the place since she didn’t want me to grow up as a tavern owner’s daughter.

But I think his heart was still there so we’d drive up there so we’d drive up there on Sundays. He had sold to a German couple Rudy and Ida who despite Pennsylvania’s blue laws would open up the bar for us. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes transports me back to the tavern on a Sunday morning. We sat on the bar stools and Uncle Rudy made up hamburgers and French fries on the grill. My dad would have a beer and my mother would have a ginger ale. Sometimes Uncle Rudy would open the dance hall behind the bar and I would go back there among the Rheingold signs, the wagon wheel chandeliers, the antlers and mounted deer heads and that stale tavern smell and imagine myself grown up and dancing with some handsome man in uniform.

Strong Bridge

One evening, I went walking.
I remember that it was a night filled with mist and blooms of light from hundreds of city lanterns.
Walking along a strong bridge, dipped in fog, blurred images passed my eyes as fractured language swirled through the river's damp in a sorrowful song..
"By and by I shall meet you by and by my dear,
where gusts of silver-hued river spiral down, down, down,
By and By I shall meet you, bye and bye..."
Then the faces of the little girls danced before me,
just as it was many years before.
"Catch me!, Catch me!"
we're birds flying,
dancing
and as our feet touch down
we only softly graze the swords that
lay in crosses.
"By and by I shall meet you bye and bye little one,
where clouded waves thunder
the mist rises from the foam
and bony fingers from the Cypress
field the solemn touch,
By and by I shall meet you by and by."
And then there was a little form,
perched comfortably on the railing,
a pot-bellied barn owl purred to me,
"Hey there girl, don't you know
that those men there,
will breeeaaaakkkkk
yeeerrrrrrrr
boooooooooooones!!!!!"
Blink
Damn it.
and from below,
"By and by I will meet you by and by my dear,
at the tree felled by the rainstorm
where we crossed
with shaky hearts
we held hands, do you remember?
by and by I shall meet you by and by.."
As my feet slumbered on
I bent forward and
with dull force
picked and gathered the
bruised petals from the soaked concrete.
I grow weary that there are new ways to grieve.

Pour Prendre Conge by Dorothy Parker

Pour Prendre Conge by Dorothy Parker
I'm sick of embarking in dories
Upon an emotional sea.
I'm wearied of playing Dolores
(A role never written for me).

I'll never again like a cub lick
My wounds while I squeal at the hurt.
No more I'll go walking in public,
My heart hanging out of my shirt.

I'm tired of entwining me garlands
Of weather-worn hemlock and bay.
I'm over my longing for far lands-
I wouldn't give that for Cathay.

I'm through with performing the ballet
Of love unrequited and told.
Euterpe, I tender you vale;
Good-by, and take care of that cold.

I'm done with this burning and giving
And reeling the rhymes of my woes.
And how I'll be making my living,
The Lord in His mystery knows.

Dorothy Parker

Waking up

Today the light cascaded down to the ocean
as a silent waterfall of pale golden light
upon a bed of shadowed charcoal clouds.
The image of a card from many years ago filled my thoughts.
A man,
his head hung in shame and
sorrow
or
defeat?
Inside, inscribed,
"I'm sorry, duh.duh.duh."
Rain wept strongly behind him, surrounding him,
pushing him downward and into the night.
Where ever will we meet.
When we move forward
when we have walked
and closed our eyes.

Wednesday Morning

Today the ocean smelled like a pair of old musty balls.
Snaking through the sand in a low tide
the missing members of a kelp forest
inched towards the rocks.
A surfer,
running towards the board that had flown from his feet
shoulder length locks that caught the sun just so..
sculpted stature encased in a slinky wetsuit
and a great.big.smile. crossed my face
Hmmmmmmmm...
and then I thought, "Who knows, maybe he doesn't like Woody Allen movies."
God love um.

Westcliff in my hometown of Santa Cruz, California.

Holding

and so it was because I was filled with a particular heavy sadness that I prayed for a golden moment last night. A golden moment, meaning a moment that would directly remind me that there is still beauty in this world filled with sorrows. and it was as i was leaving a pre-school today, dog-tired weary and weighted that I decided to look back. One of the children, a very sweet three-year old boy stood at the window watching me and waving. As I waved in return, he held up his little hand to his mouth and with the gentlest release, blew me a kiss. He continued this simple, loving, and perfect gesture until I was well down the driveway and turning the corner. It is the love in the action that surpasses all language.Thank you friends.

Happy New Year

To all the kin, wherever you are-
May this year bring you countless moments of joy and ease.
Thank you for your love and support.

Morning Poem

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.


~ Mary Oliver ~