Archive for May 2013

Slender Canopy

May 15, 2013


I am posting this photo from a mobile device and am a little worried that it won’t show in full on a non-mobile device – i.e. regular computer. The telephone pole is supposed to be in the exact center – it got there, sort of, by accident, but that is where it is supposed to be. If it doesn’t show up properly first look, it will if you click on the photo.

So far, my blog break has not been very productive in terms of writing, but I have done a lot of escapist reading! Though photos are of the country, I have been in and out of New York doing escapist reading in much of my free time, even walking on the sidewalk. It is possible (if I do not get hit by a car or other pedestrian) that this is useful as part of the problem with the novel manuscripts I am trying to rewrite is that I need to make the plots move more quickly. Escapist reading is very informative in terms of giving one samples of quickly moving plots. Escapist reading while walking on a city sidewalk is very useful in terms of learning to skip one’s self along quite quickly at times – like when crossing the street. So… so… so… perhaps it is useful. I do find it hard to work on a big project in small snatches of time–and I miss the fun and engagement of smaller pieces – but will keep trying a bit longer. (Or maybe will cheat a bit more and write some short pieces!) At any rate, thanks much for stopping by. k.


May 13, 2013



Unfortunately, this photo when first posted only showed up partially as the App upload was too big.  I just love the line down to the green leaves and the pear blossoms in the background.  The great thing about old blossoming trees is that you can have beautiful flowers without having had to plant them!

Happy Mother’s Day

May 12, 2013
Happy Mother's Day!

Memory of Back Seat of Car (Both as Mom and Child)

Yes, the image is sentimental.  But so are many happy memories.

A happy day to all who’ve held someone’s head in their lap, or had their head held.  (It was an experience that could even make carsickness feel okay, and a comfort that I, at least, have carried through my whole life.)

Containing It

May 11, 2013


Containing It

The whole way down the subway steps she thinks of cutting herself.

As she mounts the train,  she feels
flesh at her knuckles, the arm of an older black woman
pressed against her, her dark skin as cool and sweet and ineffably
unexpectedly soft as a cloud.

Still her mind finds out the fine lines
it imagines peeling back from her wrist or throat
like the cover
of an opening book.

Swaying with the crowd, she tries to force consciousness elsewhere.
How much she’d like some tea.  Strong.  Milky.
Except that maybe it’s all the tea that’s the problem; some chemical reaction–
Still she wants it.

Depression is the anger turned inward.
Just tell yourself you’re mad at him.
Just say that you do too blame him.

She wants the tea so much she can almost taste it,
only the tea leaves in her mind brew a briny
greyed puddle.  She pictures the puddle in the country,
beneath a willow, behind a hedge, in the shadow of a stone wall.
It is a place that never gets much sun, a small triangle at quarter to noon.
The wall is made of hundreds of stones
joined simply by corresponding shape,
the weight of each other’s gravity,
a long time together.

Too bright outside.  She steps around a man made of angles, his elbows knobs,
orange plastic cup for change, grey stubble, and next to him,
a smooth coffee-colored guy pushing a wire cart around the
sidewalk’s gutted pools.  “Gillette,” he shouts.  “Schick, Remington—”

She keeps her eyes down, keeps
walking, but she hears in the hawked
brand names the reflection of the men, the silvered packages,
the stacked blades.

Maybe if she just buys some.
Not to use.
To stare down at
in the dark rumple of paper bag.

It will be a dry brown bag, its lip folded and re-folded
until, finally, it assumes the softness
of flesh.

She imagines herself looking inside the bag repeatedly, hiding it,
unhiding it, curling it vaguely closed, uncurling
it into a weighted vacuity.

But maybe it will help.
To just buy some.
To look at only,
to look at in a soft brown bag.


This is not autobiographical!  It is the revision of an older piece, which I am posting for dVerse Poet Pubs Poetics prompt on temptation, hosted by Mary Kling.   I’ve been taking a bit of a blogging break to work on larger projects–though mainly I find myself catching up on a great deal of practical things.  I am getting ready to really work on the big projects soon!  (Ha.)  

To A Young Porcupine – WARNING – Sad/Graphic Photo

May 10, 2013


To A Young Porcupine, Killed

We might have gone to the same palm reader
if we believed in palm readers,
but porcupines don’t, as a matter of instinct,
and me –  my lifeline fades half-way
across my hand.

And if the psychic had squinted
into your palm’s inked crease,
would she have warned you away
from dogs?

And what would she have said
to your mother, who, I suspect, quivers close-by–
That you can do everything right, even heroically,
and yet not save each day.

The dog, its eyes still able
to show hurt, is hurried to the vet.
but I come back to you,
turning with a stick your torn form,
hiding what’s been made meat.

Sometimes our natures
fail us -like the dog who swoops
into a muzzle of needles.
Sometimes, it’s simply chance
that lets us down – like you, sniffed out
by a lonely stream–
Then there are times like this, those
like me, who try to see ourselves as immune,
deciding that thumbs,
sticks, cameras (maybe even
guns) will protect us from
random fates; will save our young too
from the clutch of the

Your fingers stretch out,
in the position I’ve managed,
your palm gently cupped
and so like mine that we might have gone
to the same palm reader, had we believed
our lives were held
in the lines of our hands.


I’ve missed you all terribly!  But I have been very busy with my job, and adjusting to new life of back and forth – city and country -and some other pretty serious life issues.    And I have at least been looking at one of the novels (I am tempted to say, stupid novels), I am trying to rewrite.

The experience described above has been very much on my mind too though — a porcupine killed by the dog of a friend and neighbor (not my old blind Pearl)  and I have been trying and trying to write something about it.   I still don’t think I’ve gotten down what I wanted to say, and I’m sorry to those of you that find the picture disturbing.  It is disturbing.  Very sad on all counts.

55 Words–ahem–Weeds for the G-man.

May 10, 2013


By my faltering count.  Let him know.

And have a wild weekend.

Somewhere Under The Rainbow?

May 5, 2013


Couldn’t Resist = “Not A La Vongole”

May 4, 2013


Not Quite A La Vongole

Pearl and Oyster came to shore
in a ruffled and ridged canoe.
It was made of shell
stretched all pell mell
but at least it well fit two.

Oyster smiled the smile of a clam
tight-lipped and circumference-wide
while Pearl just beamed at all that sand–
the possibilities it implied.

To culture the beach like a music class
introduced, let’s say, to Puccini–
that’s how Pearl thought, so very fast,
while Oyster got caught in linguini–

Some folks don’t know about oysters;
all bivalves, to some, are the same.
Pearl wore her very best necklace
when she thought of Oyster again–

And when she heard the tenor Rudolfo
sing of Mimi’s ice cold hand–
tears pale as waves of milky froth
washed her once more onto that strand.


Okay, okay. I couldn’t resist. I AM taking a mental blog break. But with Kerry O’Connor of With Real Toads AND Edward Lear, as an inspiration, the old wheels just started spinning. On my behalf, I have started re-working an old fantasy novel so I am making a sort of progress. (The drawing above is kind of awful but meant to be a pearl and an oyster.) Also, for those who don’t care for opera – Rudolfo is the tenor hero of La Boheme, by Puccini; he sings one of his greatest aria’s about the cold hands of Mimi, the soprano.


Clearing the Decks (Untangling Some Stems)

May 2, 2013


The above is frost in Spring, covering a tangle of last year’s grasses, this year’s sprouts.   I find myself extremely tired right now, and also conscious that all my old pre-blog creative work – i.e. manuscripts of would-be novels – have gotten more and more dried up and tangled.   I just don’t seem to have the verve (or time or mental space) to sprout lots of new little pieces (i.e. poems) and finish the weave of these older bigger projects.  (I’m not sure the bigger projects are more meaningful than the small, but in the past, I did spend a great deal of time on them.)

So, I’m going to try to redirect my focus for a bit – lighten up on textual posts – try to finish at least one old novel manuscript.

Thanks so much for your very kind support.  It has meant (and means) a huge amount to me.  Do check in as I am terrible at keeping resolutions and so I will undoubtedly be putting new things up regularly–little elephants, dogs, photos, a camel or two.   Maybe even just writing about writing.  (Or, you know, a draft poem.)

(I am incorrigible, and believe me, will get readily depressed noveling!  But I do feel I have to give those projects a chance.)

Thanks again.