Truth or Consequences

Sometimes when you adjust the view, the landscape, the whole world can change. I can't wait to see what happens next!

Phrases Like "Plumb Fond"

And even though it's August
She's thinking of Jan. 2005
and how it's just like a
farmer-boy hustler hitting on
an east coast lady to use
the phrase "plumb fond"
and go on and on about
her eyes.

And it's right about this
time he drops his shoulder
in the "aw shucks ma'am"
manner that Alice
decides she'd really
like to rip his heart out and
- bear his children
and crawl naked over that
hairy back -
all at the same time.

A rose by any other name . . .

Mary Lorraine -- [noun]: A poltergeist sent back in time to change the course of history forever 'How" will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Make No Sound

Here is the sound of
the trolley leaving in the snow,
and the weep of the empty cupboard.
Here is the room of sparse furniture,
thin carpets,
the upright keyboard with
dusty keys and snow
flakes drifting on the balustrades,
chipped paint and faded wallpaper,
solid brass work on the doors.


The world is so small:
A closet, a space behind the stair.
Live where the mice live.
Move only in the dark.
Make no sound.
Wear no face. Flat
mouth, eyes at 500 yards.

And so this is Christmas. I hope you had fun . . .

I love Christmas – it’s not that I’m particularly Christian except by the definition to be a “tian” is o ascribe or have allegiance somehow – as in Italian = from Italy and vegetarians eat only vegetables. So if I think the story of Jesus life as it is told to us is something to emulate; Would that be what it is to be a Christian regardless of his lineage – then I would be a Christian – and a Buddhist and a Darwinian and a Mostian (after Moses) and a follower of Ruth and Mary of Magdelena, and of Angelina Jolie and Bono and all people who look into the eyes of any human being, ANY, and sees themselves, sees G-d, sees the potential for humankind to be everything it is capable of being.

But that is not what I love about Christmas. My children have been with me every Christmas eve and morning since the days they were born. And since then, every December 24th and December 25th has been precious; full of laughter and hugs and a chance to surprise my children and give them things that aids their dreams. For Dylan this year it is a music journal to write his compositions and a good digital camera for Sara to take on her trip to Europe when she graduates from college and does the trip with knowledge she had not known she could possess to places she did not know she would travel.

Here is our tree – bought last minute on Dec. 23rd – Dyl’s piano and guitar and soccer ornaments and Sara’s childhood touched hearts and blind reindeer and Love the Irish ornaments and my own monkeys and wine corks, angels and blown glass. The children decorated it Dec. 24th in the afternoon while I was still showering and dressing for the evening. They did the final touches, made the decisions. They knew I needed help, had spread my efforts too thin, run behind, This is what they made.

But the moment on Christmas day when they leave is one I always steel myself against- make ready – I cannot not be ready for that – today it comes at 1:15 PM. My son leaves with his father, they slip outside into the rain, the chill air coming in through the door. Sara loads her car with her presents and comes back inside for a hug to hold her the rest of the day. Here is her beautiful face, her scarf and her whimsical sense just before she leaves.
Then she gets in her car, turns on her windshield wipers and drives off to her father’s house. This Marley’s chain that I have made, link by link, divorce by divorce. It’s mine. So as they drive away, I notice that by the cars left outside my sextet of townhouses, that I am the only one home, and with no one that I will be visiting. I only allow a moments sadness because I am the lucky one. I had a miraculous night of Christmas Eve, full and a warm, loving morning. Just as I am standing at the window watching the tail lights disappear in the misty gray rain, the phone rings – my brother Michael has phoned as he drives with his wife, Debra, to visit her family. He asks if I am okay, tells me he will phone me in the evening.

I also talk to my brother David and niece, Jennifer, and wife, Susan and they remind me how loved I am, how I am at home with them. It is clear how we care for one another, always have.

My brothers and I knew we had to care for one another. Now we want to care for one another.

Michael does phone on his ride home – he and Debra, making sure that I am okay, not sad, not too lonely. And I am not. Not at all because he has called, and because of my conversation with David and Susan and because later I know I will hear again from Sara.

My gifts are my children, my brothers, my sister, my family. And even my dog, Sally. Who must go outside and makes me get up and fed her and she climbs onto my lap and demands that I play and can not fall into any type of pity party. She makes me about life, here now. She eats and sleeps and plays and does not judge and displays her feelings honestly. If one owns/raises pets, one learns how to get through every single day.


So here we were. I am the luckiest of the lucky.

Heights

It is easy to make the mistake of

Scrambling up a trail or a staircase,

Seeing the promise of what is ahead,

Only to realize once you reach the

Summit, that the road back to where

You were is either impossible

Or is riddled with pain.

You Know Dylan, Right?

You are the black sneakers and Persagel.
You are the shaggy wool of the yak
And the smell of the new cut grass.
You are a winter storm coming
And the chipmunk running for cover.

However, you are not the brass
Elephant candle holder
Or the rolled carpet or
The Degas posed figurine.

It is possible you are the telescope at
The window,
Maybe even the lone falcon
Perched on a high branch
But you are not even close to
Being sunlight reflected on the windshield.

And a quick look in the
Aluminum toaster will show
That you are neither the
Tarragon growing on the deck
Nor the bike with the flat tires
In the basement.

You might enjoy knowing that
I am the sound of an LP falling
Onto a turntable.
I also happen to be the dance
In the leaves of the lilac,
And the smell of bread rising and
The flat tire on the bike in the basement.

I am the curved knick on the
Cherry tabletop and the sound of
The dog lapping his water.

but I am not winter coming
And the lone falcon. You are still
Winter coming and the lone falcon.
You will always be winter coming
And the lone falcon,
Not to mention the pine needles
crunched under the hunter’s boot
And somehow the barometer.