Picking Up Shiny Things

brief

2011-04-04T06:30:00.000-07:00

I found the blue one on the bottom of the cage,
dead in the way that only birds can be,
a feathered husk. It weighed no more
than the memory of an unremarkable day.

I might have worn it on a thread, an ornament
of sky and sad curled feet. Things die.
We are such unheeded orphans, afterthoughts
at best. Our histories are barely mounds
upon the earth’s resilient back. Our stories

find no audience. The long nights consume
the heart, the heft of bone, the light
that someone might have cherished.
We are fistfuls of feathers, so insubstantial

we fear the wind and the crush of wheels.
It would take so little for us to fall,
to be wrapped in a shred of lace
with only a suggestion of blue to mark
an epoch that once was winged.

remains

2011-03-23T12:58:00.000-07:00

The bones of your dory rest under the pines.
Untouched since last August,

she gathers webs and shadows.

She should be long done, painted, varnished,
graceful in the bay.
The wood sits beneath the sky,

bears the sun and moon, the rain
and snow. The wind hums through her,

echoes her emptiness. Always she aches

for your hands to finish her.

Anne, who would be queen

2011-03-23T12:13:00.000-07:00

Oh, that I might be tidy, sky blanched,

fields ribboned, trees skinned of bark.

But all is a-jumble, tangled and on fire.

Your fox-grin is torn away by a gust.

I am left to imagine your chattering jaw.

If I were neat you would be buried

behind the flat stones, courted

by cockroach and pin-light.

But you are a shattered goblet, here

and there, sharp and eager for flesh.

My shelves are rife with such stories,

spines rotten and pages loose.

I will never pick them up again.

I leave them for the flood, for the blaze,

for the blind-eyed moon. Let the tragedy

play out once more to the song of glass

and wind. Remind me what to regret.

Then perhaps I will disinherit

this chaos, my birthright of disarray.

I will let you go like a handful of dust.

a winter day

2011-01-06T20:21:00.000-08:00

Morning breaks, cut-glass bright and rife with winter
birds. I hear the stars shift just beneath the day’s blue
façade, a whisper as silvery as the icy creek’s refrain.
I miss the umber twilight, the grackles penciled in, charcoal

and sepia suggestions of movement. It is too keen,
this early light with shadows as sharp as calligraphy.
There remain no pine swept paths, no sugar-sand ways
where sea oats bow. There is only macadam and limestone,

a sleet-glazed cliff, a dull scene daubed on its craggy face.
Thankfully, the day is brief, a snowy trillium trampled
by the coming dark. By four there is iron on the wind.
I paint in this poor light, in hues gleaned from a well.

Familiar, this darkness. Sweet, the absence of truth’s cruel light.
I paint a door as black as these bare window panes,
imagine a room behind it where even the night gleams
golden and claims dominion over the sting of frost and fear.

On reading poetry

2010-12-06T12:12:00.001-08:00

On reading poetry

Master of pot lids-
clatter, sing, and snivel.
You think yourself bigger somehow
when you stand on sheets of paper,
arms sticking out of the windows
of a very small house.
You prissy poet, with one trick
reincarnated ad nauseum,
I would know your smear
in a bucket of snot.

I have eaten your words
after you, the regurgitated
strophe, a bowl of lukewarm mush,
staccato verses caught in my throat.
The tapeworm of your prosy proclivity
burrows in my belly.

I return to it though,
out of some curious loyalty,
Run my hands over almost sonnets
mortified by the thrill
the symmetry stirs.
One acquires a taste for it.

nineteen

2010-10-26T14:34:00.001-07:00

I would offer up the violet cords
that twine my wrists, the knobby arc
of my sleeping spine, the nakedness

of my greed. Oh, pillow and moon,
light severed by reeds, at night I wish
for impossible things. Coyotes run
like starlings on the wind, yet I remain
astonished by the rush of seasons.

I would, you know, even now,
open my hands in honesty, forget
the reasons and regrets. If I could

breathe again the river would sweep
the song from my mouth and all
I would do is kiss you, fill you
with the light of captured stars.
I would offer up the violet shadows

that haunt my eyes, the tender bones
I’ve borrowed from the wrens,
the truth that has no words but these.

Autumnal

2010-10-02T10:53:00.001-07:00

October is a door I am thrust through,
a maw that gapes before me, all bittersweet
and acorn shades. Some think it lovely,
but I do not. I see its hunger for all
that is alive, from leaf to ruddy flesh.

It longs to dress the hills and glades
with garish hues and coffin mounds.
The air bears a bouquet of sorrow.
The grackles bear it up on ragtag wings
and span the fire laced sunset

with their omens and harsh cries.
Memory comes as a conjurer, clever
and unkind, in a swirl of dark wind.
He burrows in the chest, worm-like.
I think of autumns when I was young

and took the aching light as a sign
of tenderness, let it pour down
my throat like an elixir. October
makes me close my eyes. My heart
though, is a door ajar to this familiar grief.

sincerely

2010-06-23T21:56:00.001-07:00

I am not writing about the storms
of May, or sparrows’ wings folded
like empty gloves, nor how
the constellations seem as stark
as sequins on a dark skirt.

I offer, instead, this letter that reveals
the pale skin of my shoulders. It builds
no bridges for gaps in time, tenders
no apology for embellishments
scattered like petals and ash.

An observant reader knows
to plumb the white space.
The back story is the one
that breathes and shudders
like a woman. I am saying
that I hardly know myself

what my hands will create
and I am not prepared
for imposed silence or solitude
that falls like a curtain
of watered silk. I petition
for a prescribed darkness
and a soft, grey hush that muffles
like the snow.

I am writing to say
that paper, wind,
certain rays of light
contain me truer
than this flesh.

opaque

2010-01-05T14:46:00.000-08:00

opaque

I am painting today, near-black bark
and a sash of strewn sand, a mélange
of what fills my heart to its tender brim.
And that brim, how it bows and quivers,
yet obeys the fragile laws that contain it.
My brushes grow stiff, ignored as I am

coaxed by the dull grey wings of winter
birds. January is tintype, a dim remembrance
of an argent day and yet another to come.
But I am hungry for this pallid vista,
glad that it pushes hard against the panes,

a homeless season that groans for hearth
and stew, knows it will never have either.
I will paint the road that brought me here,
the sooty bridges and the river’s iron
spine. There will be a hinge somewhere
that has no rust, a sterling pin that slips

like a starved man into the dole. Light
will bloom in hues stolen from the moon.
When I am done it will seem as if the canvas
is a flecked sky stretched on a frame of opal
bones. You will find yourself drawn within.

2009-08-27T22:22:00.000-07:00

birdsong

I offer my perfection, severed and apart,
the swan’s glorious neck, white, silent.
Like feather laid on feather, I build
this place, temple to my own frail god.

No one comes or goes, yet how the halls
are filled with tails of sashes slipping
into doorways. I say silence, but listen.
There is a windchime’s bright refrain,

water over stone, the wind’s desire to cease.
Peonies sugar the air. The terrazzo hoards
the day’s heat. I preen and practice
before the fountain’s pool. I am a wing

splayed and honored, without purpose.
Even my beauty is incomplete. Here
I am, disjointed, dancing, a little hen
hanging chandeliers inside her coop.

2009-02-08T20:02:00.000-08:00

Lantern Festival

Tonight the rare moon persists, calls echoes
from every nook. Winter has stripped
the lace from the pistachio, left it
black and keen against the cloudbank.
I have cared too much about the revolution

of barren planets, the climate of the sun,
the dream of water plumbed from stone.
By daybreak I expect a cure, a dose
of ice and sunlight. It is building

that calls me now. My desk bows
beneath the weight of strategies
and maps. I will swathe the windows
with crepe, ignore the bait of star
and branch. Even the snow will lose

its pretty riddles. My lips are lined
with ten-penny nails. I wait for morning,
for the moon to melt into the west,
a pale votive snuffed by my breath.

2008-12-05T05:33:00.001-08:00

Antonio López García

Antonio’s canvas

Boundaries collapse within my fist,
crushed like ancient lace.
When I lift my hand to the wind
it is sacred to watch
them sough the air with immunity.

I have not finished the bletted quince.
I am waiting for time to reveal
the hues of this fisted apple.
The door is peeling now. The paint
has given up its desire to oversee

the small leavings of this house.
Has it been months, already
since I came inside , since the orchard
bloomed and scattered velvet
blossoms on my windowsill?

My brush takes me beyond these walls,
past the confines of the apoapsis.
The quince will flower again
before the winter moon is snagged,
full and ripe, in her branches.

http://www.tdludwig.net/painting/lopez.htm

hope

2008-11-05T18:17:00.001-08:00

hope, originally uploaded by mrs. french.

Oh, it has been so long since I have felt good about the future of my country. It is a beautiful thing to feel hopeful. I am proud to be an American on this day.

Ike

2008-09-20T10:30:00.000-07:00

Haiti, the poorest country in the Americas, has been battered by storms this summer.

Ike was a ferocious hurricane that left a swath of destruction in his path from the Turks & Caicos Islands across the Caribbean, Haiti, Cuba and the Louisiana and Texas coasts.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Ike
If you are interested in helping in the recovery effort I reccommend the following institutions~

Operation Blessing International~ http://community.ob.org/site/PageServer

Galveston Rising~ http://www.galvestonrising.com/

American Red Cross~ http://www.redcross.org/

2008-09-19T12:17:00.000-07:00

after the water

There is a always a threshold for things
that alter us, a clean edge at the start,
the surprise of it like a blade pressed cold
against the throat. The first wave is forgotten

in the next. Fierce water rises like a wicked sun
to spread across the fields, the little houses,
the ponies with their bright new shoes.
Oh, the tumble and spill of cobbled hopes,

the surge of flowerpots and paperbacks!
And there my heart dissolves, in the unbound
Bay, like a snow flake swallowed by the tide,
assimilated so that I might wrap around the fallen

palms and beams, might taste the rust and ruin.
It is nothing, no solace, no redemption,
but a useless rag I use to blot the tortured landscape.
I will not ask for pardon, will not assume

it matters. Better I was a splintered pole,
something stark and astonishing, than this quiet
sadness that only laps the dirty hem of sky,
an imperceptible swell that bears no boat or seed.

August

2008-09-10T15:19:00.001-07:00

sea dream , originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

Beneath a coronet
of scrim spun clouds I wait
for nothing. Expectation has flown
away like millet on a parched wind.

My open hands drop only silver
shadows onto the prairie.
I am no emptier than before.
It is only the willingness to stop

the approaching penumbra that alters me.
When possibility is recognized,
met face to face in every surface
that offers clear reflection, I see

that it is but another property
of light, a coveted revision
of the familiar spectrum.
The summer sun sets

the horizon trembling . I aim
to fill my arms with gold and amber
beams, to hoist the impossible
weight of luminance back into the sky.

2008-08-09T09:55:00.000-07:00

yield

A year is an arc, a swath cut
deep into the earth. Mud and ice,
clover, violets, dust and dew
occur within. Days fall, a steady rain
of pebbles down the steep sides,

grit so fine it chafes the lungs,
rocks as jagged as hasty lies.
I have walked from June to June,
barefoot and sweetly shod.
No matter. The stones still bruise.

Sand finds its way into my bed.
Sun and storm pursue my share
of sky, duel above like lazy gods .
In these twelve months graves
have blossomed, flat as fungus,

spread their spore-like, rotten
flowers, an unavoidable plague.
Joys are harder to define,
closer held. I dare not speak
of them. Gems so precious stir

the greed of trifling deities.
A year is a song, the descant
honed and smooth. I hear it
in the ryed wind. It swings
like a blade, closer, closer.

imagine that!

2008-07-08T10:28:00.000-07:00

http://ibpc.webdelsol.com/best2007.html

Interboard Poetry Community

POEM OF THE YEAR

May 2007-April 2008

Judged byKelly Cherry

Bad Weather by Dale McLain

Submitted byWild Poetry Forum

Judges Comments

Poem of the Year
Bad Weather

It is the music first of all that tells me this is a poem to pay attention to. The poet varies short and long sentences, carrying the cadence of them straight through to the slant-rhyme couplet that brings the poem to completion. The diction holds steady thoughout; nothing strays beyond the tessitura of the poem. This very American poem ("Sheetrock," "twister" "prairie boat") adheres to a classical sense of proportion that is equally evident in the speaker's statements. The same is true of the emotions it contains: we hear the speaker's fear and exhilaration but also a carefully calculated self-mockery that derives from years of experience with the phenomena. ("You can grow accustomed to storms," we were told in the very first line, and the poem demonstrates that you can. Accustomed, but by no means passive.) Because the self-mockery is handled lightly enough, it charms and does not depress. The poet's gentle acceptance of the emotions stirred by the storm gives to the poem a good-naturedness that the reader feels must be inclusive: reader and poet can experience--let's say weather--the storm together. --Kelly Cherry

Bad Weather

You can grow accustomed to storms.
Every night they shake our sheetrock,
set the bricks trembling. Mortar remembers
it is only sand. Our jaunty roof begs
to be doffed. And I huddle within my frame
with dread and an awful wish that the past proves
its redundancies, that miles away the twister
will drop- not here, not now when I have just
remembered my own name.

When the windows bow like Galileo's glass
I begin to pray to deities yet unnamed,
beseech the clever stars that hide
behind the churning ceiling. I confess
that peace is not my plea. Instead I ask
for more colors and a measure of strength
to face the wind. The red oak fusses
at my window, whines and scratches to come in.

But it holds, this vine-covered house,
stands on its wide flat bottom, a prairie boat
anchored fast in hard white clay and history.
Within I slip off my shoes. Tonight is not the night
that I will walk on broken glass and wear the unmistakable
face of disbelief. The thunder's growl begins to lose
step with the lightning. In the attic rafters sigh
and creak like scrawny old men. I lay my head
on the last damp cloud where dreams of whirlwinds
and flying shingles wait. I sleep
like a town wiped off the map.

time flies

2008-06-25T20:00:00.001-07:00

time flies, originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

defining my macrocosm

2008-06-15T20:28:00.001-07:00

There is solace in the company of cedars,
a fluidity to the air by this familiar creek.
Larger stones bare their backs to slatted sunlight,
dry in the eternal prairie wind. Darting minnows
find this stream too shallow, but it is my ocean,
the opposite shore another coast, its sloped bank

built of foreign soil. The climate breeds all gusts
and unnamed storms. Legend has it only fools
tie up there, hitched to rock as brittle as midwinter.
On my side there are bluebottles born to stitch
tall reeds, a ruffled chirr concocted to cover silence
like smut on a lantern’s curved glass. I am obliged

to drowse and consider the fording of this fabled sea.
How easily I could gain transport across so thin
and unremarkable a spill. Barely a drop would follow
me into the alien copse. Already I wear the costume
of a native, woven like a scar into my willing flesh.
But even in sleep I lie anchored, sunk fast and deep

in bisque and history. I awaken to a small eddy
where frostweed petals spin like stars in a fluid sky.
Behind me waits a well-worn path, certain passage
engendered by my own steady hand. As I walk
I cannot help but note the dampness of my lacy hem,
the way my skirt is weighted with the froth of dreams.

2008-06-03T14:06:00.001-07:00

blue, originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

2008-05-28T21:45:00.000-07:00

dispatch

2008-05-15T14:07:00.001-07:00

I long for a voice like a wing,
feathered and soft, that I might tell
you everything that hides within.

The perfection of plumes
laid side by side, hollow shafts
that ache for air, a subtle iridescence
in slanted light; these things might speak
for me in truth and tenderness.
And then the sky would drop
a silken curtain, miles of sapphire

unfurled. Strong and fluent,
I would convey, at last, a pureness
of heart untainted by a single word.

2008-05-14T15:35:00.000-07:00

keeper

2008-05-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

Sister has taken the lower faux branch
this morning. I admire the delicate curve
of her pink feet, how she perches like a quetzal.
But we are drab, the two of us, ladybirds
with dun feathers and no mysteries caught
under our folded wings. I catch Mildred’s eye
in the mirror with the dangling silver bell,

give cheep of hello and a little nod.
She is in her dreamy mood, trying to forget
the slender bars that contain us. I give the bell
a tap with my orange beak, but it is difficult
to distract her from her yearning.
There is a fresh scoop of seeds in the glass
dish. I sing my thanks. Poor sister,

she cannot give up the sky. Her song
is lost, her eyes always hungry, searching.
I will take her a plump sunflower seed
and smooth the feathers on her head.
There is nowhere for us in that bright
unbounded world. We are safe here,
my brown wing soft across her back.

2008-04-29T13:42:00.000-07:00

Millie’s summer vacation

At Wrightsville Beach the untidiness
of her desire washes up one June,
a sullen creature lost on a bad tide.
It is nearly dark and the Atlantic
demands the remains of light
that glimmer above the water.

The fishermen see it first, gasping
there in the spindrift and wonder
if their hooks might hold it.
She, on the other hand, turns
her back on the creature,
contemplates, instead,

the tilt-a-whirl that spins
against the now black sky,
tossing constellations like neon
confetti. It is no surprise to her.
This ungainly flotsam had been
her familiar for so long.

Moonlight reveals too much
The gelatinous heap trembles,
calls to mind a human heart.
She knows that she must claim it.
In the end she shoves it roughly
into her little creel, like bait.

Mignon

2008-04-23T17:31:00.000-07:00

It is in the strata of woven twigs
I shelter my life. Notice the incorporation
of plume and silk, the finest threads
gleaned from bin and clothesline.

Here, where the wind lionizes endurance,
one might claim a moment in the lull
to knit a nest of beauty and sawgrass.
I lodge in a cottonwood, a common tree

amid a copse of sisters, wren-dull
and smaller than a fist. But it is said
my voice is fine. Its churr and trill
loops through the boughs and leaves

a lace of blossoms strewn beneath.
It is storm season now and I am nestled
in this scooped lair of lichen and prayer.
I petition the gods of pupae and seed,

the emperors who own the sky,
even the man who wields the saw;
Give me spring once more and I will sing
to shame the bright and faithless cockerel.

seaworthy

2008-04-23T08:13:00.000-07:00

Rivers converge, the narrow rocky ones,
the placid and the fierce, all tumbling
toward the sea and I am on a gentle bank
beside the least of these. Bright water eddies
around twigs and leaves, tucks into nooks
of pebbles and weeds. It is a reluctant stream,
content it seems to meander beneath a canopy
of cottonwood and plum. I dip my fingers
into this languid brook and bring them to my lips.

I am wanting salt, a citrus wind, silver wafers
of sunlight strewn atop a restless tide. But for me
there are stave oaks and dull-hued ladybirds
that chat among the upper limbs. I engage the sky
in conversation, send my thoughts like puffs of smoke
into the Texas blue, where I imagine them as clouds
bound for fond horizons. Back inside I gild feathers
and snip tin. A steady rain of rust falls into my lap.
What can I send down the skin-deep Trinity;

a hammered heart? disgraced relics? I find the world too big,
my hands too small. All the gifts I fashion are heavy, riddled
with imbroglio. They sink, reliably, in the silted bed,
like stub nails in dry pine. Still I adorn my fallen nest
with bits of lace and parchment, wax the brittle hull
of sticks and clay. It is a prayer of sorts, a burnished faith
that leaves my hands to find the current. Far downriver
the delta flowers all bow their saintly heads
for every passing tender that lusts for charity.

The eighth fold

2008-04-17T11:31:00.000-07:00

All day I have made a meal of my tongue,
tamped pride and dismay as flat as a blacktop.
My thoughts are reined, a team of Spanish Jennets,
gaited, distinguished. Ah, but desire, that gnat
still swarms. Its buzz countermands my mantra.
Perhaps it is the cocktail that stirs me up,
eases my anemic grip on virtue. I drink
nectar from the dandelion, pay homage
to flakes of rust and dole out my benevolence

like sticks of gum; take some please,
I have plenty more. I compose a prayer
for sea and wind, no it should be for damp
and sigh. My expectations wallow as low
as Chico’s Malibu. Ah, The Way is harsh.
I crave baubles and song, something dirty
every now and then. But I am a just a trick,
a sheaf made thick and small. In truth
there is nowhere left to go except within.

from The Daily Om

2008-04-11T20:14:00.000-07:00

"The journey of water as it flows upon the earth can be a mirror of our own paths through life. Water begins its residence on Earth as it falls from the sky or melts from ice and cascades down a mountain into a tributary or stream. In the same way, we come into the world and begin our lives on Earth. Like a river that flows within the confines of its banks, we are born with certain defining characteristics that govern our identity. We are born in a particular time and place, into a specific family, and with certain gifts and challenges. Within these parameters, we move through life, encountering many twists, turns, and obstacles along the way—just as a river flows.

Water is a great teacher that shows us how to move through the world with grace, ease, determination, and humility. When a river breaks at a waterfall, it gains energy and moves on. As we encounter our own waterfalls, we may fall hard, but we always keep going. Water can inspire us not to become rigid with fear or hold fast to what is familiar. Water is brave and does not waste time clinging to its past but flows onward without looking back. At the same time, when there is a hole to be filled, water does not flee from it, fearful of the dark; instead, it humbly and bravely fills the empty space. In the same way, we can face the dark moments of our life rather than running away from them.

Eventually, a river will empty into the sea. Water does not hold back from joining with a larger body, nor does it fear a loss of identity or control. It gracefully and humbly tumbles into the vastness by contributing its energy and merging without resistance. Each time we move beyond our individual egos to become part of something bigger, we can try our best to follow the lead of the river."

2008-04-01T09:52:00.000-07:00

You'll see it when you believe it.

~Wayne Dyer

2008-03-28T06:28:00.000-07:00

2008-03-25T15:10:00.000-07:00

When everything in your world shifts, slips like a puppy in a flatbed, these are the things that are steady and true... the sea, the stars, your own searching heart.

not in Paris

2008-03-18T17:21:00.000-07:00

I keep a ledger, row on row, tracings of sky
and begonia. The columns, creamy and wide,
wait for jots of Euros spent in bookstalls
and smart cafes. But I have filled them
instead with what the prairie gives, thoughts

of storms, words like thunderhead and thistle.
The Solferino bridge will not fit between
these pages. The buskers beneath do not care
for the silence of closed books. Montmartre’s
portraitists cannot be plucked like daisies

and conserved for some lonely year to come.
I plow these paper fields with a fine tip pen,
allow myself to fancy up the margins
with little sketches of the Sacre Coeur,
the smudgy dusk at the Jardin du Trocadero,

wobbly wildflowers that skirt the sensible
crops I sustain. I am not in Paris, nor Brazil,
but planted deep on this invariable plain.
It spreads before me, a true accounting that bears
with grace the indulgence of my penciled larks.

2008-03-18T09:06:00.000-07:00

You just might hear the universe.

It could happen.

Really.

hello there...

2008-03-17T08:21:00.000-07:00

As observing detail is clarity,

So maintaining flexibility is strength;

Use the light but shed no light,

So that you do yourself no harm,

But embrace clarity.

~Tao de Ching~

cough...

2008-03-14T07:28:00.000-07:00

How lovely to read this story... http://news.aol.com/health/story/ar/_a/air-too-dirty-to-breathe-in-345-counties/20080313094209990001 ...

I am not surprised to see my county (Collin, Tx) named as one of the 345 US counties where the air is too dirty to breathe. We are an inch from Dallas. While this is not shocking news, it is very disturbing and all the more reason to move to some seaside locale where the air blows clean (er) off the water.

I have to say this does put a bit of a taint on my adoration of the beautiful Texas skies.

I am off to hold my breath...

2008-03-08T14:22:00.000-08:00

One joy dispels a hundred cares.

~Confucius

denied!!!

2008-03-06T12:23:00.000-08:00

Well, the weather has turned decidely ugly... so my sis and I have cancelled our quest for baubles. Instead I am huddling by my fake logs, swilling coffee and watching the rain/sleet/snow mishmash tumble from the sky. It is cozy inside... a good day to stay home and maybe make some art.

winter's remnants, rhinestones & footwear...

2008-03-06T06:28:00.000-08:00

Old Man Winter is such a jokester. We had snow on Tuesday (several inches... a LOT for north Texas)... nearly 70 and sunshine yesterday... and guess what? Snow is predicted for today and tomorrow. It is as cold as a well digger's ass! Whatever... I have some cute boots.

So anyway, my sis and I are taking a break from trying revamp our entire lives to go on the hunt for cheap jewelry. Well, she has a doc's appt. just up the road from trinketland... it's just so damn close. How can we NOT go? And anyway, this deal of reaching a higher spiritual plane, freeing your life from crap, blah, blah, blah... well, it is a bit taxing and a girl just needs a little bling to ease the journey...

waiting for Mozart

2008-03-04T07:41:00.000-08:00

On the outskirts of Vienna,
when winter comes, dull and frozen,
even secrets seek the sun.
Words held in doorless chambers
gather urgency and slip somehow
into my throat, wait to ride
a warm whisper into the frigid air.
Silence forgets its place, joins
the unrest and wonders how it stood
so long, tongue held, hands folded.
Into the weakened light a clamor
is released, a gust of minor revelation
that stirs no page, nor lifts the sheerest curtain.

I confess only to the sunset, offer declaration
to the silhouettes of bare sycamores.
Yes, I am still here, draped in wide ribbons
of remembrance, swathed in crepe,
blacker than December’s midnight,
a shadow beneath a petticoat,
frayed hem iced and muddied.
Here, near the river’s rimy edge, I stand
and think of monarchs and willows,
moonlight impearled, the water thawed
and bright with fishes.

I have never stopped, not for one breath,
gathering branches with tight fists
of buds, never let go the hope of forced
blooms set in jar by the western window
and arched toward winter’s weak sun.
I am quiet and cold with twilight
close on my heels. Tonight sleep will bury me
in a snowfall of pale petals. I will wait
one more day.

2008-02-28T06:15:00.000-08:00

One of Mack Sennett's bathing beauties...

not a bad gig. Love the outfit and the setting.

Is time travel possible?

2008-02-25T13:01:00.000-08:00

The pain passes, but the beauty remains.
~Pierre-Auguste Renoir

rowboat at St. Ann’s Bay

2008-02-25T11:33:00.000-08:00

It is the dip I translate, the sacred
scoop of blue, its heft and that moment
when, bright, it breaks the fluent skin
and finds the light. In that fine weight
and its release I hear the axis thrum,
intuit the birth of waxwing and lily.

And the sand, with its keen edges,
drinks the sun and returns radiance
in swells of shattered stone, fields of shell
and quartz. My knees are pillowed
in soft deconstruction, fingers dusted
with relics of kingdoms and conchs.

The tide favors me today, bears me jaunty
as I give my face to the sky. These oars
are abalone smooth, yellow as the orchids
near Garvey’s grave. My lips are salty,
hair wild as a nest. All day I ride
and parse the sea’s graceful, starry back.

watching the eclipse

2008-02-21T07:16:00.000-08:00

I took a dive into the ring
of the corona last night
as the moon slid into darkness.
My shoes were seared,
my hair singed, my vision
altered by fire and wind.

On the surface it was cool,
peaceful. The air smelled
remarkably nostalgic,
an aura of almonds and talc.
Was there shelter here,
I wondered, a place for me?

I knew I could not stay.
Earth had a tether too strong,
all those hearts and flowers,
skies peppered with songbirds,
the goddamned sea!
Oh, I was homeward bound

before I landed on this pearl.
Still, tranquility was alluring,
its silence like a balm.
I took a rounded stone to weight
my pocket and slipped
between the shadows of the gods.

2008-02-20T07:09:00.000-08:00

I have noticed how each day arrives, an often univited guest, with baggage, dilemas, challenges and joys in tow. We choose to face the day with dread or anticipation... with despair or hope. I opt for flinging open the door, going through those bags to look for treasure.

Or stepping out into the beautiful day beyond...

2008-02-14T07:19:00.000-08:00

sailing at vespers

It is canvas now I raise for the wind
to cup and hold like a lover’s face.
For too long my sails were point de gaze,
a mesh so fine it snagged the stars

and caught the dark serifs of every word
intoned. I went nowhere and wondered
at my discontent. Now I feel the halyard
in my palm, imagine I stand in the belfry

and toll anew the hour of my own birth.
The sheets, they peal the wind’s low song
and this deck, it is my campanile. I wear the tulle
that I once flew, hold close the impediments

of that troubled sky. How else could I face
the windward nights? I am who I was,
uncertain hand upon the sanctus bell,
and who I am, a sailor aloft in the rigging.

I ring and come about, a steeplejack
atop the spar. I leave no opal wake,
but tender the chiming of the angelus,
sweet upon the swift, dark water.

2008-02-14T07:13:00.000-08:00

I believe in love.

coming soon to a sky near you...

2008-02-14T05:40:00.000-08:00

Well, won't this be cool?

We were born before the wind...

2008-02-09T11:53:00.001-08:00

...before or perhaps of the wind, a droplet lifted and infused with sunlight. For an exhilerating moment we ride that wind until the sea enfolds us once again. In that windborne journey our story is told. As for me, it clarifies my yearning for the sea. Surely I was sprung from some wave struck against a wooden hull. In all my life no place has felt like home more than the deck of a ship, sailing the mystic, beautiful sea.

No, thank you.

2008-02-07T08:46:00.000-08:00

This morning’s radiance is windborne, a cleansed pool
with its own indelicate clarity. I prefer rocky places
where kinder light gathers like a nest of clouds.
Precision has not been my ally. Sharp edges cut

and absolutes curl around my throat, verdant, thorned,
never blooming. In silence I find a soft unraveling,
a pillowed sigh and there the frayed hem crumbles
into the shadowed breath of petals crushed. My gown

is a an attar of silk-stitched stars and muted fire.
I wish the day curtained with whispered sun,
where I can bask in uncertainties, warm my hands
with their vague comfort. I shun the knife-blade tongue ,

its pearly hilt so tightly grasped, agleam like a dagger
of the gods. I leave the raindrop’s argent mirror
on the leaf for braver souls. I care not to see
the truth of every thing.

2008-01-30T20:03:00.000-08:00

The Grand Canal, Venice JMW Turner 1835

Slave Ship JMW Turner 1840

Simon Schama's Power of Art http://www.pbs.org/wnet/powerofart/view.php?page=turner is a marvelous series on PBS. Tonight's show was about JMW Turner... a personal favorite. Turner bucked the art establishment with his use of color and later when he turned his eye toward the horrors of the slave trade.

In late February an extensive exhibit of Turner's work is coming to the Dallas Museum of Art.

http://dallasmuseumofart.org/Dallas_Museum_of_Art/View/Future_Exhibitions/ID_151546

Some of the painting in this exhibit have never been shown in the US before. I saw a smaller Turner exhibit at the Kimball in Fort Worth several years ago ( his Venice paintings) and it was wonderful.

I am so excited and eager to see this exhibit.

Turner and springtime both in the offing... Life is good.

2008-01-30T11:37:00.000-08:00

Off to the post office... which is NOT pictured above. Nope, ours is a bland 1970-ish brick block.

If I don't return blame it on the wind, which is pretty frisky today. It is blowing from the north, so if I catch it just right I should be in Mexico by dinner time.

2008-01-29T13:28:00.000-08:00

If I had a boat
I'd go out on the ocean
And if I had a pony
I'd ride him on my boat
And we could all together
Go out on the ocean
Me upon my pony on my boat.

~Lyle Lovett

I love that song...

2008-01-26T13:45:00.000-08:00

I tried to go back, as if I could
All spec house and plywood
Tore up and tore up good
Down on copperline
It doesn’t come as a surprise to me
It doesn’t touch my memory
Man I’m lifting up and rising free
Down on over copperline
~James Taylor

Tao Te Ching~ on Tools

2008-01-24T21:24:00.000-08:00

Thirty spokes meet at a nave;
Because of the hole we may use the wheel.
Clay is moulded into a vessel;
Because of the hollow we may use the cup.
Walls are built around a hearth;
Because of the doors we may use the house.
Thus tools come from what exists,
But use from what does not.

winter sky with birds

2008-01-22T07:31:00.001-08:00

winter sky with birds, originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

Well, not today's sky, which is dim & grey. Stupidly cold here today. I have to go out. Need to deliver some food for Journey of Hope dinner. Amazingly, I am NOT out of gas! Seems the worse the weather the lower my gas gauge.
Lovely to scan the paper today and see the news of all the international stock markets tanking... and the promise of ours following. Hmmm... what shall I, suburban dweller, do about that today??

At least the war is over! Right? It must be because there's barely a whisper of it in the Dallas Morning News today.

Off to bundle up... yuck. I hate coats!

"Hello, creature of the forest."

2008-01-21T06:15:00.001-08:00

"Hello, creature of the forest.", originally uploaded by mi - a name i call myself.

I stumbled upon this amazing photo on Flickr this morning. Imagine seeing this on your patio! Look closely... the deer has brought a friend along.
Very cold here today... well, for Dallas... high in the mid 40s and gloomy so far. Kids are out of school for MLK Day and all stil asleep.
I have a special order tiarra and wand to make, so if you're looking for me follow the trail of sequins and glitter.
Stay warm...

well, indeed...

2008-01-19T07:38:00.001-08:00

DSCF1394, originally uploaded by ollyj.

Wise words, I think. Less glass banging... more quiet watching...

tranquility~ from the Tao te Ching

2008-01-18T05:46:00.000-08:00

The Way takes no action, but leaves nothing undone.
When you accept this
The world will flourish,
In harmony with nature.

Nature does not possess desire;
Without desire, the heart becomes quiet;
In this manner the whole world is made tranquil.

that being said

2008-01-18T05:27:00.000-08:00

I speak into the walls, the dirt, the wind
that rises off the prairie, small noises
distorted by the earth’s arc. What reaches you
bears no likeness to the benevolence

I cradle like a fallen star. Never are my words
the alar emissaries they might be.
Instead they take the air as taloned things,
look to light upon the softest place.

Silence suits me best. In its white dome
my voice is snowfall on the water.
And you are there, cupped hands lifted,
the taste of sweetness on your lips.

the eigth

2008-01-16T07:22:00.000-08:00

He will not let go her circumstance
even when she offers silky throat,
thin wrists, a knobby spine.
Still he sees her as a novitiate,
face pressed to the marble floor,
the willing bride, the petitioner.

There is no forgiveness in his touch.
The slap of prayer against truth
builds, stone upon slick stone,
ever higher. She does not kneel,
not anymore. Instead she stands
near the window slit, eyes

the bone-shard moon that tilts westward.
If understanding were a knotted rope
that she could climb, then climb she would,
but there are only the vaporous remains
of elegant words, fragile strands

that will not hold together or bear the weight
of daylight. No it is not the Angelus
that waits behind her lips. She trembles
with fear at what he places on his altar,
despairs how easily he lights the fire..

to infinity... and beyond...

2008-01-15T08:20:00.000-08:00

Last week the world bade farwell to a true man of adventure... Sir Edmund Hillary, who summited Mt. Everest before it was littered with spent oxygen bottles and had a bar at base camp. In 1953 it was still unsure if it was even possible to reach the top of the world. In May of that year Hillary and Tenzing Norgay (a native of Nepal) did indeed accomplish what no human being had ever done before. Hillary died last week at the age of 88 in his native New Zealand. He left behind a legacy of adventure, but also a love for the enviroment and a passion for humanitarian work on behalf of the people of his beloved Nepal. Godspeed, Sir Edmund. I hope you are on your greatest expedition somewhere amid the stars.

Norgay and Hillary at base camp after the 1953 summit. http://www.achievement.org/autodoc/page/hil0bio-1

And for a look at the thriving business and ego trip climbing Mount Everest has become at present, check out... http://dsc.discovery.com/convergence/everestbeyond/everestbeyond.html

winter morning

2008-01-15T06:52:00.001-08:00

winter morning, originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

I hate to harp on this, but I love the sky in Texas. I snapped this out my car window (while driving, I'm ashamed to confess) this morning. I was taking Will to school. There is a huge farm that borders the school on 3 sides. There are cows, a pond, old barns... very pastoral. Today it will be near 70. This is a winter I can survive!!!

Coquina Beach, NC

2008-01-13T22:36:00.001-08:00

Coquina Beach, NC, originally uploaded by Luke S..

Always the sea calls me. My heart's true home.

Russian heart

2008-01-11T07:08:00.001-08:00

Happy Saint Valentine day, originally uploaded by http://www.flickr.com/people/martovskiy/.

Outside Moscow the snow was clean,
a pressed white sheet spread and tucked
into the edges of the day. Your kiss faded
faster than the winter sun. Its pale memory
held no warmth or shadows where a dreamer
might find refuge. Night brushed the treetops
with grey smudges and crept across the sky
as swift and canny as foxes in a thicket.

Solitude was not enough for me, the losses
grown stale and distant. I came to Russia
so that I might shiver at her pallid dusks,
might feel my heart's wounds like broken glass
pressed hard against my bare palms.

At Suzdal I dipped my hands into the snowbank
past my wrists until the cold bit so deep
I could remember everything the world
had taken like a petty thief. There I drank
the twilght's rimed wind, an aperitif as sweet
as summer's lush and long forgotten bower.

~this poem was inspired by this lovely photo taken by Andrey and posted on Flickr. As he says in his post... "There we founded this heart."

brrrrr... not!

2008-01-07T13:53:00.000-08:00

Oh, joy! It is so WARM here!!! 75 marvelous degrees on Jan. 7th!!! Yessss!!! This is what I call winter!!! If this is global warming (forgive me) I love it!!!

Thank you weather gods!!

2008-01-07T06:59:00.000-08:00

... the guest of honor at my imaginary dinner party.

Venice by Turner

2008-01-04T10:09:00.001-08:00

Venice by Turner, originally uploaded by pijus.

Ah, I love JMW Turner... How magnificent it must have been to see the world through his eyes... sigh... His way with light... what a gift...

How did I miss this?

2008-01-04T05:36:00.001-08:00

Library Parking Garage, originally uploaded by jonathan_moreau.

Rats! I wish I'd seen this on my trip to KC in October. Is this the coolest parking garage, or what?

snagged moon

2008-01-03T06:17:00.001-08:00

snagged moon, originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

An enchanting sunrise like this makes me forget that it is 26 degrees here this morning.
Kids are back to school, except Kate. Her classes resume on the 14th (lucky girl). I am savoring some silence and making mermaid art. And staying warm...

done

2007-12-31T06:51:00.001-08:00

Wizard of Oz Monkey, originally uploaded by Jenyca.

No more of these in 2008!!

tutu

2007-12-30T18:21:00.001-08:00

tutu, originally uploaded by heyjupiter21.

I would so wear this.

Russian Winter

2007-12-27T06:27:00.001-08:00

Russian Winter, originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

Now, this is a winter you can sink your teeth into...

You can run...

2007-12-22T12:40:00.000-08:00

but you can't hide.

Tao te Ching on words

2007-12-20T05:34:00.000-08:00

Nature says only a few words:
High wind does not last long,
Nor does heavy rain.
If nature's words do not last
Why should those of man?

Who accepts harmony, becomes harmonious.
Who accepts loss, becomes lost.
For who accepts harmony, the Way harmonizes with him,
And who accepts loss, the Way cannot find.

Childhood trauma No. 12

2007-12-19T14:29:00.001-08:00

Childhood trauma No. 12, originally uploaded by Uh … Bob.

Holy sh*t! Just when I think they're not real I see this! EGADS! I pray these devils do not follow me into 2008!! I have seen quite enough of them in the past 12 months!!!

Jake~ the graduate!

2007-12-19T07:04:00.001-08:00

Jake~ the graduate!, originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

My oldest son Jake just graduated! Here he is celebrating at Joe's Crab Shack. This is our gift to him... toy Craftsman tools... but look at the handles. They are wrapped in real $10s and $20s and there are more in the bottom of the toolbox.

Shawshank revisited

2007-12-18T07:31:00.000-08:00

Jailbreak sparks N.J. manhunt
Men placed dummies in beds; magazine photos over holes in walls
The Associated Press
updated 5:52 p.m. CT, Mon., Dec. 17, 2007
ELIZABETH, N.J. - Two inmates escaped from a county jail, hiding the holes they made in the walls by putting up photos of bikini-clad women, officials said.

Authorities searched over the weekend for Jose Espinosa, who was awaiting sentencing for manslaughter, and Otis Blunt, who was facing robbery and other charges. They also launched a review of jail security.

The two got out of the Union County jail Saturday evening. The county prosecutor's office said the two apparently removed cement blocks from two walls, squeezed through the openings, jumped to a rooftop below and then made it over a 25-foot-high fence. The section they escaped from was supposed to be the most secure area of the facility.

"I'm extremely disturbed that a jail with the capability of security it has would foster a breach of this nature," County Prosecutor Theodore Romankow told The Star-Ledger of Newark for Monday's editions.

Espinosa, 20, an alleged gang member, was awaiting sentencing after pleading guilty to manslaughter in a 2005 drive-by shooting in Elizabeth. Blunt, 32, was awaiting trial on charges of robbery and weapons offenses.

The men helped cover up the break by placing dummies under their bed blankets, and hiding the wall holes with magazine photos of women in bikinis, authorities said.

Authorities launched a review of security measures and barred inmates from pinning up pictures from magazines on their cell walls.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22300706/

2007-12-14T22:22:00.000-08:00

Still dreaming of a Russian winter... Kiev, perhaps.

first derivative

2007-12-12T18:17:00.000-08:00

Then came a season of treaties.
The water froze and thawed,
settled to near clarity, clean enough
to wash wounds and dilute indigo ink
to sapphire, so that when you made
your cursive tallies they cut
like winding rivers

through the first snow. I could read
your choler in their steep banks.
Felted flakes the size of demitasse
dashed against our northern windows.
Winter was weeks away and I saw
what was required of me.
The refractory oak held on

to her dead leaves even as her roots
became fists beneath the soil.
I could snap your wrist, you said,
like a twig. The world was hushed
and brittle. I placed my hand in yours.
It was marrow, in the end,
that tasted most like justice.

winter

2007-12-11T08:38:00.000-08:00

So maybe it is not winter I hate, but the half-assed winters we have here in north Texas. I think I could use a white, purging Russian winter... a long season of snow and silence. I do appreciate the beauty of a true winter landscape, the starkness, the sharp contrasts of bare trees against a low, grey sky.

Over the weekend it was in the upper 80s here, following by a swift plunge into the 30s. Such a tease...

Off to mail Christmas packages today with my sis. I confess a bit of the holiday spirit has come over me. Could it be all the sequins? The box from Hickory Farms? Hell, I don't know, but I glad for it.

Maybe it will snow...

So I'm thinking...

2007-12-05T08:30:00.001-08:00

Yes, the world harbors some bad stuff... lots of it. BUT NOT THESE! They aren't real, so I should sleep better at night just knowing they were a Hollywood concoction, right?
Well, there's that war and Darfur and well... maybe the monkeys aren't so bad. Perhaps a trade...

facing my fears

2007-12-01T18:11:00.001-08:00

... hmmm, I'd rather not.

the year in review...

2007-11-30T21:04:00.000-08:00

No, just kidding. Why would I tempt fate by acting like 2007 is done when there's a month of it left to endure? But when it is done, it will be none too soon. When you start the year with major, emergency surgery followed by months of convalescence, for some silly-assed reason you think things have got to get better. That, it appears, was a mistaken assumption. What followed was and is only slightly more pleasant.
Shackleton survived some rough times. His doomed ship was named the Endurance. I have no ship, but if I did I would name her More Mountains. I'd prefer her to sink in warm waters off the windward coast of Tortola when her time came. The Endurance was crushed by ice near Antartica in November of 1915. Shackleton died at age 48 while on another polar expedition.
I've just had a rough year. Still afloat though... not iced-in or buried on Elephant Island. I remain hopeful.

Tao Te Ching~ on Control

2007-11-23T17:29:00.000-08:00

The Way flows and ebbs, creating and destroying,
Implementing all the world, attending to the tiniest details,
Claiming nothing in return.

It nurtures all things,
Though it does not control them;
It has no intention,
So it seems inconsequential.

It is the substance of all things;
Though it does not control them;
It has no exception,
So it seems all-important.
The sage would not control the world;
He is in harmony with the world.

2007-11-21T09:55:00.000-08:00

the molehill chronicles

In my predictable way I look up
the steep incline that was harder
going down than on the sheer ascent.
Imagine the apex as just another step,
the inanity of even one quick breath
of jubilation. What I failed to fathom
has scarred my palms, taught me
that a stone-bruise heals

with unbearable leisure, insists
on the homage of a wary tread.
After the summit, in the long exhale,
silence brings a sighing coda,
infers a false relief… almost done.
What waits is the scrabble, pebbles
that offer no purchase. Crags
and scrubby growth conspire

to give no ease, but send me
plummeting like broken sod
into a ready grave. Threats
of weather are always at my back,
clouds scheming like statesmen.
And after my descent, sherpas scatter
like dulcet dreams at dawn and life
tenders the cheap embrace

of one who has found a new
and truer love. I was always the one
who hoped for foolish things,
thought I might find new softness
carried on an old wind,
a door propped open
even as the storm
caught up with me
once more.

autumn

2007-11-20T20:40:00.001-08:00

autumn, originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

Today was in the 70s, but the cold is headed our way. The temperature will drop 30 degrees tomorrow morning. I'm shivering just thinking of it. Try as I might, I cannot seem to find much joy in this season.

Maybe I need a lightbox.

Or perhaps I could hibernate.

wrong love

2007-11-18T20:46:00.000-08:00

I am so over love right now. All I can see is misguided, rejected, burnt-out, stupid, lousy, rotten love... wrong love. The world teems with it.
ugh. yuck. blah.
And this season is dreadful... I'm sorry, but it is.
I am sad, but I'll get over it. I am just weary from this ass-kicking year. 2007 has been a whipping. I am counting the days until it ends and hoping so hard that the new year will have some better mojo.
please...
Ah, but I must amend this post a bit. It is my son and his wife's first anniversary and they practically glow with happiness. So I suppose not all love is bad afterall... Their sweet tenderness for each other warms my craggy, cold heart.

I hate autumn...

2007-11-14T08:55:00.000-08:00

John Atkinson Grimshow (1836-1893), Autumn, Leeds

not now

I am not entranced with topaz
and amber leaves, nor thrilled
with gusts that reek of swift decline.
You would argue it is me, proclaim
the power of my influence

as if it were season unto itself.
You urge me to translate the world
creaking on its axis as a song,
but what I hear is the lumbering of days
carving deep ruts that will not heal.

Time after time I tilt my face
to the distant sun only to tread
on prickled husks, the brittle
ruins of spent desire. Still I stoop
to prod the awful crush,

taint my palms with tomb’s dust.
Winter paces on the ridge, spreads
frosty fingers against a washrag sky,
eager, as always, to slip them under
my summer skirt. Your old sweater

is speckled with beggar’s lice,
woven with the bleached threads
of every mislaid betrayal.
No, I am not devoted to your bonfires,
your wheels of wheat, the promise

of snow that hovers near your lips.
I pull curtains shut, brace the doors,
lean hard against the smudged hours
that blow like smoke and ash
beneath the splintered threshold .

2007-11-07T12:58:00.000-08:00

Mombassa

You come to me with the moon
in your arms, cradled like a son, proud
as if you had brought forth this miracle
from the sky with your own hands.
The hem of your mythology sweeps
my threshold. Me, I sit on a stool
by the western window, concentrate
on the savannah’s fluent, topaz dance.

I thought Africa was beyond you
that your wings would tire somewhere
over the beguiling Caribbean, but no,
you have come with stars in a rough sack,
a wild river caught in a green jar,
a rain of snowy petals in your wake.
I breathe the wildness of your journey.
There are tigers here, I tell you, hungry

things crouch in every shadow. Beauty
is a ripple beneath a pelt, the sinew
that trembles before the leap.
Oh yes, I welcome your treasures,
but for now please come empty
your hands and watch with me.
Let me show you a marvel.
This is Kenya and I have found something

true. There beneath the acacia tree
where sunlight plays on slender blades
she watches with her golden eyes.
I feel her strength, her inborn grace
as it flows in every measured step.
When you kiss me you will know
it too. Africa blooms in me, verdant.
untamed. I am the grassy plain below the lioness.

VIRGIN GORDA, B.V.I, CARIBBEAN

2007-11-07T06:43:00.001-08:00

VIRGIN GORDA, B.V.I, CARIBBEAN

It is comforting to recall being at this stunning place. I know it is there waiting for me. I recall the long twisting pathway down to The Baths, the massive boulders, the impossible blue of the Caribbean. Christopher Columbus named this place. It's not going anywhere. Today the water is warm and calm there and it it will be the same when I return.
On this day I am island dreaming and making art...

a Flickr treasure!

2007-10-24T14:40:00.001-07:00

Deserto del Tar. look at these stunning colors., originally uploaded by tempoandato.

colors

2007-10-23T15:10:00.001-07:00

colors, originally uploaded by subhasish.

I love this gorgeous photograph of a little girl at the Festival of Colors.

Island of Tortola

2007-10-22T21:04:00.001-07:00

Today autumn arrived in a chilly gust! The high temp was 54. Brrr. I'm an island girl. Tortola is where I belong. It was 84 there today. I'll be back, sweet island. Wait for me.

the purposeful life...

2007-10-18T14:04:00.000-07:00

So, I admit it is still warm here (hot, actually) and the leaves are barely turning, but I have determined that I will not be ass-kicked by fall OR winter this year. How absurd is it to hate half of the year (well, a tad less here in Texas)? Nope, no more. I will f'ing embrace the bleak months ahead. Last winter's brush with the grim reaper did indeed open my eyes. Every day is a gift... cliche? Yep... but truer than true. Not to mention I have some very adorable winter clothes... and boots. Boots are good. So, bring it!

Lantern Festival 2007

2007-10-16T06:50:00.001-07:00

Lantern Festival 2007 (14), originally uploaded by Chocolate Caroline.

Who the hell is Will Shortz anyway?

2007-10-16T05:41:00.001-07:00

NOT my puzzle!

INDEPENDENT LENS
Wordplay
Tuesday, October 16, 2007 10 - 11:30 pm
Fifty million Americans work crossword puzzles each week, many
in the venerable New York Times, where Will Shortz has been
editor for 12 years. "Wordplay" presents an entertaining and
informative look at Shortz' work and that of the puzzle
constructors with whom he collaborates. This portrait features
interviews with celebrity crossword solvers, including Bill
Clinton, Bob Dole, Jon Stewart, Ken Burns, the Indigo Girls and
others. (CC, Stereo)
http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/wordplay

Snow White & Seven Dwarfs

2007-10-15T17:34:00.001-07:00

25K-6 - Snow White & Seven Dwarfs, originally uploaded by cagedheat3.

That Snow White is one lucky dame!

Sunday sunrise in the 'burbs

2007-10-15T15:46:00.001-07:00

Sunday sunrise in the 'burbs, originally uploaded by Sea Dream Studio.

Oh, this Texas sky is such a wonder!