Metaphor

Fog softened each blade

of grass, each rock edge,

and muted the line 

dividing sky and ocean

Hold Those Memories Close

Remembering is hard work if your aim is to adhere to a factual rendition of what happened, of what you did, and how it all turned out especially if the remembering is over twenty-five years of going away together to the same place so tonight when we ate dinner and recalled the year we bagged a mountain a day for five days until someone said that it was time for a day off we couldn’t be certain of the name of the  fifth mountain

sometimes someone has to be the keeper of memories so the one who kept a daily record over decades would go back and find the names of all the mountains we climbed that year as if she knew that in a future time that record would be important or at least of interest just as the recollection of the times you heard a loon call or ate five lobsters over a ten day period is of interest

Say a Blessing

     nothing quite compares to reading while seated on the rocks with the ocean vying for my attention and spending some of my reading time watching a lobster boat pull in traps, or allowing the waves to offer their songs to my soul

     nothing invigorates my soul as much as watching the waves repeat their journey over and over and never tiring of the repetition nor the sound of water meeting the shore

     no sound delights more than the sound of cobble rocks knocking against one another on a stormy day or staying put on a calm day when it requires the ease of a gymnast to walk on a cobble beach over the  rounded rock shapes

    nothing excites me more than the sun spattering sequins onto the blue water 

    i collect these figments of my day and store them up, a balm, a psalm, a prayer

    

It's Still a Gift

Remember when we climbed
over giant boulders,
jumped rocks in a creek,
hiked for hours before resting,
Remember when narrow slits
and rungs to climb didn't cause us to stop
Remember when we climbed a

mountain a day for every day of vacation

It's all the same-- except the climbs are 

shorter and the rungs are gone

All Dykes Welcome -- Well Not All

     Are we to strive to be intersectional feminists?

Why were three lesbians who were carrying the Pride flag with a Star of David in the center asked to leave a Chicago Dyke parade?

     The American flag was also banned— a sign of oppression.

      I've watched Pride parades, marched in Pride Parades and appreciated the diversity. This is not something to celebrate. It is shameful.

Breathing

Who exhales

as an ocean wave

 sprawls over a rock 

and stretches

to reach the shore 

Who inhales

as it retreats

A Time to Rest

Shabbat Shalom

Walking Along the Shore

…the eloquence of silence.

        Timothy Ferris

The rocks

stand mute

at low tide

They wear cloaks

of  rockweed 

and strands of

mermaid’s hair

Arriving in Maine

The ocean,

barnacle encrusted rocks

A fiery red striped sky

Lobsters

steamed outside

The scent of beach roses

I accept it all

Everything is Fluid

     We’re packing which means that half of what is in the house will be stuffed into our car. Going away for ten days is one step below packing to move cross country. What if it's cold, hot, wet, dry? This year we dragged our rain pants out of their resting place and packed them in case there is an incredible downpour and we are close to being swept away into a fast moving river. 

    But the most important items are books and art supplies. I've changed my mind at least six times and expect that  the morning will being more changes. 

     And do I bring a small sketch book or a considerably larger sketchbook? The possibilities are endless. And what pens? And and …

     Some things I have decided— but then again…

Trend?

     It started in church last Sunday. I looked down and spotted blue toenails. Painted, not frostbitten. Shimmering blue, almost a cobalt blue. Only my proper upbringing stood in the way of my asking about the nail polish— but what to ask? 

     After the service I happened upon a conversation between some rather conservatively dressed women. These were not folks who wore tee shirts emblazoned with graffiti. They were gray haired ladies. Yet, one woman not only sported colorful nails, but she also had a design painted on her big toenail. The other women spoke in glowing terms of going for a pedicure and then having their toes painted. 

     While at the Hair Salon I couldn’t miss the cherry red enamel toenails belonging to one hairdresser nor the cross between maroon and deep scarlet red toenails of the woman clipping my hair. Then when I sat down to wait before the next step in the process, I took out my book, and noticed the blue-black painted  toenails of an older woman. An imposing woman who probably inched close to six feet. I didn’t stare, but couldn’t miss the big toe design.

    And tonight my next door neighbor took me into her backyard to see her flowers— 

and her nails were coral.

     Doesn’t anyone read  the articles warning customers of the health risks? 

     There was even a story about “death by pedicure.”

     

Luminal Space

That place between

the comfort of the familiar

 and the unknown ahead

Nothing is clear

The door is ahead

This wilderness 
— a passage

Clarity

     Someday I'm going to start writing and just keep going until I use up all the ink in my fountain pens, all my bottled ink--my words will fill up notebooks and rice paper scrolls, and then when all the paper is gone I'll write on walls and the floor until my words become breathless and only syllables  remain

     And when it's all done I'll sit down and read the story out loud and pause to explain those parts that resemble myths  because some parts can only be understood as metaphors for reality until the wrapping paper is removed and the bare words remain  

   --

Just a Bit of Grace

     We need magic because miracles don’t happen too often even when you get down on your knees and explain the need for a Jesus type miracle like the ones in the gospel even when you know that those times are long gone  or maybe not gone but redefined although sometimes there occurs a true old fashioned miracle where the lame walk and the blind see and the hallelujahs fly around the room 

        Now Lord we need to talk just the two of us because too many folks are hurting, too many folks stare down an abyss, too many folks need to make decisions that grind them down

        I know that you hold us, love us, gather us, even sing in our hearts

      You want us to talk to you, well i’m talking i’m talking about people I know who need some small miracles  so i’m going to keep asking  and asking 

The Fire in London

Language is asked to explain 

what can’t be fathomed

Our words are not nuanced 

enough to parse the mystery

of why and what, 

of how and when

We live in a world

of uneven terrains

Stream of Unconnected Thoughts

     It’s rainy, a bit muggy, and the dark gathers itself for the beginning of the evening. The newscast talking heads will continue to explore every nuance of our country’s descent into incivility. The United States Open will feature several beyond belief shots from knee high fescue grass. The weather people will offer their spin on the computer model printouts— rain, humidity, the future.

     And we will hear more about the climate, the rising sea, and the naysayers will plug their ears and say, “made up, not so, not so.” 

     Amazon is now in the grocery business? Will drone deliveries be in the horizon? 

     Tomorrow other folks used books will be on sale at the town library. Mysteries and thrillers go first.

      Which brings me to what I began thinking about the moment I entered the house—reading. Should I start the debut novel about a serial killer who buried thirty-one bodies beneath the garage? His wife, according to one reviewer never knew and never entered the garage. It did receive good reviews. Perhaps a book of short stories or the start of another series. Perhaps I should approach tonight’s reading as a smorgasbord and read twenty pages in one book and twenty in another. Will the characters from the serial killer novel emigrate to the dinner party In the short story book?           Or even more disturbing— will the deprived serial killer step into the cozy mystery series?

The Bronx

On humid nights we

gathered on the sidewalk

to escape the still air

in stacked apartments

Theology

Delve into a talk about God

when you're selecting string beans

grown with pesticides that pollute

the earth and people will smile and

move on to the bin overflowing

with broccoli from California 

Even if you try and explain that God

wanted us to take care of the planet

they'll still drift off to broccoli

Bringing God's name into the

 grocery store is not acceptable

A Change of Meaning

I went looking for Zachariah 2:14 in my Bible and couldn't find the verse. I finally located the verse in the Jewish Publication translation. It seems as if every Hebrew Bible contains the verse and all the Christian versions either omit the verse or don't think it belongs.

Which version is accurate? Or are omissions a natural occurrence?  Are some words left out or included because they buttress an opinion?or am I not looking in the right place?

• How often do we delete or add words? All the verses were there just in different places. How quick I am to make assumptions.

Peace Be With You

Proverbs 20:27King James Version (KJV)

27 The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord...

Eat Your Words

I swore off frozen yogurt more than once a week

and potato chips once or twice a week

but found myself saying again and again

this will be the last week I indulge

I promised to not take on too many challenges

yet I couldn't resist the lure and then spent 

too much time scurrying from one activity

to the next with barely enough time

to finish one before beginning another

I convinced myself to not yearn over the next

book to read before I read the last page 

of the book I held in my hand, but found that

I couldn't resist stockpiling books as if they

would all disappear if they didn't sit on my shelf

I believed that once we spoke the road

to connecting up would proceed slowly

but I didn't really anticipate that it would

sputter as if words were costly commodities

The Trajectory of a Life

The storyline depends

on the words once said

or the words swallowed

The plot cannot subsist

on what might have been

It deals in a concrete landscape

where each character moves

according to the unspooling

of a script dependent

on the words and actions of yesterday,

No erasers are issued

No going backward to insert

different lines, other events

And if you're lucky 

you can jump in and add

some new lines

if the author agrees 

A Brief Note

I just have a few minutes

Shall I tell you about the weather 

of how my plants all suffer from wet feet

because of days of rain

Or perhaps I will share a new recipe

for ratatouille with Indian spices

which I can't make because I am

lacking key ingredients 

Perhaps I'll use the time

to tell you about the library books on my shelf

I'm ready to begin reading a murder mystery

that promises to raise the hairs on my neck

Which reminds me to tell you that

I found the rose colored cloth napkin

we lost two Thanksgivings ago

when you visited with your family

and we all had to eat some  kale salad

because we wanted to create a healthy dish

and then I froze the leftovers in two

half gallon bags which I recently

threw out because I needed the room

to freeze more healthy leftovers

A brief note I s really too short a space 

 to share my new pursuit--

needlepointing cushions for all my chairs

I know that sounds old fashioned

and something from our grandmother's era

but I'm creating splashy flowers in bold colors

I may have overstayed my time

but I've always been loquacious 

or as my third grade teacher told my mother,

" She's a chatterbox."

What to Add What to Omit

I came across this question when reading an article about refugees.

        If you had space in your backpack, what would you take to remind you of who you are, or who you want to be?

An intriguing question. If you have a response let me know and I'll post it -- meanwhile I'll try and find my own answer to what at first appears as a simple question, but in fact is complex. What is left out is equally as telling as what is put in.

With Thanks to Wallace Stevens

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Rainy Day

 1

The lilac bush collects 

water on its leaves 

until drops spill 

2

Our grass swells

beneath the

pounding rain

3

A small stream 

fills up and seeks

a place to overflow

4

Gray and black

clouds stay put

and empty out

5

We look outside

and wait for

a clearing

6

Soon we gather

books and pens

and leave

7

The library's silence

dims the drumming

of raindrops

8

A young woman

stares at her book

while doodling

9

I look at a shelf 

of poetry books

and select two

10

The rain splatters 

against library windows 

but cannot enter 

11

We leave 

and enter

a wet world

12

Wind and rain

continue to dance

to their own music

13

We enter a dry house

and look outside

at the puddles

Words

This is an experiment, a way to see cohesiveness in randomness. I open books without looking at page numbers or chapter headings and close my eyes. I point to a place on the page, open my eyes, and write down part of a sentence. Does the universe put together these disparate thoughts into a whole?

    Consistency of Themes            

I tell him it's hard to believe

the pious of the nations

The shifting nature of the sand 

must encompass all of reality

I tell him it's hard to believe 

in a bucolic landscape

drawing me forward 

Shivering all at once,

memory halted

no reality independent of God

The books:

The Great Spring by 

Natalie Goldberg

Contemporary Jewish Poetry

Deborah Ager & M.E. Silverman

Available Dark

Elizabeth Hand

Books of the People

Edited by S.W. Halpern

1. I wrote down the sentences 
2. I moved them around
3. Only selected parts from each sentence 
4. Then played with them
5. The title also came from one of the books

Beneath the Exterior

Look at a face

Follow its contour

until you know

where each line

leads, each place

where a shadow rests,

every place where

there's a highlight

Look closely

Are those smile lines 

or lines drawn by

difficult times

Describe what you see

beneath the skin

A Day of Rest

Shabbat Shalom

The Woman at Mercy Shelter

The Woman at Mercy Shelter

In the morning

she is like a rooster

talking to the sun,

to patches of light

on a wood floor.

She accounts for yesterday's 

passing, telling of her trip

to buy vegetables.

“Two cantaloupes so soft when I press

their skin. My thumbs get wet.”

“Asparagus on hidelike stems

stood like wood soldiers

in a bucket of water. I tiptoes past.”

She talks to cats and dogs,

to people on trains

who bury their eyes.

She talks to shadows

on sidewalks.

At night she holds

a hand mirror,

and talks to her face

bloated with words.

and Tomorrow, she says

I'm going home