Consonance in the key of love-minor

I admit, this one is purely my own selfish indulgence in my love for the beauty of words…

In light years ahead, can love be seen,
a traveling gleam from this point of view through hundreds of — fears?
And if so, is it trial or triumph?
or simply a trip:
today’s augmented reality: a Thai-fervor with exotic graphics?

Or is it a lonesome lacking
a balloon looking
(like a vagrant Valentine)
frightened of the inescapable
landscape that looms
replacing the lazy longing for love?

A seeking
or freezing?
Learning love
and hating
stepping on
or via vice versa

(My toes are numb…still…)

So artful glances shoot spitefully like a cat,
hair on ends, tail straight up,
suspicious of simpering selves

Suspicious of savory sweets
Scintillating streams of swiss chocolate
thick, melt in your mouth unmentionables
(It’s impossible to talk, anyway, with your mouth full)

A string-along
a run of words
wondering at what moment it would be wise to win?

Or lose?
(A great loss can more than lengthen the lack of lackadaisical looks)

Defenses appear
Hackles instantly rise

A run-on sentence
becomes a rambling Rover of rumors,
the Pied Piper of the painful poets
Forces the English language
to match that effervescent (and sometimes frenetic) language of love…eons ago
eons and languid eons ago.

Whoever may, will
Find love
A laughable test if anyone really knows it well enough,
swelling up
full of philanthropy
Or for some: philandering
(or phallic fallacy?).
All would like to imagine that
no, it must be more than

It’s tough, they know
complicated, we know,
but some just don’t give up trying
even when they beg to
die to
love too

It hurts
but in the end, (forgive the moral
but it must be made, you know.)
In the end,
I (amongst all the vice and voice)

Could only hope
that the words and wanderings were worth it, despite wary and wearing
like that balloon
Searching for
(not even demarcation or demonstration)
more than decoration

maybe even for deflation
in some one’s lonesome yard.

And it is enough.
It is enough for me.


Your wrinkles

On Thanksgiving Day, I met a 94 year old girl full of life and sparkle and just couldn’t help but write about her:

There’s a history in your face
Every line that
Draws up
Each curve
In these few
Moments that I’ve met you
I see

The little joys in the upturned lip
The slight piquant in your nose
in your eyes,
Your daughter’s life
And death
And two marriages in your dimples

“They called me ‘heygood lookin’!'”
And you pinch me
I see the loneliness reaching up but you’ve pressed it down
Shaken it up
Disallowed it in every coursing blue vein

Your breath
Is difficult, shaky, comes in tiny breaks
But you catch every sound around you
Every whisper
You watch me closely
Your eyes alert

Ready to soak in my life, more life, more

Yours is crowded so beautifully on your face.
Not a Mona Lisa but a joyeux de vivre.


Could a well-oiled, put-together puzzle, complex
in its structure and solution
withstand an earthquake
of questions and doubt?

Yes. I think it could.

Could the one who created this world
setting natural and spiritual laws in motion
stand under a barrage of
angry pontification or
sobbing accusations or
reasonable considerations?

I think he would.

If we think we see a crack in our foundation
isn’t it okay to peer down into it
pick at it?
Are we so afraid that this scab
would reveal an anemic system
or a suffering of hemophilia,
gushing unfounded and diluted answers?


There’s a sense of safety
in never questioning,
security in full acceptance
but a complete contentment
with cryptic concessions
can only in the end
be disingenuous

Could it be

daring and disturbing
frighting and fruitful
spacious in mind and moral and mystery
even Truthful…
to say
“I need to see and touch the scars”?

The List

Today. Of all Days.
She’ll end her day with a Missed Connection.
Correction: Poor Souls Reaching Out to Rich Souls

To feel better? Or feel
less through this voyeuristic, vicarious life. “Sorry I stared, but…” She can only hope Georgia returns to Cross Street Market or remembers what Dan was wearing.

Where Vacation Rentals promise tempting retreats – rich souls reaching out to lonely souls, as if it was hard enough to find some one to replace those memories in the “Florida Oceanfront Condo” in “Ormond by the Sea”.

I’d rather “Get my dream rental today”.
Be careful of scammers. During vacations.
During moving sales. Taking
advantage of the eager 20-something Mary Tyler Moore coming to the brave new city finding the perfect Beautiful Rental Townhome w/ Renovated High End Kitchen. Must See!


And well, once she’s found the perfect “Maybe Come By and See” sublet, her life has a For Sure Need to be filled with bikes, boats, books, tickets and tools for in the Spendthrift’s Bible, Matthew’s counterpart (“for sale by dealer”) will somehow make it necessary for a Stand-Up Freezer, but she’ll buy a Bread Maker instead for the sake of the memories kneaded.

The smell that suddenly permeates her senses through the glow of the Apple computer.

Who would not need a Sunbeam Bread-maker that makes a 2 pound loaf? This For Sale by Owner because he or she (probably them?) are Selling Due To Move Overseas. Was that over-share really necessary?

And a great sigh cycles and bakes deep in her stomach, releases the discontent, slowly.

Back to Clicking and Browsing.

If she were an artist, perhaps her space may have room for Figure and Fine Art Nude Model For Hire. Does Wanderlust count?

Or just lust.

So much loss and loneliness all over the world. Capitalized on. For hire? Seeking and Selling. Weighs down heavy like the long numbered e-mail addresses made for not-remembering.

Reminders to Remember that Communism In Full Strength Capitalism on Brink of Collapse.
She’ll keep her Rant to herself.
So many people afraid and only brave enough to throw opinions over the other side of the wall without seeing if they catch or cure.
Obama to Sign Small Arms Treaty.

“Not mine.” This aloud and disappointed.

If the artist thing won’t work, she’ll collect herself through the fog of Fahrenheit Four-Fifty-One Furniture.
Books and Antiques for Sale, ingenuity disguised in delicate scruffs, scuffs – perhaps that Antique Stoneware Butter Churn for two-hundred and fifty dollars will make a decoration next to the IKEA bookshelf
(in the discontinued – but rather snazzy – dark gray color)
which will hold the third-to-new Brides Book: ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT GETTING MARRIED. Great Condition.

Ex-fiancee. Not so much.

In the end, can she solemnly swear that she is at least 18 years old and will flag as “prohibited” anything illegal or in violation.
She can.
And only flags her tired skepticism. Making a note of it. Price-tagging it. Buoyed slightly (though suddenly) by the fact that Katey found Gregory Hayden’s wallet.

Could she be the violation? Peering through the tiny 3-sentence windows into worries, needs, positions, Chances in a Lifetime, quavering moments when so many believe this is IT: “To the woman at the Alliance Mailing House, I wish I had the courage to ask you too dinner”.

Odds are a million to one…That she’ll see it. That you will. That she will say ‘yes’.

It’s tempting to flag him. Just out of spite at the one odd. But instead, one more entry: For Sale: One Computer. One bitten Apple. Still Good. Just Need to Get Away.


Would she…?

Suppose she shuts the lid? Snaps it shut. Would they all still exist? The Gorgeous Tame Female Ball Python, Improv Troupe, The Music Ensembles for Events-Parties-Weddings, the Cartoonist.

Suppose the line draws? The lid shuts? The strings clamp? The Molecular Monitoring pauses, erasing the Words in 1998 font, frozen in time.

Erasing her.

Suppose she lays down and folds her arms and closes the lid?


On Nov 8, Typhoon Haiyan hit the Philippines. Working where I do, we are surrounded by the news, and  it’s easy to become numb to the numbers. But today, seeing pictures, reading almost-surreal first-hand accounts of a devastated place half way around the world, a couple thoughts came to me…

Typhoon Haiyan

You know what I can’t imagine?
Waiting for that storm to hit.
Feeling like you can’t do anything else – but
perhaps, if you dare,
And just wait.

And knowing that the odds are against you.
Against your whole community.
Knowing you or your neighbor will be the one washed away.
And if it’s your neighbor,
You’ll be walking by his body in just 24 hours,
But relieved that you’re alive.

Or will you be?

And so you sit and wait and only hope.
As the winds get stronger.
As the rain falls harder.

Is there a calm that falls on you, like an eye
In the middle
or right before?

Or maybe I’d want to shout,
“Typhoon Haiyan – WE SALUTE YOU! Bring your rage on!”
But it would do no good.

Bravery and death
have no correlation.
And the only question I have left now is…
Did prayers?

For updates or to donate: click here.


Just fresh off the brainstorming page…coffee is for conversation, not “to go”.

I sat still today
a dangerous split
from all things unhealthy
Wondering what I would think about


My tongue tasted the emptiness
My eyes – at first skittish –
began to rest
stare even – to the discomfort of those around me

like a gasping fish
long dry
soaking up an unrecognizable world
somehow familiar
painted in fuchsia.

And apart from the instant filters that flicker
in and through and over
What do I?
What do I
actually think?
The lack of voice inside my head is loud
acronyms expand
conversations wait for words
un-deleted and unannounced

A whole spontaneous world available
to make beautiful mistakes.


Happy Father’s Day to my Papa.

Because you were Goliath for our plays.
Or the horse.
Because every night, you had time to make banana chocolate milkshakes.
Because you always answered the little six year old, scared in the dark, calling

Because you read Winnie the Pooh over and over and over again.
And wiggled your eyebrows at me when I felt blue.

Because you built us a dollhouse
And taught us how to use a machete.

And how to swim
to climb
to care
to give to others
And how to change a tire
and ride a bicycle.
Because you made me wear a helmet, even when I felt silly.
Because you let me drive your motorcycle
even after I knocked down the fence.

Because when I woke up early in the morning, I could see you sitting outside
coffee cup in one hand
Bible in the other.

Because still, retired, you go running with me. Or play pickle ball. Or volleyball.
Because you’re never too old.

Because you’re humble
and you’re strong

and faithful.

Because you taught me to love life. And take it seriously.
Because you cried and you weren’t ashamed.

Because you make me laugh.
With your puns.
Your poses.
Your stories.
Because you sing the words
even when you don’t know the song.

Because you can make a mistake and say ‘sorry’.
Because every time I need it, you pray.

Because you always love the view
and take a million pictures
taking pleasure in the simple things.

Because you speak bahasa like a local
and keep connected with your students.
Because you could always be interrupted.
Because everywhere you go, you’re talking to someone.
Making friends.

Because you’re my friend.

Because you ask my opinion.
And care what I think.
Because you make me brave
and want to live up to all that you believe I am.

Just because
I’m so proud to be your daughter.