Friday, June 29, 2007

Child Drinking Milk

Mary Auguste reading to Daughter
Mary Cassatt

Good source of her art on Internet at the Arc:

The ARC - is also a tremendous place the view thousands of paintings. I was overwhelmed. Check it out.

Crosstown Bus

Number 71 never varied;
he was always on time, yet always patient.
In the morning we would catch him,
bleary eyed, yawning, the teenagers
and workers anxious to get on with it.
Gentle chatter would precipitate
the sunrise, glinting sharply from
the right. All the same people;
always the same stories. The
sharp scent of cologne and mouthwash
would assault tender nostrils.
Every stop, anxious faces waited,
like balloons, peering into the distance.
Every morning was the
same, always the same and
sameness became dullness, lethargy.

To get to my job I needed to
make a connection with the number 17
So I would emerge from the bus,
following the same pair of legs as a
group of us, like a nest of ants, would
scurry to catch 17. He, also, was
unvarying, transporting us, all of us
to our lives, our real lives. And I
would sit, unemotional, dreaming, til
my stop appeared and I could go
to work.

My First Book

The cardboard covers of crimson laminate
are redeemed by daring figures dancing
to the rims
And the dim reflection of my eager face.
An enigmatic incense burning from the pages
revive fractured dreams of sylvan milk.
Musings spun on whispered wings
layered like strata; yield to peeling breezes.
I sniff intently on the quest,
Flowing forever between beginnings. . .
a river from mountain to sea
Anticipation. . .
Consumed by the smouldering of thought
from the misty depths of imagination
The black words forage for purpose
like ants on the forest floor
moving eternally into all directions

pushing at the crumbs of comprehension;
rambling into the lanes of
a glorious sun
which strokes
the darkness of the forest depths
a green shoot flares into a
crimson flame.


Vermeer -
Kitchen Maid

We never needed to be the same
As members of the human race
I never needed to think like you
to walk or talk the way you do
I was always compelled
to go my way
to dream my dream and
say my say.

I could be a bush
and you
a tree
I a mountain
the sea
I may reach for a star
and you
for the moon
I sing a song
and you
dance to a tune.

We are the same
for in the end...
your bones rest on the hill And
My dust sails in the wind.


Waiting at the bus
stop after a long dark night
A trio of
Strangers on the street corner
Fog banks stretch
like the arms of the Sphinx
Clear eyes overhead
moon rare
stars beam down
the eyes of God
Heads, silently lifting
dessert in the city
after the night.


Saturday, June 2, 2007

A candle in the dark,
A star on the windy sky
I tell a broken bird

"reach high"

No more the victim
Always the rising star
Everything you can be - is
Everything you are.

Bus People (continued)

An eclectic barrage
of faces...tongues
And little children
Chattering to their mothers
The man with the red wig
Drifts in from the fog
Revealing himself
As a writer of science
fiction games and books
He wedges himself
Next to me
intimating details
And minutia of his

Out of the rain appears
An Amazon with a smile
And a yellow slicker.
She discloses her
Shiny badge...
A security guard earns
five dollars an hour.
The red-neck boys
Sit in the back
loudly harrassing the beautiful
blonde securely behind the
Wheel..."All she needs is
Some great sex-with me" of them is carrying a rifle.

The old sit hunched
over their treasure...
Their bags and their clothes
are faded
smelling of mothballs,
sweat and urine.
The young adults are loud
and cheerful
Distracted by each other
they gossip and banter
and flirt.

The winery behind me
leans on my shoulder
ordering two boys
to call each other brother
"never a step; only
a brother."

We are all traveling together
Down the same road.
With similar destinations.
The morning
bears an amalgamation
of scents
As the freshly bathed
And bravely dressed
With important jobs to
They hold their heads
a little higher
And step a little more
Than the elderly
the drunk
and the mothers
with children.

But there are always those
sitting near the front
facing the rest ...


and listening.


Another poem undated

I wonder
about the marchers, the travelers
Across the stark black plains.
They drop their burdens
and death dries their hearts...
mountains of refuse,
The bones of culture,
furniture of a people...
fragments of a dream-
a scarlet rag tumbling
in the winds.
They walk the way
of all refugees....
pioneers, immigrants,
a people to scatter
as the dandelion seed,
perhaps to grow
somewhere else.
Away from a broken home.

Written during a time I was greatly fascinated by stories of pioneer women.

A poem undated

Oh --if we could only
tell them all
to go the Hell--
if we could sail
the avalanche;
fly above the storm and
beyond the biting wind;
Smoothing crumpled mountains
with our tails.
Perhaps we win,
Whatever the stormy tides
throw at us
become treasures.
But no.
We bend,
Before the wind...
beneath the earth
on our backs.
The patch of soil
we call our flesh.


Things That Make Me Happy

August 12, 2003
Jazz & blues
The smell of scotch tape
Someone admiring my flowers
A blank journal
A new book
Purple & Orange
A cool summer evening
Shiny things
A freshly painted room
The breeze
Doing something new/different
Ocean breezes
A new sponge
macaroni and cheese
Deciding how to form a letter "a"
A flock of crows against the blue sky
A robin's song
Friends calling to chat
August 13, 2003
A task well done
A new carpet
Friends who care
A well stocked cupboard
Burning incense
A clean comforter
The cool blast of a fan after hot sweaty work
My daily soap opera
A good cry
Friendly help in a carpet store
Delivery the same day
Cold, icy water
Clean clothes
Bare feet
The phone rings - anticipation
Learning something new
Funny commercials
Learning a new language
A long skirt swirling about your feet
August 17, 2003
Garage sales
Corn on the cob
Bush tits & chickadees
Cats walking on the back yard fence at night and the neighbor's dog barking
A short trip with a friend
Eating out
A freshly sharpened pencil
Putting my feet up
The movie "The Night of the Living Dead"
Happy people
A new magazine
Things that work
A job
A good boss
Talking to friendly strangers
August 21, 2003
A job
My brother's birthday
My step-mother's laughter
Helping others solve techno problems
Being needed
Understanding something about God
How stunning things are if we really think about them
Watching evening come
Watching the sky
Pink clouds that look like giant tarantulas
A low flying jet with lots of lights
Chatting with people at work
A personal fan in a very hot room
My own door key
Catching a bus right away
Purple ink
Coming home after a hot day at work
August 30, 2003
Being appreciated
New things
Spending money
Talking to new people
Solving a difficult technology problem
Making people smile
Clean laundry
The way people pronounce different words