January Snowstorm

January 18, 2017

IMG_7339

Last night the snow fell, heavy and wet.
It was the kind of snow that bows the tree branches
and makes tunnels of narrow back roads.
It was the kind of snow that makes me want to drive nowhere in particular.
It was the kind of snow that makes me want to walk somewhere, anywhere.
So I drove the roads un-plowed,
headlights cutting through the night
and everything was white as far as the eye could see.
I walked a line of footsteps to the top of the hill
and ran the full length of the orchard through a row of sleeping apple trees.
I can still see the blur of fruitless branches, like a dream
as I ran, snow flakes hitting my face.
It felt good to run free without the fear of falling.
It felt good to fill my lungs with the cool air of a January snowstorm.
And for a little while the only sound in the world
was the beating of my heart
as I lay in a blanket of snow
watching snowflakes fall from the pitch black.

January 18,  2017

 

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A Broken Habit

July 7, 2010

he became a habit i couldn’t shake
like a junky, each day I wanted more

aquietnight and fourdayssilence

without a word he was gone,
leaving a trail of songs in his wake.

white noise

September 4, 2009

crickets
or just the hum of slow space
purling and murmuring,
night creeps in
shuffling it’s weighted feet,
dragging the cold air in
from the dew dropped fields.

her
little body shifts next to mine,
she has left me here alone
in my white noise,
face all aglow,
waiting for sleep
to swallow me up
and deliver me.

Tarkovsky room 1


song unsung

January 28, 2009

dark
eyed
junco
on
felled
branch
downed
power
lines
ice
storm
in
december

snow
bound
angels
story
telling
recalling
recounting
their histories
searching
for
something
in
each
other

inked
stars
fall
on
papered
walls
remembering
forgotten
dream
land
scapes

sounding
words
before
un
spoken
whispered
carried
held
released

trains
hum
empty
bellied
silos
sleep
smokestacks
smoke
hearts
beat
in-time
beating
be-dum
be-dum
be-dum

endless
winter
flowers
hoarfrost
icicles
frozen
beauty
astounding
alone-ness

counting
back
wards
circling
1
1
0
1
driving
no
where
in
particular
back
roads
wide
open

10
windows
white
to
grey
faded
polaroids
kept
memories
lost

children
displaced
hopscotch-ing
chalking
longing
for
home
julia
pencils
letters
un
written
un
read

heavy
sighs

deafening
silence

breathe
ingrid
breathe

january
comes
and
goes
shedding
names
returning
to
seed
time
spent
waiting
for
spring

two
swallows
diving
flitting
flighting
wings
a flutter
finding
something
in
each
other

telephone
lines
cross
crossed
soft
voices
afternoon
yawns
blue
cotton
clouds

there
to
here
1000
+
miles

kismet
day
dreamers
dreaming
of
flying

falling
falling
falling

ice storm in december

snow and ink

January 7, 2009

i wish that there were no strings that led you to me
just that i was a pinhole of light
that you happened upon one night

snow and ink.

on the old roman road

July 31, 2007

our bodies
perfectly aligned,
all of the shades of brown between us
, espresso, cocoa, umber, sepia, caramel.
sun kissed and smelling of cardamom and earth
we lay flat the leaves beneath us

and put to memory

the patterns of the trees above us
the blue of the sky
and the buzzing of mosquitoes.

we take nothing for granted,
for heaven is in a moment
a look, a kiss, a touch.

on the old roman road

we carve our initials
into the moss covered tree
and make our own history

the poetry unbroken
and etched into our memories
for songs unsung

we lay silent, eyes closed.
hair spread out on the forest floor,
you begin where i end

and i begin where you end.

returning to seed

April 3, 2007

I’m going down.
I’m going under.
Returning to soil,
returning to seed.
I don’t know where I’ve been,
but it is not here where I belong.
So, I will sleep now and dream of tomorrow,
dream of sun and rain.
I will wake-up and make a garden.
That is what I will do,
wake-up and make a garden.
I will plant the seed of us at the foot of the maple tree,
between the crowning peonies and the silent Buddha.

The long winter’s embers
now ash and cinder,
sit in a cold stove…
waiting to be worked into the soil.

From the kitchen window I watch,
for the unfurling of the magnolia blossoms
and the robin’s Hop! Hop! Hop!
The crocuses have come.
Soon, the forsythia will be a wall of canary
and the scent of purple lilac will fill the dream room.

On the branch of the wild pear tree
there sits a spangled starling.
Each morning I watch for him.
With the sun he comes with the gift of song.
In the breath that moves
through a wooden flute,
in the sigh of the strings of a dilruba,
in the lament of a spanish guitar…
I remember who I am
here in the soil,
here in the seed asleep
dreaming of tomorrow,
dreaming of sun and rain.
I will wake-up and make a garden.
That is what I will do,
wake-up and make a garden.
I will plant the seed of us
with the ash of a long winter
at the foot of the maple tree.
And in an exhale, I will let it all go…
and begin anew.

It is happening.
The promise of spring is here.

whooo..

February 24, 2007

You make every color go quiet.
Blue is just blue,
but midnight screams your name.
Silence filled,
a cry,
words shrivel in repose.
Night sighs
a sigh,
a lone trumpet
carried on a breath,

whooo…

you are love.

the bees of bruges

February 15, 2007

I didn’t see him when he first came
unspoken,
he crept in like winter. Suddenly,
the heart
burst open, an in-chanting
chorus,
a blizzard of bees in december.

1483 Caxton Golden Leg. 208b/2
(72 hours)

Paddy Brown

December 14, 2006

when she first saw me
she said that I was tiny
and that an angel had just come into her home
her room was dark
little birds and nests and dream catchers
hung from the low ceiling

she had me sit at a round table
shuffled and cut
an old worn deck of cards
she laid them out like a four tiered fan

she asked me if her dog could say hi
he was blind and jumped on me
she fed him rice crackers

she asked me about my book
said that it was powerful
would I read from it
i flipped thru the pages
reading quickly a poem
revealing my naked words
she said that i lacked self confidence

her hair was natty
she said that she should be careful
not to cuss so goddamn much
there was an angel in the room

she chain smoked
and cussed
and sipped on a bottle of water

she told me that I was born to write
that I didn’t value my gift
in my many lives before

She asked me if I know who I am

she said that I was
a violet orchid soul
and that vibrations move from my hips

she told me that I was
a fine line of coke
that i had the glow…heavenly

she asked me if I knew my gift
that I could help the dying
move to the other side

i could just speak to them and they would pass in peace

she said that my father is on the other side
he looks over me
that i take after him

she said she met her first mermaid recently
that if she started crying
it’s not that she’s sad
it’s just that she is so moved by my presence

she said that I am not Ingrid
I told her that I am Julia
she said yes you are
jewels, a precious jewel

she laughed hard
and made no apologies
for blowing smoke in my face

she told me that
I was from a Kharmic lineage
of painters and writers
I should be painting she said but I am afraid of color

when our time together was up
she asked her blind dog
if they should take my money now and say goodbye

When I stood up
she asked me
what size skirt I wear
I said the smallest

she showed me the door.