featured today

One of my small stones from the January '12 stone-a-day challenge is on the blogzine today!

A Handful of Stones

evening repose

In the distance
lights twinkle over the bay
and Chet Baker sings
low and mellow

rainSKY

the horizon was split
in two: the lower half
a band of grey
illuminated from behind
in reds and blues
the upper half
a ruffle of heavy clouds
spread across the top

cat nap

all rumbling furriness
my cat's soft chin
nestled upon the back of
my hand

as she chortles and snores
my stomach gurgles

clouds relieve

clouds releasing
pressure from days
of sun  just past
a woman I don't know well
is grieving for her husband




(for a co-worker)

early risers

at the coffee shop
the tall brown-brown haired girl
and the medium red-haired man
giving me full attention
6:30am

ocean

if words come tumbling
out
let them be
like sky

puffs of white

heavy rain past
the canyon view
is like a layer cake
of greens and browns
then baby blue
with cotton stretched across
and puffs of white

Sunday

buttered toast
with coffee
red breasted
finches hanging on
for dear life
the wind, rain,
rustling
the brittle leaves
the heater warms
my feet
the knot beneath
my shoulder blade
like a bruise
the smell of
Tiger Balm
like licorice
herbal medicine
this morning
I'm going to see
You today.

Day 6 (7 senses)

(Thought and memory)

Light drizzle.

A boy in a green or blue sweatshirt leaps with long legs across the sidewalk.

A black dog quickly trots after him, tail wagging. Unleashed. Joyful.

A yellow-haired plump woman in her 50s (my neighbor) in a yellow rain slicker and hat waddles, hips moving side to side as she leans back, attached to the leash of her fat, mixed-breed dog, which is compulsively propelling them both forward.

She looks like an ad for frozen fish-sticks in that yellow slicker.

***

Yesterday I drove through Old Town, where tourists have overrun the now bustling, colorful, restaurant row.

When I was a child there were only three restaurants in Old Town worth visiting, and when we would go, we always went to Casa de Pico.

My mother would order the chile rellenos, I had chicken enchiladas, and I don't recall what my father ordered, except I know both parents drank margaritas and laughed increasingly as the alcohol and festive atmosphere lifted their spirits. For the two or so hours we sat there, surrounded by music and color, life outside the patio ceased to exist.

Within the restaurant parameters (the outdoor patio was only separated from the rest of the Old Town main square by a low brick wall on the south end) Mariachis in pressed, black suits with gold embroidery serenaded guests in heartfelt harmony, strumming guitars, singing about Mexico, love and the sea; thick paper flowers in pink, orange, and yellow decorated walls and tables, and waitresses in black flats wore fluffy folk-skirts with ruffled sleeves and tight bodices of brightly colored ribbons.

Usually there was a long line, but there was so much to be seen and before long, you had advanced and reached the hostess station, confronted with the three enormous blue margaritas (on display), about to get a table.

On the patio, piñatas hung from every umbrella, shaped like pink horses or yellow cows, and silver heat lamps warmed the brown terra cotta tiles.

At the blue-tiled table, one received a basket of warm tortilla chips and a small clay dish of salsa, and there was an ad, wrapped around the umbrella pole, in a pink pyramid shape, tempting you with the tostada grande or the flautas or special guacamole, prepared table-side.

When relatives visited, we took them there, straight from the airport. A festive "welcome to San Diego!" dinner in Old Town became a favorite tradition.

I drove through Old Town yesterday. Casa de Pico is gone, sold to new owners, and although both parents are here, living in the same city, I realized we will never again go there together as a family.

5th sense

(taste)

buttery crumbly sugary icing

mmmmemorable

mmmmouthful

4th sense

(touch)

corduroy brown
grooved
curly silken
hard plastic
keys beneath
fingertips
skin tight
against
hard wooden 
porch
splintered
painted rough
the seat
cushioned
but not as
soft

3 of 7 senses

(smell)

I will help you remember

what clean smelled like

she said it was when

you came home and

the washing machine

was chugging, whirring

with bleach and soap

in and sunlight

streaming hard and

fast and you walked
into her yellow

kitchen

and helicopters

(sound)

in my ears the
ceaseless ring
as sirens wail
and helicopters
sting

oblivious

(sight)

too impatient
to watch birds
fly I almost
miss them

spring clean

on the gardener's forehead
tiny dried bits of leaves
and sand

corrugated

sunshaded rooftop
early in the
parking garage
where nest-building
birds
send sweet messages

6 3 12

the way I
Know
this passion
between us
even
Now

a pause

the anger
in his voice
stops my heart

vista

at canyon's edge
two girls sit side by side
glossy black hair blowing
like gentle horses manes

a stone is published today

One of my small stones is published today on the a handful of stones e-zine.  Click on the link to read.

many thanks!

desert food

I made a stew of
lentils, carrots, cumin, curry:
the earthy, hot, spicy fragrance
reminds him of the time
we ate desert food
prepared by dark eyed women
at 1:00pm
in the shade
at the wooden table
in the heat of Hesperia

anise and sage

canyon hiking
pinching green
between fingers,
crushing

    the fragrance
      of anise
    and sage

covered with birds

a small miracle
happened when
leaving for work
this morning:

my copper bird-feeder,
as yet untouched
was covered with birds:

tiny red finches and
at least one sweet dove
took turns pecking
for black sunflower seeds

premonition in yellow

wet marshland
late February
a meadowlark follows us
with it's flute-like song

journaling

inky hands
my brain
is full of
words and
sounds of
birds

reparations

our house
in need of
so much repair

today a new fence
tomorrow, the world.

kindred

speaking with the young curator
about my writing, about film--
finally he smiles widely

in repose

she's sitting
still as a
statue:
gas fire flames
lick the glass
in blues and
greens the
color of her
eyes my
old belov-ed
strip-ed
cat

three bunnies

warming themselves
in the early morning sun
three bunnies huddle
giving their best
sideways glances

rumi owl

courtesy of Writing Our Way Home's facebook photo pages

“What you seek is seeking you.”
― Rumi

silver thread

surprised to find
the red and green christmas napkin in my pocket
the day I'm wearing
the pink scarf with the
silver thread woven in
and out, throughout,
like tinsel
when we drank milky sake
on new year's eve
two years ago when
I wasn't wearing this
scarf, but
another one,
and you said you
were happy
that night;
so was I.

gratitude

the cold air
as I walk to work:
relief from the pressures
and entanglements
of the weekend

in unison

dark clouds move in slowly
over the canyon
as two crows soar
in wide-winged circles

temporal

in the sun
behind the dry shrub
my old striped cat
warms her nose

daily dishes

her favorite coffee cup--
color: turquoise blue
is not as cheering
today, despite fine weather.

hat

on the stocky man's bald head:
an electric blue
hard hat
with funny stickers

the wall

between the wall
and stairs
red berries explode,
demanding gratitude

cluttered

in a corner of the desk

late January

shadows fall behind

a skyline of lotion bottles

and pencils

skyward

gazing across the temperate canyon,
enjoying sun; light breezes, I realize
I've forgotten the sky.

looking up:
cerulean blue,
delicate clouds,
endless possibilities.

old dog

The mean woman across the street
walks her old dog every day,
around the block, I'm guessing.

The dog can only move slowly, and the woman has great patience as it waddles behind her on a leash. She restrains from walking at her own pace, waiting for it to catch up.

When they near their house, the old dog's tail begins feebly wagging. He or she is ready for a rest.

The mean neighbor woman invariably yells at everyone whom she dislikes and is always cranky. She hasn't made many friends.

saturday morning

coffee and oranges,
books and birds
squawking like ducks
and last night's dream,
the sun streams,
strong as a chariot
into my morning room

old car

before I turned left,
a tough-looking guy
drove by in his old car
without hood or bonnet
covering the engine

crescent moon

a coin placed over
the top half
of the round light
that hangs near the stars
behind the night sky

winter sun

light breezes
warm,
weaving through
the metal
grid of the table
with long shadows,
for a moment:
calm

neon

blinking colors flash
against black sky:
red, blue, green, pink, red go
on - off - on - off --
I'm working late tonight.

manners

under the table:
left and right thighs
pressed together,
warm fingers
tightly entwined

still life 2 (#22)

on the table:
a basket of bread,
some butter,
a cup of soup, 1/2 sandwich,
one glass of beer
two napkins, forks, spoons, knives,
one gin and tonic with lime, and one
plate of fruit with 1/2
his sandwich.

california winter

against the grey sky, after much rain
three tall palms flex and sway
in ruthless, endless wind;
in my neighbor's yard,
bright oranges punctuate
green leaves, white blossoms

traces

after the rain 
rows of paw prints in the mud
parallel tracks of running shoes

clocks

underneath daily life
behind all the movement
and clatter
I'm listening for clocks,
measuring time.

nothing

today I noticed nothing
in particular
except
the absence of
something

paper stars

paper lanterns
hang in clusters
of white and colored lights
like painted stars

so-cal palms

on my walk
the wind picks up -
palm fronds rub
together, whispering
secrets of old trees

virtual nature break

saturday - shot from my window

white cat

with eyes
ice-blue as marbles,
a snow white feline
scales the twisted maze
of leafy canopy,
sitting sentry at the highest tip
of the mesquite tree

crows

in the black fragrant leaves
between tall eucalyptus trees,
shiny feathers, beaks
parted, calling
so loudly to each other
I look up

looking inward

eyes closed,
tingling between my brows,
white light glows, and
circles expand with the breath

5th day back

sore muscles in my neck, back, shoulders,
congested traffic, car fires, political news,
hundreds of emails, piles of papers,  things to do;
I'm staring at red grapes, plucking them, one by one,
remembering how time slowed down when
you touched me.

silverfish

Early morning,
staring at the cold, tiled floor,
a slim silverfish moves in circles.
Long tentacles wave like delicate, spidery feet.
Scuttling along the edge of the wall, it hides beneath the door.
It knows I aim to kill it.
I squint my eyes, clench tissue between my fingers and zero in.
It looks up at me with prehistoric eyes, and 
suddenly I realize:  it has no destination.

fear

breathing slowly, then quickly,
gripping knots in my stomach, like ropes,
twisted organs, vulnerability;
my chest tightens:  the unknown.

string

writing one word
at a time
will eventually
create a string of words,
even if it doesn't mean
anything.

spot

The absence of color
now the decorations are down--
What is that spot on the wall?

tea

I'm holding my cup of tea
close, against my belly.
It rises and falls as I breathe.
Maybe tomorrow writing will come easier.

jazz

quick rhythms surround:
drums gently thumping,
brush and cymbals
tapping, sweeping,
saxophone, flute, scaling
higher, lower, up, down
across my empty mind.

sparkling

everybody has torn their decorations down;
me, I keep red sparkle, glitter and snowflakes
around, refusing to let go.

lemons

sliced in quarters
on the wooden board,
all sticky juice and seeds;
--a wedge of lemon
floats atop ice and bubbles;
we smile at each other

dusk

cloud streaks at sunset,
the pale blue sky
follows me all the way home.

***************************************
January 3rd, my Dad's birthday!
It was almost 80 degrees F in So Cal today.
I went swimming at the local Y; there was
an incredible sky driving home at dusk.

still life

shiny, red, yellow-skinned
apples in a ceramic bowl;
becoming softer, more bitter,
with age.

preparations

Watching leaves quiver
With caffeine in hand
My heart palpitates

tree

The shadow of the mesquite tree:
like a paper cutout against black asphalt.

bird

every day the little bird
with green and black feathers
hops from branch to branch
gathering twigs for winter

circles

I think of Rilke's expanding rings: Circles repeating, one after another, like water:  The way we proceed with blind uncertainty; we trust.  Yet cycles ebb and flow until some crack in the universe allows a sliver of light to stream in.  And so, we wait, repeating circles, awaiting ripples.

carolers

I heard them across the street last night,
singing Christmas carols.

They stopped in front
of neighbors' houses--
the ones with Christmas lights.

When they stopped at my house
I came outside, sat on the front porch
in my pajamas, and sang along at the top of my lungs.

December

Middle of December--
the oven warms,
sweet spices waft,
seconds tick by--
I sip strong coffee
and wait for the birds.

new look for winter

Please let me know how you like it!  P.S.  I couldn't resist this sweet robin and red winter berries to enhance the mood.

warm friend

The small, grey space heater blows hot air and warms my feet, watching with silent approval as I write.

kisses

a red foil
crinkled gift--
dark and dense
sweetness

boots

a row of black boots
sag in the corner
beneath the winter coats

summer to fall

(see full image)

old tree

The trunk of the old tree is white and thick with age. Its branches spread wide in a canopy above our heads like long, crooked, wanting arms. Pale green leaves, almond shaped, flutter feebly as we inhale sea breezes. At the small table beneath the canopy we dine in silence; as day turns to dusk, white lights illuminate the evening air.

temporal

Sunday afternoon
he naps, curled on his side
dreaming of birds and chocolate.

virtual nature break

argentine guitar

9th July, 2011
8:00 pm

Tonight it's quiet. It's been a hot day, finally cooling off. Flocks of birds fly across the horizon as the sun begins to set. Birds settle in nearby trees and cars pass by. The distant freeway echoes up the canyon and I imagine it to be a rushing river. Today an Argentinean peace activist was shot and murdered in his car. They're speculating the bullets were meant for his stage manager, but no one knows for sure. He played guitar, sang songs of love and freedom. His voice was as gentle as his guitar. Will it ring out louder now?

calligraphy

write it down quickly
before it's lost -
clear your mind
use one fluid stroke
whoosh!

rhythm

A bald young man
with green ear buds
went bouncing by

clean

like Mondrian
and William Carlos Williams
my house is
spotless.

SF

San Francisco, 3 a.m.
a light across the street burns -
and traffic, a mosquito,
the hard floor -
but only one reason
I'm wide awake

Gogö-an: Ryokan's Hermit Hut

dreaming of Gogö-an

reading Ryokan before
sleep--
I hope to dream of
his hermit hut
high in the misty mountains
with it's pine needles, bamboo,
and white asters

virtual nature break 2

15th august

a translucent, white-winged
insect pulsates upon
a cluster of tiny purple blossoms --
when I try to capture it,
it floats away in drunken circles

violets and dandelions

Reading Ryokan
I'm enamored with
an image:
a wooden begging bowl,
full of violets and dandelions--
offerings to the Buddhas
of the three worlds;
in place of rice.

six-word flash

For sale: baby shoes, never worn

-Ernest Hemingway

russian supermarket ii

They stopped on the way home and picked up good bread, butter, and caviar from the Russian market. As an afterthought they bought a bottle of red wine from the Baltic.

She spread two pages of newspaper on the large table and they feasted, while reading passages aloud from Chekhov and Dostoyevsky.

After eating bread and caviar and drinking the Baltic wine and reading from the great Russian writers, they crumpled the newspaper into the wastebasket and went to bed.

Did they dream? If so, of what?

9th august

summer evenings, late,
in darkness, under shadows of trees
there is a cool breeze
and the tapping of his keyboard

cactus

a mockingbird
perched on spindly legs
warns it's mate

uncertainty

this hot
morning
birds' songs
seem
ominous

butterflies

paper-thin wings flutter
across closed eyelashes
- breaths of
yellowness
and cool air

Books

Miss M couldn't remember the last time she'd read a book, but she remembered how nice it had been.

She liked the smell of books, their rich mustiness, the thickness of the pages, turning them, one by one.

The sound it made.

She could drown in books, could sink deep down, enfolded.

You weren't quite floating; it was more like going under and afterwards you'd forgotten who you were.

Birds sang. Light faded. Shadows fell.

People were murdered.

Trains passed through tunnels and sounded their horns.

Reading, time passed slowly, whereas time spent not reading passed quickly and without satisfaction.