Friday, November 26, 2010

Lost and Found -Oliver

In the marsh
Tall wheat grass blows
Cats and kittens onto
Streets. Onto gardens
Sunning themselves on back porches
Climbing onto high decked
One once peered down upon
A sitter through a bathroom
Slinking, parading, skittering, running,
Birthing kittens, that appear
And in a connected glance
 Return to the marsh
To the tall wheat swaying
Returning after the hard rains fall
Picking delicately on the tops of
 Snowdrifts eluding kind hands
And open hearts in favor
Of the marsh spreading
Favors of feline freedom
Two of all queen and king of colony
Long ago trapped neutered released
Separate in color and courage
Come to feed to visit to enter a home now
And again, to seek and enjoy
Their brief encounters with humans
And return to rule the marsh
In the tall swaying grasses of wheat
And the kittens appear and disappear quickly
At night gorged raccoons appear, the imagined
Hint of kitten on their drawn lips
Kitten blood on their exposed teeth...
The kittens are taught early to avoid
 All contact, no matter how friendly,
All traps, no matter how humane,
Returning to the marsh
To the tall grass swaying...
If one should be seen, even inches long
It will be neither cute
Nor cuddly , truly a wild creature
Given to sibilant hisses and flat ears
Until one day a small meow
Almost a mirage of a meow
And there at the door, after the
Rain, tiny ball of ebon fluff
Emerald neoned eyes
That neither, ran, nor hissed
But stood tiny and waiting and
As the door opened
The mailman came stomping
Good naturedly, " cute kitten"
Said he to its disappearing...
Back to the marsh?
To the wild grasses swaying?
To the winter coming?
To the fattened raccoons?
And then moments later
As Kaitlin ran from fingers
Onto the screen, haunting
Haunted murdered innocent
Muse child
Came a mirage mewling
And there at the door again
Accompanied by the King of the Marsh
This ebon emerald fluff of spirit sown
And I bent slowly and lifted this
"familiar" melted purring onto my breast...
Lifted this bit of soft marsh grass swaying
into the future of forever as this
Oliver twisted his way free from the
waiting jaws of predators and winter
unschooled and somehow innocent
 In the ways of wild
No mystical muse as simple as Kaitlin
A complicated fellow, as synchronized in
Temperament and spirit as a witch's familiar
Arriving, mystical, magical, lost and found
Releasing all negative energy
Bringing a stretching wheat swaying
Marshland of endless possibilities
Of life swaying with the faint
Perfume of salted grass
Flowing to the screen
Providing that simple unexpected twist

Oliver is home....

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Form & Formless


Finished completed in day twenty two
On this first attempt writing right through
Respect for discipline, attention to each morning's walk down the Street
Magical appearance of Kaitlin into a novel did meet


Float like a butterfly, leave out the fight
Onward always forward falling drifting along with unknown mystical might
Releasing the words into this gentle magical musical flight pure driven fall snow
Moving with, in, and of the flow until, there in day 22 finished NaNo
Loose and free letting each snowflake fall each into its call
Easy, easy not needing to know where, when or how it would all
Sift like soft flour pouring in unclumped singularity piling tall
Secure in the safety of the ultimate structure of the formless free-fall

Space Closed

There is a space
that floats formless
and flagrant
in sibilant

There is a space
that floats formless
on a street
where disconnect
drifts attempting inveigled
purchase in
the imagined loneliness
of a singular footfall
walking ankle deep
in word fall

There is a space
that fills with the
torrent of remembered
richness, the soaked sunburst
joy of individual collective
dandelion dust dancing
from each blossom burst
and caught
on a fingertip
inhaled in the
crisp fresh breath
of a new fall day

Where there are words
that can be no disconnect

Space closed

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Stacking Up The Dreams

The dreams
one atop the
other rising in
the night of
individual darkness
to sparkle in one
shining collective day
for all people
for all places
for all time
floating forward

Stacking Up...

Jewish children of a certain time
were told not unlike African- American
children today
that they had to "stack up"
be "better" than "them"
whoever the them should be
and whatever the "them" should do
It was the only way, to show
those who would hate in the name
of a blatant lie
that we were gentle, intellectual
folk and that, of course so many
millions had been allowed to die
Not only in that one singular war
The one that some say The Greatest Generation
fought and died hard for
But for the years, from Pharaoh's time
In a land where there was milk and honey
after a forty-year-walk in the sand
And then a country, a safe home base
Where, if it ever happened again... well
just in case
It gets fuzzy here, way away in a land safe
from fire, far away from even local ire
living cloistered in the east coast bubble
where Jewish children unless "religious"
never ever experience any difference or trouble
Years ago walked the streets of Jerusalem
and marveled at the sanctity of Mary's tomb
the brilliant light of the mosque's dome
walked the stations of the cross, ears
delighted in keffiyeh, head scarves, kippas, bare-heads,
short shorts, modest and all modes of dress
to a true land of milk and honey all this did attest
"Stacking up" never had I been so unearned, but yet
somehow filled with pride and delight
to be part of a people who had learned in modern time how again to fight
for freedom
for themselves but not only for Israelites
the proof in the Israeli intent and real funds spent to restore all Christian, and Islamic sites...
Had I traveled at just a singular point in time?
When did the tide turn and the rocks begin to be hate-filled thrown?
When did the promise of Jew and Arab side by side get seeded
with cries of "to the sea" get sown
When did the green fields sprung from sand
Become less the signature of this land
"Stacking up" be quiet, gentle and yet remember the lesson
of the past
When those who thought they were untouchable found themselves
isolated, alienated, hated and ignored, in modern civilized times gassed
Two wrongs never add up to a single right
But even a born Jewish boy like "Yeshua" sacrificing himself as an example to those who would murder and castigate
Would ponder long and hard on the rationale of complying with a state committed to destruction and a unrelenting hate....

or not...
what do I know?
just a thought....

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Cross-road that hopefully a parent never reaches-A Kaitlin Poem*part of a series of 13 poems

When does the time come
when a child's laughter
trailing off across green
wet summer grass
freezes into the ice
of winter, thaws again
into spring and still
echoes into summer.

When does the time come
when listening for the
laughter becomes a memory
rather than an anticipated
When does the time come
when hope is replaced by

Who determines the cross-road
when laughter dies
on decomposing lips
of a child
forever gone...

Cross Roads at Nano (the half-way NaNoWriMo Challenge mark)

Cross Roads at Nano (the half-way NaNoWriMo Challenge mark)

"Come to me" she whispered
sweet apple cheeked muse
write with abandon, free
heart, mind and soul through
the fingers of those hands
Come to me she whispered
a smiled and a scent of
cinammon and cream
Sit and pour forth it
will be like a dream
the bar is set low
you can step right across
think not what you write
just word count, there will be no loss
And following there with fingers
on fire, the numbers poured into
people a town, plot and more
Nano, never did tell you what
you knew from the start that
a writer can't write and not care
what they're writing about
And so now you care, and you
keep fingers flying and wish
you could sit in her warm
kitchen, see her kind crinkled
eyes, smell the cinammon and
cream and continue that
As you sit at the cross-roads
between moving ahead and the
spine chilling potential of
tomorrow's possible dread
Now at the cross-roads between
gaily marching along with fingers
a flying and your heart filled with
And the chilling, the thrilling,
possibility of all that terrifyingly
could be
if Nano turns critic, the cream
soured and mold fuzzed in cinammon
and her body fetid as Medussa serpents
slither in the soft silver curls with whom
all did begin
Grandma Nano
or Decomposing Nano
one giving life
the other a cold-blooded kill
At the cross-roads both possible
all a matter of will

Friday, November 12, 2010

Forget What They Say - two weeks after Kaitlin's disappearance

Each morning waking in
light that has no right
to shine so bright
filled with sudden hope
embrace yourself and
repeat on this fresh day
Forget what they say..

Forget statistics about
how soon children should
be found if they are to be
above the ground
Forget what they say
as night falls
hard and still
and from the emptiness
slither black thoughts
Whisper loud light
pouring through the
end of another day
Forget what they say

At each end of night and day
Hear her laughter, feel her
weight damp in sleep upon
your chest, wake easy and
go easy to your rest
Inhale her scent, shampoo
and days filled with green
grassed play
Continue to
Forget what they say

Thursday, November 11, 2010

No one wants to.... know Kaitlin lives on.. (for more in series search Kaitlin on-going series)

No one wants to listen
to me
that Kaitlin ran in
green fields and made
snow angels in the snow

No wants to listen
to me
that though "gone" still lives
they cannot and do not want to know

If we meet, they turn their eyes
and look someplace
up on to my forehead
throw frozen smiles and babble on
with perhaps a mumbled reference to gone or passed
unspoken words scream at me "your daughter is forever dead."

And,if they can they quickly turn at a
single glimpse of me
walk quickly toward another way
if caught stammer smile oh so "obliviously"

No wants to listen
fearing talk of a four-year-old
who physically is dead
Most chilling is that
no one wants to listen
no one wants to hear
that my memories are
sweet and sparkling, finally beginning now to clear

Sunshined laughter
touseled hair, running
in the grass, those angels in
the snow

No one wants to
To how alive my forever
four-year-old continues
now to grow

No one wants to speak of
her, no one wants to know
Smiling, avoiding, dropping
in their wake seeds of ice
in my just warming heart to grow
and in their self-protective shunning
leave her dead with me
No one wants to

No one wants to
It is they that keep
her dead and still and gone
trapped by their fear beneath
a forever thickly falling snow
It is they who will not allow her to
continue to shine and grow
Tragedy compounded, no one listens, asks
or shares a sweet remembered time
No one wants to

Monday, November 8, 2010


I prefer to think of Nano
like a kindly apple cheeked
The kind that listens when
you read your stuff
and cannot stop her oohs and AH!

Cat-In (not Kaitlin) Agreement with a Kitten

The meow was tiny at the front door
A puff ball of coal in the damp chilly air
Pea sized green eyes staring mercilessly
Two paws on the threshold allowing my hands
there to lift inside in the warmth
in from the damp chilly air
Had just finished writing for the morning that is
The house still and silent gathering melancholia
like dust
When that tiny mewl called and answer I knew that I must
There inside held against my chest
Put down some kibble she gobbled like
a tiger the rest
I went to the refrigerator some cream for a treat
And as I turned tiny green eyes in black coal did hold
mine and meet... as she turned from the cream and rubbed
months' new fur face against touching finger tips
a rising, warm tide rose up swelling roaring with a hunger to feed
as we locked eyes together and with a purr and a cradle heart to heart we agreed
share a day filled with grace blending serendipity with our mutual need
suspend all else and spend this day together inside out from the damp chilly air
together in warmth and connection and simple living pleasure to share
a tiny kitten and a woman alone exchanging warmth then and there
both banishing the cold chilly interior and exterior air
And at the days' end curled against her chest a purr rising deep from a met need each eye sparkled and closed with sigh of a day spent well

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Looking For That Five-Dollar-Bill

Father was an artist
painting undressed women
up the stairs
in a hidden part of
the museum
where every Saturday
entrusted with my
little brother my
seven year old self
would see a Childrens' Show
and then wander through
the hall of mummies I
quickly in dread, my brother fascinated
by dry lifeless artifacts
walk through the dim lit display
hall to the bright cafeteria
for a snack and a meet up with
my father who was an artist
painting undressed women,
models, upstairs somewhere

One time a model came
wrapped in a soft brown robe
touching the tops of worn brown
sandals - her toenails shining
her long hair falling
in waves down her back
She sat by the window
alone drinking hot chocolate
a living painting off canvas
now probably cold from standing
around artists and their paints

On that Saturday he handed
me that five-dollar-bill
and I held it tightly in
my hand ... as he walked up
those metal studio steps and
we together pulled open
the metal door back into
the polished marble echoes
of our footsteps... down the
corridors passing paintings
not half as good as his
peeping down from the top floor
through the winding spinning
staircase down to the Childrens' Theatre
and three black screens that all
said nothing more than
Closed Today.

The time passed quickly I started
us back at the top staircase to
look at each painting in their turn
My brother happy as long as he got
to stand for a time at the top
of the spiral staircase and throw pieces of paper
from the sign I hadn't seen him tear
mesmerized he rolled and watched his tiny
paper spheres floating down through seven levels
imagining he could "kill someone"
if they should get hit...POW, he whispered
remembering his museum voice for his murderous musing

By the hand, I pulled him with me after a few
minutes of his little boy nonsense
my contained, mature seven-year-old
and came upon some watery impressions
thin, clear colors shimmering in
white light bouncing from bright
marble, situated safely at the corner
where my brother could sit happily in sight
punching the air in some imaginary fight
with his always available bad guys

I stood lost in one particular
painting, water-colored water
flowers, floating into a
forever horizon

"I'm hungry," said my brother and
on my nurse's watch I could see
that it was time
I opened my hand to him
and jolted, spine iced, heart fast
felt his hot hand already so big it almost
filled big, hot, damp and heavy in my one hand
and my other hand,
my five-dollar-bill hand
swinging open, clean, dry
and empty

"I'm hungry"...he said my little brother
entrusted to my care as
my father who was an artist
painted undressed women, models
somewhere, far away and up high
with other painters
"I'm hungry."
"I'm looking for something first"
and we walked
those marble museum floors
empty on that cold December
Saturday... walked them
our footsteps mocking us,
as we quick-stepped, remembering
not to run
until colors ran and the
Mummy corridor beckoned
rictus grins unfrightening
blinded now to anything but
white marble tiles
retracing steps again
and again expecting
at any moment
to see a flash of
green waiting
where it had slipped
waiting, my five-dollar-bill
entrusted to my hand
each finger closed by
my father who was
an artist painting
undressed women, models,
far away and above

And then, sweet relief
running uncaring now
time shortening,
to the reception desk
on tiptoe gripping the
black marble counter with
one five-dollar-empty hand
and the other hanging onto
my brother
I asked, relief sweetly flowing
as water-colored water
flowers... "Did anyone
turn in a five-dollar-bill?"
Waiting for her certain smile
seeing her ready reach under the counter
feeling the crease of the paper
already in my palm - tasting the
cold chocolate milk in a carton
and then
she looked
down, eye to eye
and blank as black marble

Just "No."
Nothing else.
My father is an artist painting
undressed women,
models...I mouthed soundless
Stunned in the monumental
marble museum -
alone and suddenly smalled
in the pooling echoe of her
mummifying marginalization

Looking For Kaitlin

In the tumble of covers
early on a Saturday morning
tight basketball belly
cradled in his hands
leaning into the hot heaviness
of him
safe in the tumble of covers
in the quiet
breaking through
the hazy tropic
languor into
the too quiet reality of that
soundless Saturday morning
silent of even a singular rustle
of four-year-old Kaitlin
only the clock ticking
off judgmental seconds
taunting our misplaced
peace of mind
unsafe in the chilled covers
of our mutual manic awakening
to a horizonless alone