who are no longer

today I woke thinking of mothers who'd been planning Christmas parties
now there are no children to attend these parties

yesterday my mom mentioned gifts under Christmas trees for children
who are no longer alive

tomorrow something else will cross my mind
and those children will not be here

grounded

my day began with lightening and rain
a short walk backwards on the trail
the two of them darting among familiar trees
hidden briefly

on our street - a tree lit where one appreciates another chance with the holiday
I'd been nudged earlier this morning by the smell of pork
now the day holds so much - cars and grades
and lost childrens' lives
it's right that there's too much to grasp
feel I nibble at the edges - peer into a dim lit window not even able to make out the shadows
of a Sunday in December with a beer, an open notebook and familiar faces

More Rimbaud - War

might yea 

but where can anyone find right

my angle of argument

my dance of disobedience

requiring logic

to make sense of the act or situation

lodged in the situation of the day

the same breeze sets the blades of grass on their sides

and bobs the clover heads in a rhythm of vibration

so much from a breeze

more Rimbaud - Novel

warm  air

cool breeze lifts my hair  

waves notebook pages 

flutters wine scent

noise from cars passing resemble the slow flow of water

soft conversation laps at space

comes in waves no regulating beat

discordant conversations fill space 

best not to attend to the actual words

rather attend to the cadence of the voice

in response to Rimbaud - Seasons in Hell

there is much about society that annoys me, leaves me dissatisfied

though my rantings are minimal

expressed with few words and

then forgotten or

at least swept out of my current mind 

to make way for the trivial tasks of the day

Destinationless

"may be the last time, I don't know, don't know"

The words wafted through the warm heavy breeze.  Heavy enough to hold those words as you drove out to Ft. Stockton.  Sky and road scorched white - scentless air washed in the open windows.  The metal lining the car door not too hot to rest your arm.  No thoughts flooded your mind.  As open and empty as the landscape.  Just time to get away before the clutter came crashing in and pinned you to a house filled with your things and Jane's.  An excuse to check in on Mom, decorated as goodwill.  She'd be surprised when you showed up with no evidence of plans.  Excitement followed by questions.  There'd be a few days before responsibility and guilt set you off again.  Not going anywhere. 

Why are you the one who's never going after anything and you're just fine with that.  Why do people have to go after things?  Why can't they just be somewhere?  But aren't you the one who's pushing away or is it just out?  Destinationless.  These thoughts began to crowd your head as you pulled up to the familiar yellow house not much wider than a station wagon.  The concrete walkway, a straight line from the street to the door.  Up the steps the screen door hung closed.  Quiet heard from within.  "Mom, are you there?"

"Jesse, what are you doing here?  I wasn't expecting you."

"Oh, I just thought I'd drive out to see you," you answered as your hand reached the door.  Your mother's grey figure moved toward the opening door's light.

tomato sauce

tonight I'm preparing tomato sauce to have over pasta

those corkscrews have sat on the shelf, two weeks now

and I wish to taste their delicate shape

washed with a light tomato sauce

filled with zucchini, bell peppers and mushrooms

flavored with garlic and basil

topped with parmesan cheese

a red wine would be nice to round out our conversation

the three of us sit around the table turning the corkscrews

pale red with tomato sauce

slipping in between parted lips

an occasional drop slips and is soon met with my cloth napkin

el sol

Nate greeted Joel and June at the door.  The door to their mother's home.  Assembled again after many months.  In remembrance of their father.  Hugs were exchanged.  Luggage left in the entry hall.  It could be carried upstairs later.  Now after a two hour drive and before that a two hour flight for June, they could sit down again - together.  To talk and not listen.  To talk and not care.  Not care what was said or even pretend to recall it moments after the words left their lips.  Five people linked by DNA and years of shared living.  And now they were lodged together for a brief 48 hours to grab hold of those genetic strands.

What was to be made of this time together?

Their mother jumped in.  Always the one to command their attention though age had weakened her hold.  Maybe they'd never really listened to her.  Only now their choice was deliberate and not the oversight of youth.  There were plans for dinner and what do you want to drink.  A new restaurant to show off and wine and beer they'd never choose to drink at home.  The drink moistened their tongues when water would have sufficed.  And the continuous ribbon of plans for the weekend unwound with no one really listening.  'Cause it didn't really matter.  Everyone would be where they needed to be when they needed to be there.  The shift of he numbers would propel them from one moment to the next.  The familiarity of the steps to be taken were easy to follow.

Inspired by a Stumptown postcard

Last Tuesday night at writing workshop Kate shared postcards to inspire our writing.  From a Stumptown postcard sharing a view of Mt. Hood behind a Portland skyline.

Stumptown Portland Mt. Hood  - The aroma of coffee lifts high above the city ensconcing Mt. Hood.  Wish you were here.  But I'll shove my feet on to the empty chair across from mine and stare out the window into the grey street where streaks of people move past heads and shoulders lean down toward the sidewalk avoiding Portland's constant moisture.  Webs haven't begun to grow between my toes, but I've found mildew in my boots that were pushed back in my closet.  When could the artist have envisioned this image?  Must take a lot of Stumptown coffee to get you there.  I remain grateful for the forty five minute periods of time when the sun breaks through the thick clouds that hug this city hoping to detain any warmth from escaping.  While another cup of coffee allows me to sit a little longer.  No place, no person drives me out into the street.  Would be okay if I sat here all day.  Nah, there are a few things I wouldn't mind doing, people I wouldn't mind seeing, but first let me finish this cup of coffee.

Joined a Writing Workshop

I joined a writing workshop a couple of weeks ago.  We meet one evening a week to write.  I wanted to take pieces I begin there to post here.

2-7-12

this morning a student told me about her dream

she was in a dark room

there was a baby on the floor 

the baby of the floor was stiff 

somewhere in the telling there was a virgin 

her mother advised her to tell her dream to the virgen

she wanted to know something from me

wanted me to tell her what to do

forget about it - it's a dream - it doesn't have to mean anything. 

we don't believe the same way, Ms Langley