“But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things.”
~ Vincent van Gogh

Sunday, March 26, 2017

Autumn Begins with Days of Rain

On the first dry evening
I open the door to the yard
and see in spite of the dark
the vine, as if suddenly, 
fresh green, thick with leaf.

Opening the front door
next morning, still rainless,
I confront mist: startlingly white,
wiping out hills and mountains
above the other side of the street.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

TV Shows About High School KIds

Joyfully discovering Veronica Mars,
and remembering beloved Buffy, I wonder –
is it that I’m permanently adolescent,
or am I trying to recast myself, even now,
as the brave teenager I never was?


Written for Writing Ourselves Alive, week 2: Honesty




Monday, March 13, 2017

Going to Ground

I told a truth about myself
I never told before.
It was big.

People were kind. And even I
could see myself with distance,
lending compassion.

But it wore me out.
I haven’t been able, since,
to tell anyone anything.


Written for Writing Ourselves Alive, week 2: Honesty


Friday, March 10, 2017

After the Fierce Summer

After the fierce summer 
(and my arthritis flare-up)
my garden is dead –
except, of course, for the weeds.

My cat with the white whiskers
finds herself a shady spot
under drooping ferns
and a statue's impassive gaze.




















Written for Writing Ourselves Alive, week 2: Honesty

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Surprise

a silent thunk!
some part of my soul
re-enters my body


Written for Writing Ourselves Alive, week 2: Honesty

Investigating My Space

My blue bedspread is one kind of cotton,
the sheet another. The smooth sheet
slides over my skin in this hot weather,
or rests cool upon it when I lie flat.
The bedspread is thick and almost rough,
almost a little furry – though it's not, 
but it has texture. It has little white flowers
with stylised stems and leaves, in rows.
It came from India. My cat's white whiskers 
shine against black fur. She rests her chin
on the Indian cotton throw, stays all night.














Written for Writing Ourselves Alive, week 1: Curiosity

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Last Night in Bangalow



















Purple trees in early evening 
in tiny, pretty Bangalow,
and my friends conducting me
to an illustrated talk on Venice,
beloved Venice, in the paintings
of Canaletto, who loved it too.

‘What is the name of these trees?’ I asked.
‘Teeboocheena,’ my friends replied
and spelt it: Tibouchina. I Googled later.
Pronounced Tibbookyna (y as in ‘try’).
Beautiful whatever the name. Like Venice,
that dream, and the paintings of Canaletto.


(The lecturer postulated that Venice has long been more dream or myth than city – not evolving, nothing replaced, but continually preserved and restored.)

Written for Writing Ourselves Alive, week 1: Curiosity