Category: Uncategorized

Beauty is what we’re here for.
To utilize our sense of wonder
To create a path of wonder for others.
Be awake in the now and
Find that connection to the universe
To dig deep and discover what is in us
That is moved by the aesthetically pleasing.
Why is that which we call beautiful pleasing to us?
It’s an innate attraction to that which sustains the spirit.
It’s the hope that the world is good.
Growing, caring, sensing meaning.
These are the purposes of being alive.
When we see how it all fits together
We want to help nature and help others
To catalyze the process. Then we can say
We were an active part of it,
We wondered, we connected, we acted.
The moment we say, “Aha!”

Sometimes I’m stunned by how time

moves through a life
so easily
and quietly
so that one spring day,
you’re ten, running to a neighbor’s to climb
his apple tree;
the next week,
you’re buying your first house in Adrian,
wife pregnant with a third child;
two weeks later, you’re drinking wine
at your daughter’s wedding, then kissing a grandson,
attending his high school graduation
until next month
when you’re escorted into a one-room apartment in senior living
and you stare out the window while the smiling aide says,

“Look at that view. Isn’t it fine?”

a sculpture with rough edges
untamed beauty,
medusa is my friend
feminist, and lover,
uncontrolled by man
unfinished masterpiece
waiting to be bought at a gallery
Lilith is the goddess that lives within my soul
mother, woman, warrior
I do not smile for the sake of others
far more courageous than Achilles,
my weaknesses are not on the steps I take
protector, commander, black sheep
I am a sculpture that does not rely on clay.

i don’t trust myself to love you, the way these feelings wither, the way these emotions fizzle out, the way my heart brawls to beat. i can’t trust my stars to remain constant in the blanket of your black sky. i can’t trust my winds to send you petals of renaissance and romance. but i still stay because i will go to war to keep your heart intact knowing mine could be overthrown in the process.

I’m from a Southern backyard —
Magnolia grandiflora sporting huge white blooms
Honeysuckles spilling over the fence
Red roses soaked with the aroma of tea
Hollyhocks springing up yearly into flowering towers.

I’m from a Southern backyard —
Mud pies being made beneath a magnificent pin oak tree
Mint leaves mysteriously exploding with flavor
Milk pods’ white fluid being tasted not knowing it was poisonous.

I’m from a Southern backyard —
Bedroom window we escaped to crawl space door
To meet our coonhound Jethro and to play in the moonlight.
Bedroom window we each escaped on separate occasions
Out into moonlit streets until returned by kind policemen.

I’m from a Southern backyard —
Concrete foundation swirls scarily like a gorilla’s face
Wooden swing where we watched mad Mommy fleeing
Crawl space source of hound’s howls after Daddy’s death.

I’m from a Southern backyard —
From which Mommy returned to hospital after the funeral
From which we left with barely known Northern kinfolk
Into which other families came to live in the bosom of its beauty.

The old trees bend protectively around us
as we rest on the park bench in our winter wear
your faltering mind following the course of the river that is close and sure and deep

even now I can still find your younger face and remember the pillowy softness
of your lips when ours first met when we became love desperados

for now we will make our way to the bookstore by the famous church
and I will buy for you a neglected volume of stories
that will carry you into the long nights and when we find a place to take coffee
you will caress the weave of the cover as I serve your cup with an unsteady hand

and I see there is a little less of you this day

should we weight our overcoat pockets with rocks and wade into the waters?
it will seem like the most natural thing we will clutch each other and
let the current spin and dance us as our hats float free
if they find us washed up on some farther bank will our lips be blue like something that
burned pure
and is death just a river that will take us somewhere else?

for tonight though I will read to you to quell your agitations
–words you may still find familiar–
and in not too long a time when I kiss you again
will you think it’s our first?

You make exceptions
just for her
Tell me,
who am I waiting for?

I’ve done my time,
I’ve shown my worth
Gave my all,
so why’s it hurt?

Our bond’s been tested,
walked through fire
Your eyes still search
for her desire

I’m still right here,
don’t want to show
I’m still not sure
if you’re here though

I want to trust,
the past says no
‘till you decide
to let us go

I’m sure it’s me,
my trauma shows
Abandonment
wounds only grow

I hear your words
I know that voice
Tell me,
have I any choice?

Your change is raw,
my efforts spent
Do you still want
to go again?

Lost my shine
Just common goods
Ironic eyes,
misunderstood

Tell me
Tell me
Tell me

I’m from a Southern backyard —
Magnolia grandiflora sporting huge white blooms
Honeysuckles spilling over the fence
Red roses soaked with the aroma of tea
Hollyhocks springing up yearly into flowering towers.

I’m from a Southern backyard —
Mud pies being made beneath a magnificent pin oak tree
Mint leaves mysteriously exploding with flavor
Milk pods’ white fluid being tasted not knowing it was poisonous.

I’m from a Southern backyard —
Bedroom window we escaped to crawl space door
To meet our coonhound Jethro and to play in the moonlight.
Bedroom window we each escaped on separate occasions
Out into moonlit streets until returned by kind policemen.

I’m from a Southern backyard —
Concrete foundation swirls scarily like a gorilla’s face
Wooden swing where we watched mad Mommy fleeing
Crawl space source of hound’s howls after Daddy’s death.

I’m from a Southern backyard —
From which Mommy returned to hospital after the funeral
From which we left with barely known Northern kinfolk
Into which other families came to live in the bosom of its beauty.

My mother has always had a peculiar taste.
Her five-foot stature and whopping 98-pound figure do not give any hint to the appetite lurking
underneath.

She is a slow eater,
most often still working on her meal when the rest of the table is finishing up the dessert or
paying the check.
She says it is better that way.
Better for digestion, and,
“I could die after this meal, so I will savor each and every bite.”

She is a grazer,
telling me more times than I can count that she had
“a few hunks of cheese,
three carrots,
a spoon full of guacamole,
and two leftover meatballs”
for lunch.

She is a chipmunk,
often filling her cheeks up with whatever she is dining on at the time so she can be a part of the
conversation,
because it is rude to talk with your mouth full, but apparently perfectly polite to talk with your
cheeks full.

She loves cottage cheese,
often eating it without anything else,
not even a dash of salt or a piece of toast.
I used to squeeze my nose and shut my eyes tight when she took out the white tub for her daily
few forkfuls of the white curdled mess.

She loves herring,
every evening putting the stinky fish on a Triscuit cracker,
to compliment her glass of red wine and chunk of cheddar cheese.

She loves lox,
not on an everything bagel with cream cheese,
just alone.
Her, her fork, and her raw salmon,
maybe with a few red onions, even a caper or two, intermingled on a good day.

But my mother has no greater love than mayonnaise.
She would eat it by the spoonful if it weren’t against the status quo.
Helmann’s only.

No Duke’s. No Heinz. None of that avocado oil bullshit.
Helmann’s.
“If you don’t like mayonnaise, you’re not welcome here”, she would say to my fellow seven-
year-olds when they came over for a lunch-time playdate,
lathering the white substance onto Wonder bread against their will.

Many of her more creative recipes include mayonnaise as a main component.
Hilton Head Macaroni:
macaroni, tuna, shaved carrots and mayonnaise.
Chicken “Madeline”:
chicken, cream of chicken soup, stuffing, and mayonnaise.
Patti’s Crab Salad:
macaroni, imitation crab, celery, and mayonnaise.

Sandwiches have to have mayonnaise seeping out the sides.
Hamburgers are smothered in mayonnaise rather than the usual ketchup.
Even a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich gets a nice dollop of mayo.

I hold many peculiarities,
but my appetite is not one of them.
I’m a fast eater.
I am not a grazer.
I never talk with my mouth full.
I hate cottage cheese,
and herring,
and lox.

But my mother raised me right,
because I
fucking
love
mayonnaise.

‘Neath a rainbow
I did sow a seed of love.
I pray it grows.
Whether the soil be fertile
only time knows.

Please, Lord, help to protect
my gentle seedling
help me to nourish
without too much water;
help me keep clear
the weeds known to choke love,
hatred, greed, selfish uncaring acts,
lies, pettiness, and unfaithfulness.
Lord, please provide shelter
from the jealous winds,
provide warming light
to feed not scorch.
And at night
a cool moon-drenched
seductive breeze.

May this love grow
with deep, strong roots
and grace the world
with a flowering smile,
provide strength and shelter
for the weary and the weak.

Oh Lord,
‘neath your rainbow
I did sow a seed of love.
I pray it grows.