There in the dark..

LOL, I’ve been sitting here for 5 minutes before a fresh ‘blog post screen, my hands folded before me on the desk, a serious look on my face, remembering the posts I’ve just read from others, and trying to conjure up (or at least decide upon) a writing subject.

What would you like to hear about? Split-second miraculous visions in or as if in a dark room’s mirror, living in a working class neighborhood each time we moved to try to be safer from my father’s nocturnal break-ins, possible tales of my future working self, or how much I miss being gentle? It happened, once — four times. (Five, counting the compromised grandchild. Actually, I melted into oblivion then, but so gently, I’m surprised as well as grieved that it didn’t take.) Indeed, the word has been on my mind.

Maybe it’s why I’ve always loved this.. I inadvertently shopped with his wife, and just as inadvertently sat often with himself, both at Mass and at Confession (and never could anyone look more guilty than he). I’m just lucky, I guess. ūüôā¬† Have a nice remainder of our Monday.







A Gem (from Mary Oliver)

(From “New Poems 2004 – 2005”)

In Praise of Craziness, of a Certain Kind
On cold evenings
my grandmother,
with ownership of half her mind —
the other half having flown back to Bohemia —

spread newspapers over the porch floor
so, she said, the garden ants could crawl beneath,
as under a blanket, and keep warm,

and what shall I wish for, for myself,
but, being so struck by the lightning of years,
to be like her with what is left, that loving.

New and Selected Poems, Volume Two – Beacon Press, Boston (2005)




Blamin’ the seasonal candy aisle..


Creeps a little closer under branches on the low.
Now, a firmly clawed hold by the razor-sharp toe
from which to lightning-spring, tho’ never onto prey;
rather, simply ever ready to leap a ways away.
There! One like her, crouched, awaiting sign:
Are you only one of theirs, or might you also be mine?



What I learned in (another’s) Kindergarten..

Every¬†afternoon when the littlest schoolchildren line up with their teachers before the waiting ring of parents and grandparents,¬†many more than I are¬†waiting for it.. waiting¬†for Kindergarten Lily who, after she¬†dashes over to her mom/dad, dashes back and — as if made¬†of the most delicate¬†filigree gold —¬†embraces her friend (my granddaughter)¬†in a slow, real hug. Every. Day. It surprised none of us to find out that when granddaughter was down for a few days¬†with side-pain, Lily sat out recess with her — sometimes two. Every. Day.

The look of expectant joy on granddaughter’s face as she waits for Lily to run back to the line.. o, Lord. You have prepared such a world somewhere, right? We all need a Lily.

We are only miles from heartache¬†in any direction. Any. The losses built up until we said, “Enough. Done. Let it be done and over, or let me be done and over.” It has felt that way, hasn’t it?

But… every day at 3, I see this, and I hear it, and I prefer to¬†try one more tomorrow in a belief that too often seems a dream. Don’t cry. Close your eyes, and remember. Remember it.¬†It was and is real.




Reblog (Echoing a widowed, silenced poet)

Poets and Writers reports that ‚ÄúA group of literary journals‚ÄĒincluding Scoundrel Time, Bat City Review, and Poetry Northwest‚ÄĒhave joined together to publish the poetry of Liu Xia, the wife of Liu Xiaobo, a Nobel Peace Prize laureate and Chinese dissident who died on July 13 while in custody of the Chinese government for advancing pro-democracy beliefs. Xia, who¬†[‚Ķ]

via Don‚Äôt let the Chinese government erase Liu Xia. Read her poems. ‚ÄĒ Tribrach: for those who love (or would like to love) poetry