At Twilight

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Location: Midwest, United States

Saturday, February 26, 2011


(from a man’s perspective)

Spring’s your crazy girlfriend
Tells you she’ll arrive at nine
Doesn’t show
‘Til three weeks later

No point in pouting
You know the way she is
Dazzling, wild and uninhibited
Allergic to calendars and clocks

And when she comes?
She’ll wear a low-cut dress
Flash a bit o’ thigh, and
Make you swoon from her perfume

Then disappear again
Keep you lusting, panting
Aching to embrace her, to
Bed together for days on end

You’ve been cold and hungry
For so long, too long
You’d forgive her everything
And you do

The way you always have

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Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Letter to a Dear Friend

Yo, Brother C!

Many, MANY thanks for the music suggestions. Seriously.

That's one of the things I miss dearly, that circle of friends who offer up thoughts, suggestions, quips, critiques and provocations that meant (and mean) so much. My world has grown quiet. P, on occasion, will direct my attention to a "shredder" of considerable skill. I bless him for that, but one can't live on power chords/riffs alone. I needs me MORE. Lots more!

And to that end, I intend to travel east, again (overseas and west, as well). Yeppers, I wanna sojourn back to Canada and DC. V and I have talked about attending the Stratford festival (in Ontario) this summer. Figger I'd load up on Shakespeare then make an extravaganza of it and revisit my sister, my cousins and YOU/E (if yer willin'). Didn't spend nearly enough time last time. Wanna do better. I'm kinda hoping to do a "century" with V, as well. We've kinda penciled in the "Apple Cider Century" in Michigan this September. Gotta get in shape for that. And I gotta get in shape for this:

I'm gonna fly to Lietuva in May with my cousin, D, and uncle A. That'll be quite the trip in too many ways to count.

I told F I wanna drive to the west coast/PNW in the fall. Will I? I hope so. Methinks I must. the saying goes..."Wanna make God laugh? Just tell Him your future plans." Even so, I gots me lotsa people I love and, dammit, I wanna love on 'em big time!

So...glad you enjoyed the birthday greeting. Glad you're healthy and happy. Glad I still got you in my life.



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Saturday, February 19, 2011

I Killed Bubba

I killed Bubba. I surely did. On winter nights like this, when all is dark and hushed (‘cept for train whistles in the distance), I’m haunted by the memory.

I had built a bin for compost. Felt it was my duty to return carbon life-forms to the earth from which they sprang. Besides, I’ll admit I rather like working with biota and loam. Kinda like having dirt on my face and forearms.

And I had me a righteous compost pile. I surely did. Grass clippings and leaves, augmented by vegetable rinds, coffee grounds and any and all photosynthesis-addicted matter had grown to quite a mass. Came the spring and time to take pitch fork to detritus, turn the buried to the sun.

And so I did. And in so doing, I catapulted a mass of soft fur end on end. This was something unexpected. I probed the mass and found...Bubba.

Bubba couldn’t have been more than a week old. He was merely an infant and I had just destroyed his nest, his home, his sanctuary. I didn’t know what to do. Leave him there atop the Perhaps Mom would carry him off to safer shelter? Would Mom even find him in the wreckage? I didn’t/couldn’t know.

I wandered off to fret.

Came back hours later. Bubba, well, he hadn’t moved. His savior never came. Come the night, he’d surely die. I took Bubba inside.

Found him a box. Placed a heating pad on the bottom and cotton batting on top. Ran to the store for an eye-dropper and rich cream. Cupped Bubba in my hand and fed him milk. Stroked his belly so he’d defecate. And he did! Yay!

Kissed him goodnight.

Came the morning and Bubba stirred in his nest. Fed him again. Stroked his belly and whispered words of love and hope. Gotta say, Bubba was a coupla ounces o’ pure cute and innocence.

I fawned and fretted. Offered him milk whenever. Stroked him. Kissed him.

Hoped for him.

Prayed for him.

Felt him grow colder in my palm. Blew my warm breath across his fur. He forsook the eye-dropper. Hung his head in defeat.

Bubba died.

Expired in the palm of my hand.

I cried. Wailed, actually. Sobbed uncontrollably. This was all my doing. I had blundered into and onto a life. Disrupted the natural order of things. Came between a mother and infant.

And failed to salvage the situation.

Wracked with guilt, I tried to learn what I could about rearing infant rabbits. What I learned was this: rabbits can’t digest animal fats. The rich cream I offered drop-by-drop to Bubba led directly to his demise.

This happened some twenty years ago.

On winter nights like this, when all is cold, dark and hushed (‘cept for train whistles in the distance), I’m haunted by the memory.

I killed Bubba.

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Sunday, February 13, 2011

Maps for the Heart

As St. Valentine’s Day draws nigh, I reflexively reach for Ted Kooser’s collection of poems aptly titled: Valentines. Ted Kooser is an American Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner. He is a prairie son and, most endearingly, a hopeless romantic.

He began sending valentines to his female friends more than twenty years ago. At first there were fifty lucky recipients. As word spread of Kooser’s doin’s, women asked that they be included on his mailing list. He obliged to the point that he eventually had to give up the practice when the list grew to some 3,000 admirers and the production and postage costs tripped into four figures. So he stopped..."for now."

I thought I’d re-post one of my personal favorites. I grow more attached to it with each passing year, for reasons every fragile old heart can understand:

Map of the World

One of the ancient maps of the world
is heart-shaped, carefully drawn
and once washed with bright colors,
though the colors have faded
as you might expect feelings to fade
from a fragile old heart, the brown map
of a life. But feeling is indelible,
and longing infinite, a starburst compass
pointing in all the directions
two lovers might go, a fresh breeze
swelling their sails, the future uncharted,
still far from the edge
where the sea pours into the stars.

* * *

There’s more.

There’s this – the first Joan Armatrading song I ever heard, more than half my lifetime ago. A song that touched my soul so much so that I’ve listened to it thousands of times over.

Dry Land

Let me sail to the depths of your soul
Let me anchor as near as I can be to your shore
I'm coming into dry land
Been a long time at sea
And the season of loving
Has long awaited me

Tides and waves have kept me
Kept me going
I'm longing for the calm
I'm heading for the pastures
I can see on your dry land
Let the sea that once did take me
Bring me back safe to your door
For I long to touch the dry land of your shore

Clear back to land I'm rowing
Clear the deck let me touch your soul
I'll bring you back a gift of love
And I'll promise you so much more

* * *

Friday, February 11, 2011

Thirty Plus Years...

...and still counting. Gawd, I do so love this song! Lots.

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Tuesday, February 08, 2011

She's Afraid

Methinks she’s afraid

That’s why she’s quick

To find flaws in others.

Bet she’s been kicked around a good bit

So much so, in fact,

She’d rather throw the first punch.

Bet she loved too hard

And lost too much.


Methinks I get it.

Been that way myself.

* * *

Wednesday, February 02, 2011

Just 'Cuz

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