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As Mourning Doves Persist: February 2015

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As Mourning Doves Persist. Saturday, February 21, 2015. I was standing on a remarkable table elsewhere, reading bawdy song, advocating we set fire to the menus, all too familiar now. May the river of collective angst and honor take to slicing rich portabella mushrooms, grill steak, and listen instead to our wise children populating contemplative classrooms in another city, making tiny documentaries of what they see on the horizon in front of them. Monday, February 16, 2015. Like Humming, for my mother.

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As Mourning Doves Persist: January 2015

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As Mourning Doves Persist. Saturday, January 31, 2015. I'm sure that I am. Tonight, jazz and anti-pasto. But for now my bones unfold to press off, to stand, and the liquid cools to touch my anxious tongue. Glass in bins on the snowy sidewalk outside wait patiently to be recycled. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Exploring language that lifts, unwavering, drunk on the memory of tastes we have nearly forgotten. Feral Mom, Feral Writer. Tarot Dreaming: Learning from the Deck Makers. View my complete profile.

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As Mourning Doves Persist: Ghandi and a City Bridge, July

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As Mourning Doves Persist. Saturday, July 25, 2015. Ghandi and a City Bridge, July. Perhaps it's just me but I found it odd that his statue is here. Ghandi standing behind the San Francisco Ferry Building, blessing the day's horizon and wire span of the suspension bridge that broke once with earthquake. Did I miss something? Ades of buildings like stacked wedding cakes. But no one else seems aware as they lunch here daily. I suppose, where the wounded birds convene seeking scraps, ruffling and unruffling...

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As Mourning Doves Persist: From Trees

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As Mourning Doves Persist. Saturday, May 23, 2015. I write of the mourning bird's persistence. Only I know precisely what this evokes. The sadness of certain sounds brought home. Sun as nest for childhood symphony. Perimeter roads charted solo or with siblings. Alking a rutted road with shiny pebbles and pick up sticks fallen from trees. Girl at home at a window with downpour on the other side of glass. Shadow dog at the foot of the bed, resting. Hair washed and tangled. The road drying again after rain.

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As Mourning Doves Persist: Facing Forward, Looking Back

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As Mourning Doves Persist. Saturday, August 8, 2015. Facing Forward, Looking Back. Patsy Cline is singing in the living room while I wash the morning's dishes. My husband is at the computer refashioning his novel. Last night I sat at the table with two other poets, thoughtful women with whom I will read tomorrow in a local bookstore on the. When the cowgirl's nostalgic afternoon. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). For A Girl, this Forest. Facing Forward, Looking Back. Feral Mom, Feral Writer.

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As Mourning Doves Persist: April 2015

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As Mourning Doves Persist. Monday, April 27, 2015. Some years ago a sister living in Northern California sent me a small slip. Of laminated paper she'd retrieved from a box of Cracker Jacks - remember those? A prize inside every box! On the fortune cookie size slip. Was a pictogram riddle "Name this major city in the State of New Mexico",. A string of short syllables, and a blue and black pencil drawing of a turkey with a personified grin. On. The flip side was an annotation of the word it was after; t.

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As Mourning Doves Persist: July 2015

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As Mourning Doves Persist. Saturday, July 25, 2015. Ghandi and a City Bridge, July. Perhaps it's just me but I found it odd that his statue is here. Ghandi standing behind the San Francisco Ferry Building, blessing the day's horizon and wire span of the suspension bridge that broke once with earthquake. Did I miss something? Ades of buildings like stacked wedding cakes. But no one else seems aware as they lunch here daily. I suppose, where the wounded birds convene seeking scraps, ruffling and unruffling...

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As Mourning Doves Persist: October 2014

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As Mourning Doves Persist. Sunday, October 5, 2014. Science or story or just the unfolding of the sound of the syllables. I telephone my collage roommate whom I have known for forty years. But haven't seen for probably five. She whispers almost without effect. Of the stage four cancer in the lung, near the heart, of her third husband. There are scientists about whom whole plays are being written today. There are dusty orange petals like tied tongues trapped behind our girlish. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom).

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As Mourning Doves Persist: May 2015

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As Mourning Doves Persist. Saturday, May 23, 2015. I write of the mourning bird's persistence. Only I know precisely what this evokes. The sadness of certain sounds brought home. Sun as nest for childhood symphony. Perimeter roads charted solo or with siblings. Alking a rutted road with shiny pebbles and pick up sticks fallen from trees. Girl at home at a window with downpour on the other side of glass. Shadow dog at the foot of the bed, resting. Hair washed and tangled. The road drying again after rain.