road trippin'

he makes everything .... groovy


my idea of heaven ...

Soft kisses on my shoulder.
A low murmur.
Translucent touch as my body rises from sleep,
my mind still skating on the edges of dreams.
I'm happy.
The girl who doesn't do happy,
especially at 7:30 am.
What's this?
Porridge in bed and Assam and Tomas.
"Princesses are such high maintenance," he says
with a smile in his voice.
These moments, these moments
I want to capture them like fireflies
and put them in a mason jar
watch them as they glow and dim,
glow and dim.
I want to keep them forever,
but cannot.
Like most things held captive,
they long for air to fly through,
verdant surfaces to land on.
Glass walls are not for things such as these.
So I release
Let go
Swirling up through me,

~ by rdg


These Poems, She Said

Rain Dragon ~ Marti Somers
These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man   
who would leave his wife and child because   
they made noise in his study. These are the poems   
of a man who would murder his mother to claim   
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man   
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not   
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,   
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s   
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These   
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant   
as elm leaves, which if they love love only   
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,   
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.   
These poems, she said....
                                       You are, he said,
                That is not love, she said rightly.
~ by Robert Bringhurst
from The Beauty of the Weapons: Selected Poems 1972-1982


a couple more ...

B is for before, the acknowledged antecedent of now, the innocent shape of earlier, the vague and beautiful cousin of “when”, the tragic mother of “will become”, the suicide of “too late”.

"E is for endings, endings to poems, last words designed to release us back into our world with the momentary illusion that no harm has been done.  They are various, and inscribe themselves in the ghostly aftermath of any work of art.  Much of what we love about poems, regardless of their subject, is that they leave us with a sense of renewal, or more life.  Life, on the other hand, prepares us for nothing, and leaves us nowhere to go.  It stops."

—Mark Strand, from “A Poet’s Alphabet”
in The Weather of Words: Poetic Invention  (Alfred A. Knopf, 2000)



from "A Poet's Alphabet"

Q is for the questionable in matters relating to poetry, lines, or images for which no precedent comes immediately to mind and whose virtues seem equally elusive.  In time, our wayward lines and images may become our greatest successes, the true signs of our authorship.  But when we are young we are slow to trust ourselves, preferring to sound like more established writers.  For that is how we make sure that what we have written is indeed poetry.  Eventually, we learn to mistrust what is patently derived, and we cultivate what we first perceived as weakness.  It is the oddity of our poems, their idiosyncrasy, their lapses into a necessary awkwardness, their ultimate frailty, that charms and satisfies.”

—Mark Strand, from “A Poet’s Alphabet” in The Weather of Words: Poetic Invention (Alfred A. Knopf, 2000)



Sufferin' succotash!

the ONLY cat I've ever loved

Sylvester the Cat, affectionately known as Puddy Tat, made his debut in Friz Freleng's Life With Feathers (1945).  Freleng's 1947 cartoon Tweetie Pie was the first pairing of Tweety and Sylvester.  Sylvester appeared in 103 cartoons in the golden age.

Perhaps Sylvester's most developed role is in a series of Robert McKimson-directed shorts, in which the character is a hapless mouse-catching instructor to his dubious son, Sylvester Junior, with the "mouse" being a powerful baby kangaroo which he constantly mistakes for a "king-size mouse". His alternately confident and bewildered episodes bring his son to shame, while Sylvester himself is reduced to nervous breakdowns.

Mel Blanc is the voice behind the lisp.

I always found Tweety Bird to be annoyingly smug.  And I always root for the underdog cat!



stanley kubrick

New York City, 1940's



More Lies

Chop Suey by Edward Hopper 1929

Sometimes I say I’m going to meet my sister at the café—
even though I have no sister—just because it’s such
a beautiful thing to say. I’ve always thought so, ever since

I read a novel in which two sisters were constantly meeting
in cafés. Today, for example, I walked alone
on the wet sidewalk, wearing my rain boots, expecting

someone might ask where I was headed. I bought
a steno pad and a watch battery, the store windows
fogged up. Rain in April is a kind of promise, and it costs

nothing. I carried a bag of books to the café and ordered
tea. I like a place that’s lit by lamps. I like a place
where you can hear people talk about small things,

like the difference between azure and cerulean,
and the price of tulips. It’s going down. I watched
someone who could be my sister walk in, shaking the rain

from her hair. I thought, even now florists are filling
their coolers with tulips, five dollars a bundle. All over
the city there are sisters. Any one of them could be mine.





Tomas Tranströmer

Red Sky Over Beach by Turner

The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us
and whispers:
"I am not empty, I am open."

last stanza from Vermeer
by Tomas Tranströmer,
2011 Nobel Prize Winner in Literature
read the entire poem, here



What happened is, we grew lonely
living among the things,
so we gave the clock a face,
the chair a back,
the table four stout legs
which will never suffer fatigue.

We fitted our shoes with tongues
as smooth as our own
and hung tongues inside bells
so we could listen
to their emotional language,

and because we loved graceful profiles
the pitcher received a lip,
the bottle a long, slender neck.

Even what was beyond us
was recast in our image;
we gave the country a heart,
the storm an eye,
the cave a mouth
so we could pass into safety.

~ by Lisel Mueller
from Alive Together: New and Selected Poems



Snap, Adullamite !!

Adullamite's busy day ...


Friday's Rorschach

Fill in the blank

What is the first word you thought of?



Lies I've told my 3 year old recently

Trees talk to each other at night.
All fish are named either Lorna or Jack.
Before your eyeballs fall out from watching too much TV, they get very loose.
Tiny bears live in drain pipes.
If you are very very quiet you can hear the clouds rub against the sky.
The moon and the sun had a fight a long time ago.
Everyone knows at least one secret language.
When nobody is looking, I can fly.
We are all held together by invisible threads.
Books get lonely too.
Sadness can be eaten.
I will always be there.

~ by Raul Gutierrez 



mermaid dreams

 this is saturday dreaming of sunday ....