LESSONS

Have you noticed            along  East State

and the Library           frost has come,

taking with it the leaves            but not

the hundreds of berries           revealed now,

unprotected to the elements,    neither

devoured nor visited by the birds?

The hungriest feathered aviators, how did they

learn the lesson     not to be tempted

by the round brown faces      hanging around

and so available?      Is their odor pungent,

their taste bitter?         Their juice deadly?

They look like berries to me,       or is it an illusion?

I  learn my lessons painfully.

 

Nan

 

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Mr. Crabby

This is a delayed photo to illustrate a post about my trip to Tybee Island this summer. Someone found him on the beach and wrote in the sand, “R.I.P. Mr. Crabby.” Since he was already dead, I felt no compunction in gutting him and “airing” him for 3 weeks prior to hanging him on my wall.

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Il sentiero

New kid on the block

Povertà e Ricchezza

Passeggiando nel bosco, ma bosco vero, una foresta senza capo nè coda, dove è molto facile perdersi, le foglie si rompono ad ogni passo. In questo novembre di pioggia e tempeste, l’unico posto asciutto sembra essere questo qua. Tutto attorno regna il silenzio, non si sentono neanche gli uccelli cantare eccetto qualche verso che si sente ogni tanto provenire da posti non ben specificati.

Tutto questo rende la camminata più avvincente. Il mistero e il silenzio piacciono, l’aria è ben fresca ma non fredda. Il vento scompiglia i capelli, si insinua nei sensi, quelli veri e puri, primitivi.

Il sentiero raggiunge una collina che domina una lunga serie di colline, colline che arrivano all’infinito, in tutti i quattro punti cardinali. Il sentiero che poi scende, verso il fitto bosco e raggiunge un’altra collina. Ma il giorno si fa presto oscuro, in questa stagione tardo autunnale.

Guardo lontano, a cercare la…

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WHO? poem

Our grandparents live

only in our memories. When we go,

they go.

Why care if we’re forgot?

                                           As if we never were?

                                           I speak of myself, now:

                                             Why do I care if I am forgot?

                                            As if I never was, never

                                              strove to overcome my limitations,

                                           only partly successful, yearning yet afraid?

                                            If truth be told, my heart is rusted

                                         from underuse.

                                           My children and grandchildren

                                          know this. Perhaps

                                        being forgot is not

                                   so bad after all.

 

Nan, Common Threads, 2012

 

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I Learned Something Last Night

 

I wanted feedback from my dreams last night so I “incubated” a dream, adding hypnogogic and hypnopompic  thoughts and images (the going to sleep and waking up periods) to my focus.  And I think I dreamed all night–during, before and after. But I learned that no matter how motivated, I could not record my dreams with my eyes closed, or even open while still lying down and not re-arranging myself in bed.

Day residues are easiest to recall, & the lone motorcycle in my condo’s otherwise empty parking lot (Thanksgiving, you know) clearly re-appeared in a fragment about a family next door not permitting a motorcycle to park in our own driveway.

The other dreams were fruitful, I could tell,  but too many to fully record any. I do remember hearing the sound of scissors cutting.  What I learned is that I must get new batteries for my old voice recorder if I want to really get serious about dreamsploring.

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Oh, Christmas Mean (season in flickering)

Great, Grumpy! I’m re-blogging

hands in the garden

the past ghosts
of christmas
grinch

haunt this hearth
surlier each
year,

swiping the tinsel from
toy soldier’s
tears,

elfleaves me coal
crystallized in
craft beer,

justswapped top star point
with blazing spliff
revered,

poor baby’s gruff,
but insincere

with charlie’s trees
stuffed in each
ear.

image: https://fineartamerica.com/art/paintings/charlie+brown+christmas

image: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/392798398729352323/?lp=true

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ENVY

Envy is a no-no word, harsher than jealous.  When I feel envy I admit to myself that I have failed, and I think I feel more anger than when I feel jealous.  Jealousy feels more childish, or adolescent.  Envious reaches the stage of gnashing teeth, a dark corner  to plot revenge in, and the garbage can–no, sewer pot.

Does it also carry with it a dislike of the person envied?  I’m just exploring my id, you see.  I can’t easily imagine feeling envy of someone I like and enjoy.  I’ve decided (now) that envy may be the most multi-leveled and torturous emotion of all.  Hate is clean and honest in comparison.

At least feeling envious leads me to my dashboard to reflect.

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