(the crow is by susan dorf and available from www.gaelsong.com)
Page Sixty-eight
tuesday 17 august 2010
turners molders
I love blueberries, their taste, texture, even the way they look. But this morning I got blueberry blood on my nearly pristine white hand towel (can a thing be nearly pristine?). It annoyed me. My Asperger's klutziness annoys me.
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The continuing micro-saga of bill:
bill was the grampire vampire
more bill
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I started a blog on a different site back in October 2008, while I was living outdoors in this poison-haven called Turners Falls. Let's call it the J.blog. I considered it to be different than the others I had at the time because I didn't have any plan. It was just a place where I could sit at the keyboard, let my mind wander a few minutes, and see what came out. A sort of vacation from the ugly stories of the Department of Mental Hell, and Matthew and his "protectors," and my disappeared animals. All the things I was discussing in some detail in my other blogs. Not that these subjects didn't also come up in the "vacation" blog (they did), but I approached them there in a much more extemporaneous way. So here's what came out on the very first post, and the blurted-out poem is indeed for Matthew, and for all who talk a good game about love...
14 Oct 2008
Go tell Aunt Rhodie
the old grey goose is dead
I fear she is dead, the old grey goose who lived in the river these past years along with all of the wild water birds. She moved in from somewhere and became the boss of the ducks. I think she died around two days ago. I saw the beginning of her death, attacks by a Canadian goose trying to usurp Goosie's position. They do this when they sense the leader is dying. She cried out to us, her human and duck friends, on Friday the 10th, but there was nothing any of us could do. She's been my friend since 2002. I didn't want her to die before me. I wanted to go first, and go knowing that she was still there in the river, a domestic barnyard goose, bossing all the ducks around.
Kimmy, another lost friend, today's your date, but not your day. You were real and true and completely yourself. When comes a new October/and I walk the wild inferno of the trees....
There is no collapse in a closed system, says Goldstein, says Bohm, but I can't keep my systems closed. They are open every minute to attack, and to entropy, and thence to collapse.
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put your love on this plate
and I will eat of it
if the taste is too sour
I have to get the sour gone
before I choke and blue and die
put your love on the sand
and let the broken waves lay over it
will it disappear beneath their weight,
or is it deep, deep enough
to be there when the water inches back
put your love in this candle-flame
and let it slow-burn loyally,
and if you never blow it out,
and if you hold truth to the flame,
and if the flame is warm,
then maybe
maybe
maybe....
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read... Extemporaneana... Mishibone... Soulcast...
Poetry
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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.
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