Cheesecloth Moon

2011-01-18T21:05:00.002-05:00

2007-11-13T12:34:00.002-05:00

YAY!! I'VE FINALLY MOVED!!!

Cheesecloth Moon will now reside at http://cheeseclothmoon.wordpress.com/

Please do not leave any comments here on Blogger as I will not be checking back here again. See y'all over at Wordpress!

2007-10-26T12:44:00.000-04:00

Hey guys, how goes it? I know I've been missing in action for some time now, and this has to be brief because I'm alreayd 10 min over my lunch break, but I wanted to let y'all know three more of my ATCs have been published in The Faerie Zone Vol 3, soon to be released AND (get ready!) I've been asked to submit 5 pieces of artwork for publication in an art book - how cool is that?!?! I'm planning to do 2 larger pieces (4x6 and 9x12 maybe), 2 art dolls and maybe an assemblage. The theme is to revolve around circus/faerie/whimsy/magical. I've also been busy with a circle journal (6 players, each makes 2-8x8 pages for the 5 other players and they make for you - we're doing photo manipulation. The themes are landscapes, metal mania, our town, details and reflections.) I'm getting ready to put my third set together now. Lastly, I've been to Cape Cod, Massachusetts and back for vacation recently and I have scads of pictures to post. Stay tuned....

2007-08-03T12:24:00.000-04:00

Ok, I admit it. I've been totally lazy with resolving the dns problems. So, I've been thinking, why not just migrate everything over to a new blog? So, that's probably what I'm going to do. I think. Well, let's just say I'm mulling it over.

In the meantime, things are status quo - no new publishings or otherwise exciting news. Been trying to write some new poems while at the beach, got a few very coarse nuggets so far. Now and then I tinker with some of my NaPo 2007 poems. I find the longer I let my poems rest, the easier it gets to revise them. Demand for my atc cards has been phenoomenal - seems I can't make them fast enough sometimes! But I love making art even more than I love making poetry (yep, I do admit it!)

Been out with the camera off and on - finally got myself over to the arboretum during the summer on a heavily clouded, imminent thunder stormy type day - I have summer and fall shots of this one spot in the arboretum and I want to make a 4 season photo montage on canvas with them. Now all I need is winter. I will return back her to post the shots I do have so yuo can see them for yourself. And I got some great shots of the Piping Plover babies still full of down and maybe all of 2" tall. Gosh, they are the cutest little things...

Well, gotta scoot. Lunch 1/2 hour is now lunch 40 mins. Be well, and stay cool (or warm, depending on where you are in the world!) and stay creative!

2007-07-16T12:28:00.000-04:00

Just a quick hello and some good news. Five of my ATCs have been published in The Faerie Zine Magazine, Vol.2. How cool is that. I'm beyond thrilled about it! How I wish it were that easy with my poetry!!! lol. and still, I go on beating myself about the head tyring to improve my writing. aiy. no wonder so many poets drink or die early. well, maybe by the time I'm 93....

2007-06-26T12:04:00.001-04:00

Folks, still haven't remedied my DNS problem with my carrier, so I can only log in from work during my lunch 1/2 hour. It comes down to me having to call my carrier's techhies and let them examine my firewall settings, which is fine, but I have just been too busy or too brain dead to do that. So, the problem persists. My apologies.

2007-05-29T12:05:00.000-04:00

Here's the rest of my NaPo poems!

April 16

Rocket Man

Horizon traveler, I call your name
and you disappear into a glimmer moon,
climb dust ring steps to another beyond;
you’re always leaving me too soon.

Your lambent trails are comet tails
not tied to any orbit, but, you hitch
along until you find new nebulae
light years beyond my habitat.

Come home to me, I miss your touch,
your 101 tales of galactic nights.
My bed is small but I guarantee
I’ll show you a few new galaxies.

April 17

Saturday Night at the CoCo Bop Club

Keep along the rythm track
Girls be showiń how
Now you start to arch your back
Man you got 'em now*

The harvest is in and there’s plenty of fresh
flesh on the vine, ripe and ready for plucking;
all the succulent ladies are lined up three deep
at the bar just waiting for their Sex on the Beach,
Foreplay and Slow Screw up against a Red Wall.

The booze flows better than a good poem here
at the CoCo Bop Club, whose throbbing strobes
make even the shyest fox want to fandango
after the fizz of a few drinks melts the ice
in their glasses.

They stand there with their perky c-cups
making a pointed statement in the hiked up AC,
their tight little yumyums just barely hidden beneath
the merest snatch of a clingy microskirt
that falls just a few inches shy of their oooh-la-la’s;
begging to be sonar-scoped by some truculent boy-shark
smoking in the shadows or leaning against the wall
tonguing his Michelob, all attitude and smirk.

Speakers thrum-blare hot grooves and lure the ladies
into licentious posturings on the dance floor.
Pretty soon they’re competing to see who’s
shimmy shimmy coco bop, shimmy shimmy bop (aaah)*
delivers the most orgiastic bang for the beat

while the sharks circle in the dark recesses, watching
the meat machine grind out a hot meal; teeth hidden,
tongues licking the last bit of beer-swill from their lips;
fins fully erect,
planning their angle of attack.

*lyrics from the song of the same name by Little Anthony and the Imperials

April 18

Bombshell

Uptown, where the concrete reach extends
past the top of any ladder, she busies herself
at the bar. It is ten in the morning when she shakes
then pours a double dirty martini into an extra
large flanged glass. It will be the first of many.

She takes large gulps as she stares at the scene
below. The park trees are still naked, though
there is a fresh covering of snow; the cabs
blitz by like little bumble bees scouting nectar
in the form of cash; dozens of unconcerned
head dots bounce along as people fast step past.

Insulated from the noisy city by thick slabs
of glass, the action down on the street
is no more than a passing pantomime. Sometimes
she makes up stories as she watches, but not today.
Today she is insulated from everything.

Today, she stares, empty. Empty of thought, empty
of feeling, empty of tears. She is so empty she feels
like she’s become a passing afterthought;
a being composed only of air. She’s not there
in the moment but shock-cemented
in the moment that’s just passed.

The one where the phone woke her from a dream
of a family trip taken long years ago when the kids
were young and her husband was alive.

Now she is stuck in repeat mode, hearing
and rehearing a matter-of-fact voice
expressing their condolences,
saying her son had been blown up in Iraq
four days ago; four days before she died.

April 19 (2 sevenlings and a triolet)

Pathways(Sevenling)

We traveled long and far:
Tuscany, Bourne,
Venezuela.

We settled down and rooted:
a home, two children,
a victory garden.

Only to split apart, like the continents.

===========================================

Tedium Ad Infinitum (Sevenling)

Another day at work. Eight hours
of stress supervising the help desk.
Minutes pass like millennia.

Our customers are computer challenged.
They have no clue about how to change
their passwords, toner cartridges, saved files.

...And there’s nowhere to hide in my cubicle.

=======================================

Question of Values (Triolet)

What would you have me do? To dig a hole
would be to shirk responsibility, become a mole
and burrow within shallow moral pathways.
What would you have me do to dig a hole
and burrow within shallow moral pathways?
As payment would you bare your bloodied secrets?
Why would you have me dig a hole,
shirk my responsibility, thereby become a mole?

April 20

The Moon must be squared to the Sun, in the sign of Cancer today

because dusty memories are knocking at the back door;
irreplaceable days spent with family and friends
now gone to the eternal beyond; easy summer days
spent idling by the sea drifting with the tides,
main sails pregnant with the off-shore winds.

A certain melancholy stirs within, all those shiny coins
thrown overboard years ago for good luck,
and all the while that slick pirate named time
was finding then burying them deep in the sand
and hiding the treasure map.

Too fast is the passing of life, half over before
your boat comes in; so many things you want to do
back on shore yet haven’t the time or money for;
and always the reminder of empty table settings
for those who have been lost at sea.

But the days pass like seconds on a stopwatch
and you’re caught up in the running game
far away from the seashore’s cool breeze so busy
and occupied, sweating your way to the finish line,
that those shiny coins have little chance
of getting dug up.

Foolishly you self-talk yourself into believing
you’ve grown past holding them in your hands,
until a day like this come along
like a sneaky cat to curl up in your lap
demanding affection on its own terms, reminding you
that life follows its own capricious whims.

You rue at not spending more time
with the people who really mattered,
for ignoring all the golden apples
that you thoughtlessly let go to rot;

and now it’s too late to say or do
the things you should have done,
and the future is an unknown
that only knows how to say, “hurry up”.

April 21

Waiting

A whisper of what he once was,
I look at him and think
of a golden raisin desiccating
in the sunlight that spears his bed.

He knows me now as the lady who sits
by his side every other day or night
while he speaks in fragments about
a red tow truck he once owned
or asks for my mother,
who’s been gone for five months,
asks when can he go home.

His words circle into each other
for what seems an infinity. He tires,
naps for awhile in blessed silence
until he startles, points and says
there are faces on the wall
staring and taunting at him
then becomes agitated, shakes his fist
and yells, Go away! Leave me alone!,
attempts to get up but is held down
by the harness that holds him back
like a dog on a leash. Giving up he settles down
to groping at the catheter hidden beneath
the rumpled, blue bedcovers.

A white uniform comes in, checks
the drip and angle of the needle’s fangs,
then leaves.

I sit and wait while my hands
hold on to each other, and wonder
how long, how long...

April 22

Springtime

Magnolias wag their thousand pink tongues
as they gossip in the breeze; birds symphony
and don bright plumes, strut their colors
and call for mates. Daffodils trumpet
their yellow annoyance at the hyacinths,
jealous of their pink and purple scent;
ballooning tulip heads open and flange.
The sun grows stronger, days grow longer
and snowflakes have blown back to the north.
Coats come off and reveal porcelain skins
that thirst for the first kiss of sundrops
and welcome the zephyr’s caress,
anxious now for winter to rest.

4/23

The In-Between Time

The day latches its door shut
as the lid of night swings open.
Nothing stirs, not a single branch;
no owl hoots; no word is spoken.
Life slows to a trickle, ebb-tides
and waits for the catalyst of light.

In between come the dreams.
The mind balloons, detaches,
muses among the days microcosm;
or lives a phantasm, foreign
and soon forgotten
when the chamber maid, consciousness,
pulls aside the curtains.

April 24

Magnolia

By mid-April her hirsute buds
have swollen and burst at their seams,
and she sticks out her satiny, pink tongues
to ruffle in the breeze; her final say
a large, collective raspberry aimed
squarely at fast fading winter.

The warmth of growing days
splays her tongues open
into creamy cups and saucers
that trail along her wide-spread arms.
Perfectly balanced and upturned to heaven
she sings her paens to the goddess Spring.

Those translucent petals snare the light,
distill its ambience and glow from within
iridescent and ethereal, lambent;
scent pleasant to the nose
as we mere mortals stand close by,
dare to stroke her, and are transcended.

April 25

The Lightkeeper’s Daughter

It had been fun when she was five; the sea
had been a playground that each day
offered up a cornucopia of treasures
for the taking, or busied her with the pleasures
of sunbathing and making castles in the sand.

But she had grown up
and now felt stuck on this wave struck island
without the company of friends
while a moon-song siren serenaded her
with sweet songs from afar.

She longed to stroll the city streets, go shopping,
hear the sound of machines; hear anything
other than the perpetual swoosh and break
of the waves, the gulls mocking chatter,
the foghorn’s lonely bellow in the fog.

She was tired of being tied to the light; tired
of her father’s dependence on her to tend it
while he left her for long days to go ashore,
always returning with the scent of a woman
or a week long hangover spent in his bed.

She was tired of hauling the fetid oil
around and around the spiral stairs,
of keeping the wick lit through the night;
resentful of polishing the light’s prism heart
while her own was rusted by the salt of the sea.

April 26

At Arlington

the day is warm as sunlight dapples down
through the pink, heady scent of cherry trees;
it’s the kind of day that should be spent
idyllically idling in the park
or romping with the kids.

Instead you find yourself among the company
of stoic men standing as rigid as stone-cut statues,
all eyes gazing straight ahead to the horizon,
showing their unwavering loyalty
the best way they know how.

Your dress uniform is crisp enough to snap
and feels like large-grit sandpaper against your neck.
You’ve spit polished your shoes to a mirror shine;
donned white gloves, hat, and medals; all perfectly aligned.
As you march with your brothers a slight breeze stirs
the half-masted flag.

Today is a lifetime away from crude dust and terrorists.

The procession marches along the long promenade
past countless rows of evenly spaced teeth,
past the tomb of the unknown, behind the horse
drawn wagon bearing the flag-draped casket home,
the rear guard brought up by a steel band
and twenty-one guns.

As you pass, headstones whisper countless names
of the soldiers who lie beneath
and you wonder how they died;
who they were and the families they left behind
before the uniform sealed their future.

Your fallen comrade sleeps now,
unaware of the pomp, he’s gone on
to a better place. This ceremony is for those
who remain, closure for another senseless death

and when it’s all over and you’ve returned
to the comfort of family and friends
all you can ask yourself is
Will we ever learn?

April 27

Circe at the Gate

She stands ready with sickle in hand,
eyes scored deep into her chiseled face.
Do no pass! she seems to say,
I cannot offer you safety;
for further on, where the ocean laps
the rough-edged rocks shiny-smooth,
those silly she-birds may beguile you
as they croon in their sugared voices;
or, if whimsy whispers in my ear
I may cast a spell of woe
upon your willful spirit.

I stand back, study the handiwork
of the mason whose clever hands
culled her from stone; note the ivy
lei around her throat
and the bouquet of laurel leaves
she cups against her right breast;
admire the fine knit of clavicle and neck.

I spit, make the sign of the cross
and pass but do not look back
as the hairs on my nape lift up
in the abrupt gust of an errant wind.

___________________________________________

Water Tower

I am driving when I see it
condom sheathed;
the unsightly thing jutting up
out of the earth; its yang of passion
revealed to all who pass.

Spring; she brings out
the lothario in all of us
and we can only play a tiny
role in the grand cycle
that spins us along
infinite routes.

April 28

Postpartum: Life Begins Again After 50?

Her kids have grown into their own
kids, careers, affairs, divorces;
wholly absorbed with their own
navels and its fat balls of lint.
They’ve finally hoisted their sails
after the long years of them
sinking her boat deeper in the water;

and the hubby has bought himself a new
big-daddy, notice-me-red Corvette,
had a hair weave and joined a gym.
She knows what that means;

and looking in the mirror today
she sees the shadow of future jowls
forming from frown lines,
getting plumper by the moment;
a smattering of liver spots;
a swath of silver roots that need to visit
with Lola at the salon.

She’s heard that life begins again after fifty:
retirement; travel; the good times and relief
that come from the disappearing demands
to be care giver; house maker;
do-it-all, be-it-all mother to everyone
and to all their damn friends besides

and she wonders how many bricks shy
of the load they are for making
such a claim. Who are those people,
and how much prozac are they taking?

But what really grinds her gears
are those mid-thirty-something’s who think
they’re old. They whine about the lack
of energy; the pinch of their personal time;
the boss who demands their blood in a paper cup
as token proof of their support

and thinks they’ve no idea how lucky they are.

April 29

Webs

Spiders spin silk webs
......................and people spin their own
...............................................truths;
simple, yet
............complex.

We are spiders spinning webs
.............................to catch
.....................................our own truths;
and when we do, we wrap them
............................in silk,
only to consume them
......................when we have need
.........................................for food.

(*forgive all the dots, but there's a specific white space structure)

Webs (Experimental)

Spiders spin silk webs.................We are spiders spinning webs
and people spin their own..............to catch
.........................truths;.......our own truths;
simple, yet............................and when we do, we wrap them
...........complex.....................in silk,
.......................................only to consume them
.......................................when we have need
.......................................for food.

(*forgive all the dots, but there's a specific white space structure)

Still Life

A sway-backed, wooden chair
with a cane-woven seat rests
before the opened door.

Late afternoon light scatters
through the storm doors’ dust
coated window and casts
creeping silhouettes.

Looking outside
the window halos like a saint;
you have to squint to see
the crack where a startled raven
once snapped its neck.

The yellowed linoleum is scuffed
from millions of foot falls
and too few waxings, worn down
almost to the bare wood beneath.

Next to the door a mahogany,
spindle-legged table sits in repose
piled with the week’s unopened mail,
it’s lace doily turned the color of amber.

Outside the yard grows and grows
with corn, its silk shining in the sun.
The door, the crack, the corn.

April 30

Spring Rhapsody

Peonies perfume the breeze; out on the lea
wild arms of forsythia flame into bloom
and trees fingerpaint on a blue velvet sky
in shades of lime, pink and white. Early azaleas
unsheathe their first plum-pink buds
and stretch rice paper petals smooth
after winter’s lengthy, torpid crimp.

Here on the porch, windchimes and windflowers
waffle in the easy breeze, carry scent and song
inside to where we sit, listen to and watch
songbirds barter for nests and the right
to raise their young in birdhouses
hung along the edge of the eaves.

Drawn outside by Dame Spring, I hike up the hill
past flowering trees: weeping cherry, magnolia, dogwood
and beech tossing pink and white confetti at the parade
of jonquils, tulips and buttercups; and note the first,
fisted buds of peach, pear and plum forming pregnant nubs.

The earth oozes must from an earlier sun shower
that cast millions of tiny diamonds into the turfgrass
where white pines filter the breeze. Fallen needles lie
in disarray and make a springy carpet concealing
pine nuts dislodged from dead cones. Someday
they will sink their white hairs deep into the loam
or feed chipmunks and squirrels foraging for food.

Spring’s fleeting orgy spreads, rampant as wild fire,
as her hands shape-shift the land each day
and overwhelm me with myriad pleasures, gasp after gasp.

2007-05-21T11:53:00.000-04:00

Ok, here are more poems from NAPO.

April 6

Tree Man

He rises from a misty bog cloaked
in sludge and peat, hair a nest of twigs
glimmered with dew, barren tree branch arms
flung out like wings.

He only appears in the fog. Some say
he roams the moors seeking food
and places to lie comatose and undisturbed,
invisible to the world of steel and machine.

Time matters not; his internal clock
is set to eternal night and he knows not
the warmth of light, nor the vision it affords

but seeks the ooze of bayou beds;
the forgotten places tossed aside
and serenaded by water song, loon call,
frog grunt; and relishes the process
of organic decay, the cool slime of it.

He shuns human eyes, directs his towards
the infinite spin of constellations
bright above the lifting fog.

April 7

The Sad Tale of Annie Handy

All year she festered in that flower papered
room; pink and heavy-headed peony blooms
had rotted there, their lurking stink profuse.

Daily she lingered in the half-lit gloom,
bed tied and helpless, while catbirds and jays
sang gay tunes just beyond the window.

Different maids came and went, delicately
swept and fluffed, and sometimes wept
at her coarse click of tongue and subsequent
toss of china. One by one they’d fled.

Then one hot day when the room was rank
with the sourness of her sweat she rose up,
gathered herself and went downstairs
then out to the green beyond.

The sunlight dizzied her as she groped
around the ground in search of stones.
Damn you birds! she cried out loud,
I’ll rid you of your idle chitter-chat
and endless saccharin songs!
then tossed the stones and shook her fist
until they all had fled.

April 8

Late March

The land pauses now in that moment just before
waking, its repose almost at end. Already,
birds call for mates and tight-fisted buds
relax in the kindling warmth of lengthening days.

I’ve come again to the furthest point of this pinetum
to sit awhile on my favorite silvered bench
and lavish myself with the sight and scent of forsythia,
splendid in her showy lemon blast.

So I sit and ponder life for awhile and give my knees
a small respite. I watch a handsome pair of Canadian geese
preen their brown and downy fleece, then drowse a bit
in this clement sun and dream of you gone far beyond.

April 11

Executioner’s Song

I.

Shhhink-a-thunk
Shhhink-a-thunk

hear my guillotine
halving scrawny necks

shhhink-a-thunk

the catch-basket blooming
with crimsoned heads

shhhink-a-thunk

long tongues lolling
slack in repose

II.

Whump-a-snap
whump-a-snap

hear my hangman’s rope
estranging necks from bodies

whump-a-snap

faces dimple-puffling
in its tight-wrung noose

whump-a-snap

bulging lightbulb eyes
permanently burned out

III.

hum-a-crackle, hiss
hum-a-crackle, hiss

hear my electric chair
kiss-sizzling skin

hum-a-crackle, hiss

bodies jolt to attention
face-hoods steam

hum-a-crackle, hiss

body still moving
aftershock twitch

IV.

click-a-BANG
click-a-BANG

hear my firing squad
metal peppering flesh

click-a-BANG

bodies crumpling, oozing
like opened sacks of grain

click-a-BANG

red tide blooming
gutter-run red

April 12a

Covered Roaster
-for Mom, wherever you are...

Many times I watched her lift its
large bulk from where it simmered
on the lowest rack of the oven.

She respected its scorch
ready to bite an errant fingertip
if misplaced, its vent of steam
when she lifted its lid to check
the turkey simmering within.

Tinny clink of enamel on steel as she
stood back, reached out and removed
its cover, careful of its hissing belch;
she was good at dodging danger.

She’d test the bird then, stab the meat
thermometer into it’s colossal leg,
sigh and say Not yet then clank
the lid back on and heft it back down
into the oven, arms quivering, back
straining as if giving birth.

April 12b

Mission - The “Un” Poem (an experiment and a bit of wordplay)

Listen, question; vision undone;
unction woken.

Option given; beckon fortune,
certain heaven.

Reason seven, sudden notion;
doctrine chosen.

Thicken diction, straighten section;
version written.

Hot Java

Grand elixir; drip fuel; cinnamon dream
stirred into a steaming mug. I breathe
your flavored air and my engines rev.

Caffeine heart-kick hard as a mule’s; rough
edges polished with cane and heat-foamed cream;
cappucino sloshing down my lemon scone.

Vanilla latte, you smooth lothario
so slick and silky down my throat,
teach my engines how to hum. Sweet music,
wet slurp, sprinkle of nutmeg.

Boogey-woogey bugle of mocha jazz
razz-matazzing on my tongue,
you gotta gimme dat zing
or it don mean a thing.
Do wah, do wah, do wah.

April 14

Marsh Pond

There by the marsh pond, its surface limed
by algae scum, three paperback turtles
crawled out of the oozy muck onto a bank
covered thick with moss to sun.

The scent of waterweed and fungus hung
ripe in my nose; skunk cabbage and lungwort
grew profuse; sunlight dappled down
through bud-laden beech and maple.

Now and then a bird would warble
and add some sweetness to the day,
but mostly the silence hung softly
like an ethereal wreath, disturbed only
by the snap of treebone beneath my feet.

Then it started, a foreign sound
I’d never heard before - a guttural chorus
of clicks that grated in my ear; and then more
answering from the opposite shore.
Before long there sounded an obscene
symphony that quickly rose
to a crescendo that did not recede.

The turtles startled, quick-sloshed back
to their morass of decayed leaves and mud;
away from the seeming thousand croakers
belching for mates; those horny toads
spurred on by the urgings of spring.

It was a frightening, otherworldly thing
so I hurried away, changed somehow;
disgusted by their bloated excess of need,
soured by the damaged day.

April 15

Bird Talk

I’m absorbed by my computer screen, my focus
so intent I don’t feel Baby flap over until he flops down
on my shoulder. Pretty soon he’s jibbering away
in conure-speak, words that only I can understand.

Baby demands I stop what I’m doing and converse.
We mimic each other’s tongue clucks, clicks, high-pitched
rolling brrrrrrrr’s, followed by sweet little helooo, babeeee’s
and wanna take a bath?’s, end with a couple
of soft spoken haaaaa?’s all mixed in between
assorted tempos and flavors of raspberries.

Pretty soon he’s rubbing his lime green head on my cheek
and muttering what-what-what’s - always in sets of three
and in rapid succession - his signal to me that it’s time to go to sleep,
so I ask wanna go to bed? and he does his little bead-bobbing
voodoo dance back and forth across my shoulders
and lets loose a few loud jungle squawks, which means yes.

After he’s been put to bed, just before I cover him, we both say
goodnight, Baby. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’ll get
a love you when the light goes out, a tiny taste
of what it must feel like to be a mother.

2007-05-18T12:21:00.000-04:00

So, here are some of my NaPo poems. Will be back to enter more asap. Enjoy!

April 1

Late Snow

A snow quilted field;
drops of sunshine pushing through;
a cold welcoming.

April 2

Masks

We rabbits hollow out our homes
beneath hardscrabble, tuck our tails
and hide from that persistent fox
named Ethos, and his mate Memory.

We hope our hunters will lose our scent
in the fog and shifting wind;
yet we scowl when woken
by the birdsong dawn,
loathe to leave the warm den
of our sequestered conscience.

We face the facade of another day;
another existence where masks are donned
and we pretend;
our only goal to blend
into the dried up grass.

April 3

Drunk on Psychedelic Junk

Paint me a masterpiece;
a deep purple eclectic mess
smoldering with raw harmony
yet cool as green latex
here in my nude, blue metaphor.

Come smoke wild passion with me
and feel the color of paint. Investigate
its balance and slick slide over stretched rag.
Create surreal rhythms and imagine all
that is absurd; take a leap off the edge.

Dream-see; stroke your canvas
drug-empty but brain-wired;
turn what’s inside out;
get drunk on psychedelic junk,
roll naked in its funk.

April 4

Night Music

Listen to the rain
as it spits and splats
and slowly drips down the drain.

The wind chimes in
with its whistle and hiss
soon after the shower ends;

and after the wind
has tucked itself in,
the crickets begin to croon.

They chatter and chirp
as they search for a mate
by the light of a lolly pop moon.

April 5

Guinevere Had Green Eyes

Did Guinevere fret
as she contemplated that doomed liaison,
distracted by the cool, seductive simmer of silk
against her porcelain skin, fanning it to a pink flush,
the thought of his touch an ached for taboo;
or swoon when she imagined his errant hands
poaching the king’s eggs from the royal coop?

Did her actions true, dead-on
and carried out swift as an arrow’s flight,
knowing full well how the apple would fall;
or did she sway through long days
and longer nights of banished thoughts
only to find resistance futile?

She envied Arthur his conquests, his freedom
to come as he wished, his bedded brides.
Didn’t she deserve to have her own indulgence,
just this once?

She must have thought it a small price to exact
for all those nights spent naked with the moon
her only admirer.

Just this one, small indiscretion and her quickening
lust would be quickly quenched
like a small flame between thumb and forefinger.

Just once, she thought, for the memory
to warm her thighs when December winds
seeped through the castle walls
and rattled the stained glass panes.

2007-05-15T12:02:00.000-04:00

Been having issues with my home pc since mid-April in the form of dns name resolution problems with my carrier - so I've been unable to comment or login to my blog to add new posts - right now I'm at work and making an entry from my work pc - which is really a no-no but it's my lunch 1/2 hour so I figure I can get away with it. I lurk from home, but that's about all I can do with all my blogs on blogger. Also having the same problem with google and an ATC card site I trade at ATCards. This really is a royal pain in the ass. I've already contacted my web provider twice about it. *sigh* So I don't know how long it's going to take to get this fixed.

On a much happier note, I have good news! One of the NaPo poems I wrote during April placed second in a poetry contest at Artella.com - woohoo! It's going to be published in their magazine. I owe some thanks to Gabriel, who kindly offered me some suggestions for a revision, which I really liked and took advantage of - so thank you very much, Gabriel! As soon as I can, I'll be posting all 30+ poems I wrote, but it may take awhile due to my access problem. So, here's the revised, winning poem.

Abandoned

The rusted pump sits idle in its watch
over the splintered trough it once filled
for man and beast. Nothing comes now
to suckle or ladle or bathe, but the wind
coats it with a fine patina of Kansas clay
and rabbits graze beneath, in its shade.

Behind it a dilapidated barn leans out
to the left exposing its silvered roof, half gone,
and a honeycomb, still inhabited, disgorges slow,
thrumming bodies from its mouth
like large flecks of soot from a fire.

Beyond the brambles and tumbleweed
a house hunkers over the landscape. Massive,
it looms above a dilapidated shade porch
with a gap-toothed rail, front door flung open
and half hanging off its hinges.

The windows black eyes have no reflection;
their shutters snap and startle on the boards.
On the porch a twig-backed rocking chair
rocks the resident ghost back and forth.

copyright 2007 by Cookala

2007-04-29T11:53:00.000-04:00

oooh, ooooh, another interview featuring my artwork will be coming soon - this time with Artella (www.artellawordsandart.com), and will appear in the Artella Daily Muse. I'll post the date the interview will appear as soon as I find out.

I've also enetered three of my NaPo poems in their Poetic Idol Contest, so keep your fingers crossed for me!

Soon now, in May, I'll be posting all the poems I wrote at PFFA for the NaPo 2007 Challenge - everyone who participated wrote at least one poem a day for the entire month of April which is National Poetry Month. Napo brought my muse out of a ten month coma, so I'm very grateful for that because I'm writing again - YAY! And I think I wrote some decent poems this year. My goal was to concentrate on sonics and imagery, and to do some experimenting. I think I succeeded. So, stay tuned.

2007-04-04T20:28:00.001-04:00

Well, seeing as NaPoWriMo has been keeping me way beyond busy (so many poems, so little time!!) I thought I'd post a link to my thread until I get a chance to post all the new poems I've been writing. just cut and paste it into your browser address.

http://www.everypoet.org/pffa/showthread.php?t=53441

and as a followup to the e-chapbook thing - I've put it on hold until May - so little poems, so many time!

heh, see what NaPo does to me?

yep...I'm a loony, certifiable napowhacko.

2007-04-04T20:28:00.000-04:00

Well, seeing as NaPoWriMo has been keeping me way beyond busy (so many poems, so little time!!) I thought I'd post a link to my thread until I get a chance to post all the new poems I've been writing. just cut and paste it into your browser address.

and as a followup to the e-chapbook thing - I've put it on hold until May - so little poems, so many time!

heh, see what NaPo does to me?

yep...I'm a loony, certifiable napowhacko.

2007-03-27T17:04:00.000-04:00

an e-chapbook, you say?

Once upon a time, about 3 years ago, on a whim I entered a quarterly "Poetic Idol" contest at a site named Artella and to my total amazement won 1st prize - and a nice prize it was - $150 cold cash and an e-chapbook and publishing the winning poem (A Redress of Clouds in their paper magazine.

But then, nothing happened. Time passed. I finally contacted the publisher only to find out she'd suffered the loss of her father and hadn't been able to get to the e-chapbook. And then there had been a reorganization of staff. whatever. Ok, fine, no problem. It'd get done eventually....

Well, eventually led to 3 years and I'd pretty much written it off for ever getting done, when today I had an email from them telling me they had finally gottten around to finishing the e-chapbook. Well, I just about damn near fell off my chair.

The name of the e-chapbook is Origami and it contains 20 of my better, very early poems (some copyright dates go back to 2001), most of which were workshopped here at PFFA. I've just re-read them all and see some that really need sprucing, but some still stand up ok. The chapbook also has over 20 of my own photographs prettying it up.

So, I don't have all the details yet about how to get a copy or what it will cost, though I suppose it can't be more than $10. I have to set up a "shop" at their site that will enable you to download the chapbook directly to your printer. I don't know if you'll be able to purchase a printed copy. I don't know yet what setting up a "shop" entails, but I'll post the particulars for those of you who'd like to have a copy.

Imagine that....and what perfect timing for NaPo!!! I am so stoked!

2007-03-25T19:04:00.000-04:00

And so it begins.

After fighting the urge to join the April madness over at PFFA for over a month now, I have instead succumbed. Against all better sense, I've started a thread at PFFA for NaPoWriMo. God help me. I expect to be writing a lot of crappy haiku's, seeing that I have been unable to rouse my comatose muse since last June, when I ran out of steam from NaPoWriMo 2006.

I don't expect to be able to write something every day. I don't expect to be able to keep up with all the other threads. I don't expect to be able to write anything even close to halfway decent. But, wtf, maybe this will break the block. It's worth a try. And besides, I hate being left out - which is, in all honesty, the real reason why I succumbed in the first place. Not a great reason for joining in, I know, but I've partaken of April madness since it's inception in 2005 and I don't have the heart to drop out now, even if the poems I do write turn me a blend of scarlet and lime.

As in prior years, and if I do come up with anything of substance, I will post it here.

Like I've said, God help me.

2007-03-19T23:05:00.000-04:00

hmmmm...the results of this were very interesting!

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

2007-03-18T22:44:00.000-04:00

Courtesy of Scotty, I took the test. Supposedly my personality type is very rare. No wonder I often feel alone and misunderstood...

Your Personality is Very Rare (INFP)

Your personality type is dreamy, romantic, elegant, and expressive.

Only about 5% of all people have your personality, including 6% of all women and 4% of all men
You are Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Perceiving.

How Rare Is Your Personality?

2007-03-18T05:05:00.000-04:00

So, I finally got around to creating my Etsy Store. It's named Cookalas House Of Cards and the url is http://cookalashouseofcards.etsy.com

There's an Etsy link in the right column.

I'm selling some of my ACEOs,canvas panels in assorted sizes and other altered art items (assemblages, altered books and journals, accordian books, etc). I decided to try selling some of my artwork as a way to make some extra money to buy art supplies, which are expensive!

I'm hoping this will be a lucrative venture!

2007-03-12T04:01:00.000-04:00

ATC - The Road To Adventure
(by me)

Sometimes really amazing, good things happen when you least expect it.

A little over a week ago I was contacted by Deb Elzie from CircleBack Studio, asking me if I'd be interested in doing an interview for CircleBack about the artwork I'm doing for National Crafts Month in March. CircleBack is the brainchild of Deb and her sister Wendy Todd, and it's a website/blog/wiki. Their vision and goal is to give voice to the local creative - whether it is scrapbooking, stamping, or painting. with video and journal in hand they hope to capture the hearts and minds of the creative industry, and by doing this they want to bring the industry together as a whole.

Of course,I agreed. I can't tell you how honored I am, and surprised, and excited! This is an amazing event for me. I've been very busy making ATCs, and some larger pieces on canvas panels in sizes ranging from 4x6 to 9x12 - that's a big part of the reason you don't see me posting here as much as I used to. I've become very active on several yahoo ATC groups with swapping ATCs, and also doing alot of private trading from the cards I post at my Flickr site.

I've always loved art, but strayed away from it when I started going to college. I just didn't have the time or energy for it. Then the career in IT came along, and it was more of the same. But after my mom passed away in November 2005, I turned back to art as a means of coping with the grief of losing her so suddenly. I made my first set of ATCs for a swap in January 2006, and since then I've made over 1,000 cards and swapped all of them except for 120 which I've kept for my private collection. You could say there are pieces of me floating all over the world now. Heh. It's quite an amazing feeling.

But anyway, it struck me suddenly that people really like my art, and I can't even begin to tell you how rewarding that is. And now, this interview comes along out of the blue. I've got my fingers crossed that maybe this will be the start of some really good things for me, so say a prayer that it is. But imagine that, someone wanted to interview me. Me. How cool is that?

If you'd like to read the interview, CircleBack Studio's url is below. Each day this week you'll see some of my art and read parts of the interview. Somebody - quick - cyber pinch me, please! I need to know this isn't just a dream!

http://circlebackstudio.com/blog/

2007-03-07T21:49:00.000-05:00

Well, this is pretty much the last of the Jersey pictures. After looking at them again, I'm reminded how awesome the aftermath of that ice storm was. Check out the ice bridge - first time I've ever seen anything like that. It was about 16 inches long, and even had a slight arch. It probably formed from the steam rising from the stream below it. Pretty amazing.

2007-03-02T20:26:00.000-05:00

More pics from Jersey - it was really cold out, as you can see. The beach was arctic and blowing, the lake area was balmy in comparison, as the wind was minimal. It was good, though, to get out with the camera and take a nice walk in the woods!

2007-02-22T14:07:00.000-05:00

And so on the way down to Jersey to visit with friends, we were given a visual gift of the previous days ice storm, and what a gift. The pictures work hard to capture the awesome beauty of the ice coated landscape but fall very short. It was like looking at something in a National Geographic Magazine. Here is the paradox of nature at her best and worst. Serendipity in action. I doubt if I'll be lucky enough to ever witness this type of indescribable magnificence again.

Awestruck

Noonday we sailed on an arctic sea
shimmering with diamond dust,
frozen as far as our eyes could see.
Thoughts came in visual fragments-
cold, crystaline, slivers of silver
icicles pirouetting in rays of light
spearing through broken clouds-
and held us stunned; breathless;
witnesses to the whimsy of God.

---------------------------------------------------

And here's my response to Poetry Thursday's optional challenge (a bit of a downer, I know, but still a poem. yay, I'm writing again!!)

The Body Knows

The body knows the invisible ink
of our betrayals, each abuse indelible,
and still it serves for long years
until, one day, it breaks.

The body knows the braille
of our excess - the fast food dinners
that pad our waists; the after work
cocktail rituals; the cigarettes;
and still it serves for long years
until, one day, it breaks.

The body knows the written legacy
of our ancestors, their DNA
thumbprints recorded in our genes,
and still it serves for long years
until, one day, it breaks.

Why do we rewrite our body
until, one day, it breaks?

2007-02-12T21:34:00.000-05:00

Here are more pictures from the arboretum I shot last Sunday (2/11/07). Going out of town for a few days for a much needed change of scenery, so will be away from the pc for awhile. Will post more pics when I come back. Until then, enjoy!

2007-02-12T12:20:00.000-05:00

Well, seeing as the weather was still nippy and windy out this weekend and seeing as I was up to my eyeballs with cabin fever, I got myself dressed and out anyway and took a ride to one of my favorite haunts, a local arboretum. I stuck mainly inside - they have two large greenhouses and a residence they open for tours (think very posh, circa 1920's, museum-like home). I did venture out for about a half hours walk, then had to go back in because the cold was so penetrating that my knees began to sing an aria. But it was good to get out for awhile. I always find it amazing how doing that restores my inner balance, and puts a smile back on my face. And now I have lots of new, pretty pictures to look at for you. Here's a few to get you started. Enjoy.

2007-02-03T22:32:00.000-05:00

So, it's been a while since I made an entry here. I've been busy making art and making myself get up and go to work (that curse of curses). It's been so cold and windy and generally snarky weather-wise that I haven't been able to get out with the camera, so I have no new pictures for you. I thought I'd go through my gallery and pick out some older pics so you at least will have something new to look at.

As far as my poetry goes, well, it isn't at the moment. I feel like I've been forcing it, and as a result I've taken some backward steps. I've been trying to get my muse to come out of her coma since last July when she died on me due to burnout by Napowrimo at PFFA. She has revived for short spurts now and then, but she's relapsed every time I think she's finally come back for good. I find this extremely frustrating, but I guess eventually this writing block will come to an end. In the meantime I'll just have to satisfy my creative urges with my art.

2007-01-24T22:10:00.000-05:00

Well, I've always thought Alice and I were connected at the seams somehow anyway...I guess this confirms my suspicions!

What Alice in Wonderland Character Are You?

You are Alice

The heroine of the Wonderland tales, you are filled with curiosity and random inquiry.
Take this quiz!

Quizilla
Join

Make A Quiz More Quizzes Grab Code

2007-01-15T10:32:00.000-05:00

The pictures above were taken a week ago, when I went walking around in the fog. I didn't want to post too many last week and overwhelm you all. But I won't be getting out today to take new ones so...

I'm happy today - it's a holiday and I don't have to go to work, and that's enough to make me smile. I plan to indulge myself today. I'd love to get out for a camera walkabout, but the weather is cold and raw and wet and my arthritic knees are singing. I think I'll make art instead. I have a few ATC swaps I have to make cards for, and I've been wanting to dabble with some larger canvasses.

Yep, it's going to be a good day today.

2007-01-06T10:02:00.001-05:00

Well, it's a week into 2007 and it was 67 degrees out today. El Nino has made the weather wacky. Instead of snow and arctic temperatures we're still stuck in fall, but without the color. Not that I'm complaining - I'll take warm and bleak over white and cold any day! Indeed, the trees are naked, but the grass is verdant and some plants are so confused they're blooming - like the pink viburnums, and the daffodils (which are already almost a foot high).

And because of the wide temperature fluctuations from day to night to day, there's been lots and lots of fog which I love and look for when I want to get out on a photographic walkabout. Fog makes everything mysterious, and mysterious is interesting to look at. So, because there was a fair amount of fog out this morning I got myself out of my warm bed and went walking. Here's some of the shots. One is turned on its side (the last one) purposely because it kinda looks like a surreal man with tree branch wings, and I like surreal.

2006-12-30T22:06:00.000-05:00

I hear them playing Auld Lang Syne...

2006 has been an exceedingly hard year for me emotional-wise, health-wise and poetry-wise (though I've finally started to write again -YAY!!-after a 7 month block). The only shining star was a rediscovery of my artistic roots, which I have now fully and gluttonously embraced. Making art has kept me afloat this past year by giving me a way to keep my mind occupied in a positive way - without it I would have been dwelling far too much on the loss of my mother and step-father, and how that loss turned my somewhat boring but comfortable previous life completely upside down in far too many ways. I am now faced with the task of redefining who I am, and what I want to do with the rest of my life - and I'm learning that this is both a joyous and painful process.

I must give thanks to all my friends - personal and web-centered and those of you at PFFA - who have shown their support and caring. Without you I would have surely had some kind of breakdown by now. I would've been swallowed whole by this heavy, black shadow of grief that refuses to fade away. But enough of that, because I really want to wish you all a very healthy, happy and prosperous New Year. Let's hope 2007 is a real good 'un for everyone, and that I'll finally find my way out of this long, dark tunnel.

A new poem, the final one for 2006, that pretty much sums up where I'm at right now.

This Last Day of the Year

I go among rows of weathered teeth beneath the naked trees
on West Third Street to visit my parents, Michael and Stella;
"together again," as their headstone reads.
Two wreaths blanket their final bed and a small, wooden
"Merry Christmas" sign complete with tree and Santa
stands above their heads.

The steel breeze stabs as I try to begin
a silent conversation that starts and stops.
What can I say to them
that they don't already know?

Chilled, I walk back to the warmth of my car
with its welcome diversion of a radio
and drive away with my tears,
no resolutions made.

copyright by Cookala 2006

2006-12-23T13:08:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Howard, I've discovered my blue-blooded roots
(an Imperial Majestry, no less)
*snort*

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Imperial Majesty Cookie the Crepuscular of Westley Waterless
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

2006-12-12T17:10:00.000-05:00

I had the good fortune to have my camera with me last night when the sun set - and as you can see it was an exceptional one. The only downside (if you can even call it that) is that there was a slight breeze, so I didn't get that perfect mirroring of sky on water. There were so many different colors and blends as the sun progressed from supernova to an incredible afterglow.
Four of the shots were taken facing west/southwest, one (shot 4)was taken facing east/southeast and one (shot 3) was taken at 40x telephoto facing due south. My favorite sunsets are the ones I see in the winter. The cold, clear air gets the pinks, blues and purples I so love. Summer sunets are generally lots of reds and yellows, which are beautiful in their own way, but they just don't have the same impact on me as the winter ones. Lucky me to be only five minutes from the bay. Blessings come in so many forms, we just have to be alert to recognizing them.

2006-12-01T17:42:00.000-05:00

Late October

And so in fall to splendor we come;
nature at her peak mesmerizes me
with her kaleidoscope. She ushers me
into silent reveries, my eyes brimming
with her palette; and has me pleasuring,
gasp after gasp, as she wraps herself
in shades of gold and red.

copyright 2006 by Cookala

2006-11-21T20:47:00.000-05:00

And so we come to Thanksgiving. A day of F's - food, feasting, football, friends, family, feet that hurt from being stood on for hours while cooking, flying balloons in Macy's Parade; in short, fullness and abundance.

I will be kept busy preparing the feast - turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, canded sweet potatoes, orange glazed carrots, biscuits, baked cauliflower, creme brule for dessert and shrimp cocktail for starters. So I will give thanks for the food we will eat, and I will give even more thanks for having a 4 day weekend to look forward to. (YAY!!!)

As usual I will miss half of the parade because of preparing the feast, but this year I've got DVR (my cable companies brand of TiV0) so I can tape the parade and watch it later on, while I digest my dinner. And so I give thanks for the marvels of the computer age.

Thanksgiving brings mixed emotions. My mom's absence will weigh on me, heavily, so for once I'm actually looking forward to being kept busy in the kitchen. But it'll be hard, because cooking the meal is something Mom and I shared. But in a way, I feel it's paying homage to her to keep the traditions at my household intact, and that makes me feel a little bit better. And so I give thanks for that.

I give thanks for so many things - the people in my life (even though sometimes some of them are huge pains in the butt), the awe and beauty of nature, the visual arts, music, good movies, the beach and the ocean, poetry and my buds over at PFFA, PFFA, the people who visit this blog, dragonflys, angels, sci-fi, cappucino, wine and spirits, the scents of flowers, sunflowers, lighthouses....well, the list would go on for thousands of keystrokes so those will have to do.

But the most highest thanks I give is for having been blessed with my mom. She was a blessing beyond measure.

2006-11-09T22:09:00.000-05:00

So, today marks 1 year since my mom died. Tonight I lit a white candle and placed it in front of a picture I have of her where she looks very happy. I prayed and then spoke to her and told her how I felt, how much I miss her and how empty I still feel. I told her how no one, except for my one aunt and one cousin, has called me to offer any emotional support since she died. (honestly, I've gotten more caring and support from people I've met on the web - so how sad is that? and these people, my blood relatives, claim they are "good christians". What a laugh. If there's one thing I've learned since my mom died, it's that you choose your own family. Those people who share your genes, well, that's all they share.

It's hard to believe a year has passed already. It seems like she died just yesterday, and I wonder if that will ever change. I wonder, too, if I will ever recover from the trauma of her death. Having shared a home with her for almost all of my life, I feel her absence acutely,
and persistently. At times, when the grief of her loss has really sunk its claws into me, I can feel her presence. That should comfort me, but it doesn't. It only makes me more sad. Oh, what I would give to have just one more day with her.

I feel that by now I should be healing, but I'm not. Not really. Oh, I get through the day ok. I go out with friends and do fun things. I take care of the house (most recently I painted the front railing.) I shop, I sleep , I eat. But inside I still feel empty - I am a shell without any filling. And I don't think about things the way I used to, I just blindly go wherever I go. My brother says I zone out all the time now, and if I try to think about where my mind is I can't come up with an answer because I don't know where it is. And that concerns me because that could be dangerous.

So, a year later, I can't say I'm getting over it because I seem to still be stuck eyebrow deep in it. I know grief can take a long time to dissolve to the point where a flicker of joy can claim a tiny place in my heart. All I can do is hope and pray it comes soon, before my soul completely dissolves.

While I was meditating tonight, while I was talking to her, I wrote a poem. Well, I think it's a poem. I don't know anymore - it's been months since I wrote anything. Actually, it's the first poem I've tried to write since NaPoWriMo mania sucked me dry after June. Between that and my inner state of mind I haven't even wanted to write, and that worries me. But anywho, here it is. I hope it's not that awful!

First Anniversary

I look at her picture, force open
my heart again and hope she will feel
these unsmiling eyes calling her back
from a place they cannot go, not yet.
My thoughts plead for the simple cradle
of unseen arms as the white candle
diminishes its vigil of light.
This first year blinked by. Where did it go
while I frittered and searched through torn
snapshots of memories, seeking some
comfort from the past? Where is His rod
and staff as I slog through my valley?
I wonder if I'll ever find
enough tape to restore those pictures.

copyright 2006 by Cookala.

2006-10-11T15:27:00.000-04:00

I'm calling this series, "Blocks - Columbus Day, 2006". It's a study in abstract line and form. The objects you are looking at are beach umbrellas and wind blocks - which explains the title.

2006-09-30T13:26:00.000-04:00

And so I had to go up to Albany recently for work. The drive up took about 4 hours, and it was a pretty day with a blue fall sky peppered with cotton puff clouds, bright sun, some pockets of red/yellow/orange leaves and purple windflowers blooming everywhere. I managed to get myself out and about and took some pictures. Some of these I took while driving (stopped at a light), the others were taken at two different parks. Albany has lots of parks. Downtown is quaint - there are rows of townhouses (I think that's what they call them) and each is painted a different color from the rest in shades of green, blue, red and yellow. There's a ton of sidewalk shops, and sidewalk cafes. But drive a few blocks out and things disintegrate into factories or slums. Albany is quite a city of contrasts.

2006-09-21T23:12:00.000-04:00

Well, so this post is for Chuck. I haven't heard from Chuck for awhile and oddly I've been wondering what he's been up to and then, as if he felt my vibes, he left a comment for me today. It was nice to see him return, and so I thought I should get myself over to his blog (Wuz Up Chuck?) and see what's been keeping him so busy. His latest entry is about how he's had a lifelong search for God, and I wanted to comment but couldn't for some weird server not speaking to server reason, so I thought I'd post my response to him here in the form of a poem I wrote a few years ago. So, Chuck, if you come back again soon, this one's for you. I hope it'll help you in your search.

Speaking Through Him

Think of me as the glint of the sun
on freshly fallen snow. Sense me
when a zephyr caresses your wearied cheek.
See me as a ballet of barley heads
splendorous in gold, bursting with seed.

See my foggy breath cloak the sovereign cordillera,
or hug the mirrored surfaces of lakes and ponds;
and when the days decline and the air grows crisp
see how my blood purifies the leaves
and suffuses in them a sublime palette.

I have not left you alone. I am here,
in all things living and wondrous,
all things unknown, reminding you to wonder
at the beauty of what I am
and of what I have always been
to all my children.

© 2003 by Cookala

2006-09-04T19:00:00.000-04:00

Well, for once I had a great weekend. The rains of the last week and then Ernesto stopped Saturday and the sun came out. Sunday we took a day trip out to the North Fork of LI to do some wine tasting and early Christmas shopping, and then had fish and chips (the best I've ever had!!) for a late lunch at the Lobster Roll. Today was finally a beach day, after 12 days of rain, so that put me in a super good mood, too. Ernesto really flattened the beach - it's like it was 15-20 years ago and I love it! Instead of slipping off a ledge into 4 ft of cold water while contending with onshore breakers. much of the sand has been dragged out to create a lovely shallows and tidepools you can get used to the water a bit at a time and avoid the shock of sudden total submersion. What a day. The morning was a 10+ as you can see from the pics, but then the winds picked up and we had to barricade ourselves against it with umbrellas and wind blocks, and then chunks of clouds came in and it would get really cool and then really hot and then really cool and, well, it went on most of the afternoon until we left at 5pm. Still, it was a great way to end my vacation. (ugh, work, that curse word, tomorrow, 5am, ugh! retirement cannot come soon enough!!!!)

2006-08-30T00:21:00.000-04:00

Life. Art.
Art. Life.

I got to thinking while making this ATC that life and art, for me, are one and the same. They mimic each other in so many different ways. The artist in me says, art is life. The poet in me says life is art. Which is it for you?

2006-08-15T15:10:00.000-04:00

How do you see?

Do you see only the crisp edges where black meets white,

or do you see beyond to color
hidden from sight? Do you stop,
turn over the rock, look underneath
to where the earth-
worm slithers back into it's earthy tunnel
while a spider scuttles into grass?

Learn to look beyond.
Real treasures must be peeled apart
much the way you'd peel an onion

a layer at a time. Dare to delve deeper than the surface - look
behind the mirror of pond, what is there besides the sky?

Seek surprise, for within surprise enlightenment waits;
a jack-in-the-box eager to jolt you into seeing
new vistas in all their hidden, myraid beauty.

2006-08-06T21:11:00.000-04:00

2006-08-06T20:34:00.000-04:00

2006-07-08T23:03:00.000-04:00

JuPo 9 - (rev of JuPo 8)

Moon Drifting

Selene gathers the wooly, gray gossamer
of cloudstuff close about her chalked, Geisha face
on this film-noir night, uses it to play games
of peek-a-boo with me as I idly ride
the porch swing, its rocking rhythm erasing
my mind’s slate until it is completely cleaned.

Seduced by her irrational rays I can
travel to untrod shores that lack footprints, bask
awhile in the sun, meet all the unmet
lovers I have ever dreamed of and fashion
many different lives. Her milky elixir
delights my tongue; tantalizing, pure, alive
with its cool power charging my unleashed dreams.

How easy to lose myself in her slipstream,
freed from the days tedious cage; how easy
to grow lax as the tea kettle steadily
whistles its impatience on the stove; and how
easy to lose sight of often visited
places on those cobbled paths that lead me home.

copyright 2006 by cookala

2006-07-08T23:02:00.001-04:00

JuPo 8 - (long poem, more syllabics)

Moon Drifting

Selene gathers the wooly,
gray gossamer of clouds
about her pale, Geisha
face on this film-noir
night, uses them to play
peek-a-boo as I ride
the porch swing and lose this
days thoughts. Seduced by her
lunatic rays I can
travel to distant shores,
meet unmet lovers, live
different lives. Her milky
elixir drips on my
tongue; tantalizing, pure,
alive with the power
to control the myriad
direction of my thoughts.

How easy to lose my
self in her slipstream, freed
from the days tedious
cage; how easy to grow
lax as the tea kettle
whistles impatiently
on the stove; how easy
to lose sight of the old,
familiar path back home.

copyright 2006 by cookala

2006-07-08T23:02:00.000-04:00

JuPo 7 (long poem, syllabics again)

Molt

Love, let nothing touch me unless
it is the nibble of your lips
tracing my neck, my spine, my hips,

stirring whispers of sensation
beneath their subtle nuzzle. You
may do with me as you wish; I

offer no resistance, eager
to discard this days long toil
and be absorbed into the bright

light of unbeing where we will
transcend the snug mundane; refuge
in that nook where we are nothing

yet everything; that locus where
we are weightless, where we can hide
among bowers of apple trees

sheltered from the changeable breeze.
Only then will I be released,
be risen to a new plateau

able to shed my carapace;
my unfurled wings iridescent
from sunrays you cast upon them.

copyright 2006 by cookala

2006-07-08T23:01:00.000-04:00

JuPo 6 - long poem

An Oak’s Lament

Though my bark is solid it hides
the hollowness of my limbs.
Boring beetles have burrowed
beneath my crusted skin,
consumed tender pulp within;
and squirrels make nests
inside my chest.

I’ve hosted thirteen litters,
watched them grow and move on,
delighted in the colorful scraps
they’ve decorated me with; withstood
being chewed from the inside out
when food was scarce.

But they’ve moved into my neighbor’s;
his is a cozier house that doesn’t creak
and sway as much.

I’ve begun to fear the weighted shove
of wind against my brittle bulk,
worry I might snap beneath the weight
of wet snow. Even my children
compete with me, their vigorous roots
deplete the soil that cools my feet.

I will feed them when I fall.
My barren shell will host life
until it collapses with decay.
I will return to the soil of my birth.

copyright 2006 by cookala

2006-06-15T15:50:00.000-04:00

JuPo Challenge 5 - long poem and a stab at humor (which I rarely write)

This Thing I Have With Asphodel

Her name is as exotic as saffron, secretive
as the sphinx and alluring as a porcelain
moon. She hides herself in folds of silk
that slip through my fingers when I try
to wrap them around; this feast or famine
witch who conjures scents of cinnabar, smoke
and myrrh; this Scherazade who weaves
adept tales in my head.

She’s an artist who tattoos my gray lobes
with words and images that melt glaciers
or hoar the heads of unfurling flowers; she
assembles turns of phrase that make me weep
with desire or shrivel like a prune from envy -
these words I’d whore for.

She wields them often and glories
in her gift of excess; yet her thin, miserly graces
stop her short of sharing. I am left staring
at a blank page while she chortles, smug
and satisfied with the torture she inflicts;
this wordmeister of mine who eats the last piece
of my cherry pie and leaves me no crumbs.

She only comes out of hiding when I’m bulleting
down the freeway or in the middle of a tango
with some guy who’s told me he’s sincere (liar);
and if I should stop and grab a pen she pulls
the silk around her again like the poem tease
that she is. That bitch

makes me itch in places my pen’s end
can’t reach. She should cease her eelish ways,
for when I snag herI will bind herand vampire
every word that courses through her veins,
watch her drool as my cherry pie disappears.

copyright 2006 by cookala

2006-06-12T21:29:00.000-04:00

Epitaph For A Light Keeper

I.
A small cemetary sits on the lee side of the cliff
adjacent to the old light. The headstone, gray now,
fouled by weather and salt mist, is never graced
by flowers. It tilts a bit to the right where the ground
has settled unevenly; its epitaph, still legible, reads
His life was determined by edges.

II.
Born on the cusp of two centuries he endured
fifty-five years on the fringes of life;
toiled daily on a windswept cliff
keeping the beacon’s beveled eye
blinking at the rock-toothed shoal
sixty-four yards offshore; timed its eclipse
each night, secured its clockworks.

His fingers tempered into gnarled twigs
from years of contact with chill wet and salt;
yet grew dexterous, learned in different ways
to snug a screw or secure shoreline rip-rap.
He became intimate with the lamps and lenses
he polished, filled with oil, wicked; his back
bowed from bending into it, and from heavy
buckets lugged several times each day
up spiral stairs to the lantern room.

His tongue stilled as he learned the language
of waves; how to time the tides by the sound
of its rest or surge, and when a tempest
would thrash the coast. During the day
he dreamt about people he’d never meet.
Unable to entice a wife he forged friendships
with gulls and seals, adopted stray cats.

At the age of seventy-six the Lighthouse Board
retired him; said he was frail and forgetful;
replaced his vigilance with an automated switch
and sent him back into the living swarm
he’d long hungered for but did not fit. After a month
he said he missed his family then bought a boat,
sailed off the edge.

copyright 2006 by cookala

2006-06-11T00:17:00.000-04:00

June 6th - JuPo Challenge 3 - long poem, playing with structure, diction and sound

Sea Shells

I.

The first time she goes shore-side
after months of churlish days she beams
at the soft squeak and shoosh of sand
beneath her calloused feet, its powdery velvet
soothing her chilblained skin. The breeze’s supple
mouth breathes life back in while the womb
of seawater baptizes toes and shins.

She marvels at cartwheeling gulls that wind shear
in thermoclines, imagines and glories in the windrush
that spreads and lifts lambent quills

then combs for sea shells to tuck away;
remembrances for wintry days.

II.

He ambles along the water’s lip and broods
the echoing dream that’s squatted in his thinkbox
for weeks - the one where febrile roots are growing,
combing through the earthen muck to braid
and mingle with another tree. He sees himself
in the dead seahorse washed above the tide line
desiccating in the sun. He looks up,

sees her walking along the shore; from behind her
the sun’s nimbus illuminates her like a moth
as it flitters before a flame.

He will fashion a wreath of driftwood roots;
a mousetrap for wintry day remembrances.

copyright 2006 by cookala

2006-06-07T22:42:00.000-04:00

June 3rd

JuPo Challenge 2 - long poem; an experiment in concrete form and structure (real unsure of part II, and S2 of part I).

Ten Pounds, and No Epitaph

I.
I thought his return would be weird
and creepy; my own private little showing
of some murky black-and-white film noir
reeled out in real-time. My dreams

were surreal, fashioned from faux sniplets
of old horror movies the week before:
a shrieking woman cleaving the fog
with bloodied talons; unnoticed,
a shifty-eyed servant sliding a latch;
the bloodsucker float-walking in
and me, knees shaking, back to a corner
making the sign of the cross.

Returned to the house he didn’t dare a moan
or haunt the hallway
but settled in to become a dust collector,
another ugly knick-knack
in my mother’s bedroom.

Funny how death mimics life,
and how I never expected him
to weigh so much
or that there’d be enough of him left
to fill a jumbo-sized kleenex box,

but I was wrong.

II.
He’s in a
plain, white
carton
the size of a
small
loaf of bread
inside a white
paper shopping bag
sitting on the floor
in the corner of
the dining room
beside the end table
snugged into
the corner near
the door.

III.
"Where we gonna put’im?"

"I don’t know. You’re the one
who has to live with’im."

He ends up in mom’s bedroom
tucked away in the corner
of the closet shelf
shut safely in
behind closed doors.

COPYRIGHT JUNE 2006 BY COOKALA. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

2006-06-05T17:23:00.000-04:00

And now for JuPo - 10 poems, one every three days. My goal is to write poems longer than 25 lines, and to assign different challenges as I go along. The first poem's challenge was to evoke a sense of place.

Poem 1

At the Lobster Roll

Come with me again to our country café
tucked in among the eastern farmlands
spread parallel to the sea
and its welcoming white plank walls,
gingerbread framed doors, tete-a-tete rooms
with Tiffany windows and cloth geraniums
sprawling from sills.

The open pit will greet us with a belch
of flames as we walk by and watch the chefs
pirouette around its jaws in seeming melee,
brandishing knives and pokers, shouting
orders to underlings busy battering food.

We’ll sit further in, where noise and light
dim; where red checkered tables are candled
and fresh flower sprigged. The fireplace
will yawn sweet warmth while cherry wood
crackle-pops in its belly. Firefly lights floating
overhead will mimic the night sky as the slender
scent of fresh fish filters in from the galley
to mingle among snippets of muted discourse.

Soon a red-aproned waitress will bring
menus we will not open; drinks; warm bread;
a crock of pickles, dill and sweet.
Our entrees, of course, will be puffers
and fish and chips; deep-fried, crisp
chunks of palate pleasure; waffle fries,
oil burnished and golden, and small pots
of cole slaw tanged and creamy on our tongues
washed down with tap drawn beers.

So let us away to our nook out east
and we’ll plump our rawboned selves
with beatitude and agree not to heed
the diluted light of a sinking sun.
We’ll glow in the moonlight instead.

COPYRIGHT JUNE 2006 BY COOKALA. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

2006-06-05T16:47:00.000-04:00

So, as promised, here are my MaPo poems from last to first.

ALL POEMS COPYRIGHTED MAY 2006 BY COOKALA. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

May 31

Poem Crazy

I live in a world of letters
and words where metaphors
are an unstopped ink bottle
and similes sashay around the paper
like tiny Japanese dancers
cloaked in bright kimonos.

I live to discover new words
and dancing phrases whose sounds
will tickle with delight, and satisfy
more than the last piece placed
in a jigsaw puzzle; its perfect fit
giving my penfinger goose bumps.

Paths of thought take me
on spiraling journeys, far away
from the mundane world
as I forage for wordfood,
wordsong and rhyme
and forget about everything else.

I’ve become poem crazy.

No ordinary life for me.

May 30-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wind

She is two-faced,
can be hurricane or zephyr;
wicks humidity from the air
and fans the overheated earth;
taxis spore and seed on her back
to new beginnings; delights us
with wind chime music.

Kites won’t fly without her, windmills
won't pump water or grind grain,
and sailboats won’t sail; sagging lines
of wash take longer to dry; wild animals
cannot stalk and know not to flee
if she does not offer them a whiff
of scented enemy. Out West,
in the flatlands, she spins geo-fans
and creates electric, keeps cities
and towns air-conditioned or heated,
depending on the season.

Men have called her Mariah,
and say they know not how she blows.
But when has the average man
ever truly understood a woman?

May 29-------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Broken Wings

Such a graceful bird; a bright canary
who trilled Billie Holiday tunes
behind a veil of smiles, on display,
locked in a gilded cage.

Camellia’s were not her favorite flower -
those coarse reds clashed with her fine
yellow feathers. Paparazzi stalked her
with their relentless snap; even in death
they made a spectacle.

Tragic heroine, tired of singing
behind the bars, did you find your release
an untimely reward?

Did you underestimate its cost?

May 28------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fool

Drunk on her champagne,
he’s too high to see it -
there’s a hornet’s nest in his dormer,
and the queen is buzzing with intent.

His carefree days are over.
She’ll soon devour all the honey
in his hive; lap each octagon orifice
dry; then depart before her champagne
has a chance to fizzle flat.

May 27------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Monarchs

Baffling the air, wings beat in short bursts;
two ear shaped mosaics, orange and black,
capture an air current then glide.
They cycle this series of movement
until a resting place is found
where, if embraced long enough,
will bring a surrender to stillness.

May 26----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Homecoming

Sprung memorials and fresh-cut flowers,
arranged in staggered displays,
are getting mud-splattered by the rain
that bleeds down from heaven.

Scattered among long rows of teeth,
pine box coffins lie in state
draped by the gloss of stars and stripes,
waiting to be covered with dirt.

Half-mast flags snap in the wind.
Rifle reports crackle the air, echo
the silent void. This time will pass,
but will we remember their names?

May 25------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He Was Drowning

He got too close to the edge
one day - the ground gave way,
he went in and under for so long
I thought he was drowned-dead.
But he broke surface, breached
like a swordfish flashing wide eyes.

A fisherman who was casting upwind
left my frenetic SOS unanswered;
so I anchored myself and offered
an outstretched hand. He felt
heavier than a sack of wet sand.
I hauled him halfway out, far enough
for emancipation.

Weeks later I spotted him
raking piles of brilliant leaves;
I went over and he mewled
a low pitched thanks, avoided my eyes,
went quickly inside. He moved
shortly after, never said goodbye.

May 24-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just An Observation

At the beach today a man
lowered the back of his shorts
to towel away the sand. He fussed
about his untanned ass and its six
inches of exposure a long time
with a nonchalant composure.

The shorts were white, chiffon-thin,
revealed far too much; it was clear
he was proud of his substantial
endowments. He was a man, after all,
and when has the average man ever given
a second thought about how he looks?

Maybe that’s why, when a single
woman meets a man with some
semblance of style and class,
she loses her senses; sees an oasis
in the desert and lets down her veil
just long enough for him
to prove it was all a mirage.

Surrounded by all that hot sand,
it’s no wonder that she’s parched.

May 23----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snow Queen

It is a cruel thing, this weight
of winter, with its icy stings
and pelting wet; a snow queen
pretty to look at, who harbors
the touch of death. Her heavy,
white jaws snap seedlings
in dale and glade, and her breath
black rots flower necks regardless
of size, color or shape. All who
enter her domain are made frigid
and fragile, fall prey
to her stone cold spells.

May 22-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meditation

I sit, lotused in the sand, atop
a dune cliff. The ocean swells
before me as her watery lungs
seesaw in sync with my own,
the zephyr of her breath cools
my face. With eyes closed
I listen to the rush of waves
like breaths, and drift; relive
then burn todays negative frames,
honor their ashes and exhale
their soot into a blackened
balloon. It grows heavy
in my hands before I tie it off
and toss it into the sea
to fuse with the flotsam
while I float with the clouds.

May 21------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Weight

Teachers taught me to color inside
the lines, told me I should take pride
in how I dotted my i’s and crossed
my t’s. I was rewarded with gold
stars for neat, completed homework;
it made me feel like I was dressed
in my Sunday best. But

they never taught me about death
or how to carry it in the black bag
slung over my shoulders; how heavy
it would become the longer I carried it
with me, and that I would not be rid of it
until I went home.

May 20-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Feng Shui (a haiku)

We arrange our rooms
for optimum flow: freedom
grows from restrictions.

May 19-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Union

Our hands mold the raw
dough of us. They knead
and stretch pliant flesh,
hollow out a place
were we can nest;
create a hiding spot
for us to hallow.

See how we rise
in the warm dark.

May 18----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arboretum

It’s April, and the magnolia trees
hold out cup and saucer petals
for morning sun tea. Azaleas
dot the dew hazed perimeter
of the arboretum’s central lawn
with neon pinks and purples
and converse with fragrant forsythias.
Daffodils toot their trumpets
and sing aubades to spring
while the sun paints cowslips citron
in this place of earthy posturing.

May 17----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Easter Lily

Ancient lore tells us a tale
of Juno nursing Hercules;
and how her excess milk
rained down from the sky.
Some of it formed the stars;
the rest fell to earth
and blossomed into lilies.

Their hand-sized trumpets announce
spring’s arrival while their honeyed
scent makes us think of how heaven
must smell.

Nellie White will bloom for a week
then die, but will bloom again in late July
if replanted in the earth; she’ll resurrect,
just like Christ.

May 16------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Dove Tree

They are large things: massive trunks, long
limbs, tall at thirty feet. Branches are laden
with white flowers in spring that look
like doves, or angels wings fluttering
in the breeze; or albino bats sleeping beneath
a leafy bower. At the junction of wings
is a pom-pom flower, its tiny vanilla stamens
tipped in burgundy-black. Smooth, pliant,
thin as skin wings have vertical veins
running to serrated tips and a scent
like black currant tastes.

This tree has soul.
A tree where angels roost must.

.
May 15------------------------------------------------------------------------------

African Violets

A mound of leaves furled
together whose waffled flesh
is furred, silken when touched.
Some leaves have ruffled edges,
heart-shaped, radiating out
from a central stalk.

They teach us patience as we watch
for blooms, stems with balled fists
of flowers in shades of pink, purple
or white that unfold overnight
into iridescent petals when viewed
in the morning's light.

May 14-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Why I Suddenly Hate Mother’s Day

This year it will be different:
for the first time there will be
no stressing over gifts, no fancy
dinner to cook, no fuss, no catering
to the lady of the day.

There will be no arguments
or hurt feelings, no daughter
with duties to fulfill other than
a grave side visit
to plant azaleas.

The yoke of her is gone, cut
along with the apron string of years
and I should stand taller, lighter,
not be crumpling in on myself

as the world conspires against me
with reminders that flourish everywhere:
the web, tv, newspaper ads,
big banners plastered on the windows;
each one a spike driven deep.

May 13-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Daydream 5

I step from bed fog-footed, heavy
with the remnants of a dream still stitched
with the embers of his touch, leave him
swaddled in our flesh warmed sheets.

Sweaty and flushed I will unsteady legs
into the shower, wash the last tendrils
of sleep down the drain;
but if I shut my eyes he returns,
sheets his hands over my water slick skin
as smoothly as the soap he laves me with.

I adjust the flow, add more cold
water to the mix. I’m late for work,
don’t have time for this. But
this figment pulls me back,
places my hands high on the wall,
seizes my hips and heaves
until I feel each drop of spray
pulsing from the showerhead.

Enough of this I tell myself
and finish up, shut off the water
and turn around to leave
but he is there,
fully woken,
smiling...

I call in sick.

May 12------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Focus (a haiku)

When sky is cloudless
mind sees beyond horizon
comets among stars.

May 11-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marigolds

They’re the camels of the garden;
dry, sandy soil will not wilt
their ruffled, pompadour heads.
These garden cops keep bugs at bay
with their snarky scent, bloom from June
to first frost in flamboyant reds,
yellows and oranges against
a backdrop of vegetable greens
and seem to shout,
"Look at me!
Aren’t I sensational?”

May 10-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fibromyalgia - Bond-Servant of Pain(working title)

It's there in the misfire of spark,
the non-stop feed of charge
to knees, back, neck. Wherever
sinews slide in locomotion, where stretched fibers
snap from overload, its constant peck
demands attention and tells us it will not relent.

The body's synapses, strung out
by the constant race of signals
along the neural axis, speak
its language fluently and bare their backs
to its lash. We react with measured gait, blue
pills, booze, Ben Gay; whatever it takes
to rock the beast back to sleep
and out of our misery.

But the mind goes on remembering
and does not switch off. In distraction
it turns bleary eyes on current tasks
like cooking, reading or watching
the news on television

while pistoning needles cruelly tattoo
whole maps on our bodies, staining roads
and rivers until we think of nothing else
and learn to dread inclement weather,
stress and alarm clocks that bring us back
to the bite of consciousness.

May 9-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rose

The queen of all, her buds
are as beautiful as her blooms,
enough to give Helen of Troy
pause to alternately pale,
or green, in comparison;
her scent synonymous with a ladies
dainty and intimate trousseau,
summer, romance, love.
After she’s blossomed her petals
have the feel of satin when stroked,
but beware the thorns. When pricked
she’ll draw blood...

May 8------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Woe, and Why Nothing Gets Done

Down to the dungeon to slave away
in the halitosis of the burner’s breath;
down to the cold, hardscrabble cement
that tortures my feet, stiffens my legs
and sets traffic lines of synapses aflame
as they travel along my backbent spine.

Time to get hands grunged-up black, scratched
and bruised while I slowly sift and sort and achoo!
through thirty sooty years of accumulated crap
that must be black bagged up for incinerator fuel

while outside the earth is preening,
greening her trees and fields,
and the days are growing longer and balming
and the birds are mating
and cooing
and mating
and...

Ah, fuck it.
Life is too short.

(Ok, I know, I know. The ending... But damn, isn’t it the truth? This is a good example of a poem that started out in good intent and got lost along the way. heh)

May 7--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bougainvillea

These southern belles have three
triangular brachts, pseudo-petals
as thin and delicate as iridescent
rice paper. Shades of purple, red,
yellow or white look dyed on silk
and reach out long, tendrilled arms
to hug supportive trellises and walls.
Though they beg your touch, beware
their thirsty thorns; they do not worry
who they bite. On early spring nights
their perfume rides the zephyrs’ back
to visit bedrooms and sweeten dreams,
perhaps as token apology.

May 6-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vision Valley

In Vision Valley you can see
beyond the towering ridge lines
of the mountains’ crooked back, past
smokescreens, facades, veils, mist -
none of these can cloud the eye
or fog the brain. Heavy rains
cannot contaminate crime scenes
or remove the red of bloodied hands;
snow cannot cover tracks; fire
cannot burn substance to ash.
No gypsy ruse or sleight of hand
can hold sway or alter the cold,
clear light of reality.

There is no gray.

May 5-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bleeding Hearts

Before they emerge, their bed
on the earth’s face is a clump
of fat yellow nubs. They unfurl
their clenched fists, then send up
shoots the color of dried blood.
Gradually, the constant kiss
of sun nurtures them to open,
and their leaves green and spread.
After a month of increase
they throw open their arms to the world,
heavily laden with pink and white
hearts that dangle by slim
stems, easily broken when touched
yet resilient to the ever changing wind.

May 4-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Daydream 4

I hike through tidy rows of lavender,
dazzled by heat and scent as the bleat
of birdsong serenades my steps
and zephyrs tease out tickling tendrils
of my upswept hair.

It is mid-morning as I roam
these Tuscan fields, my gypsy soul
delighted by this land that begs
discovery. My eyes scan horizon lines

and note the village up ahead
crowning the top of a high hill,
the sun-colored buildings reflecting
keen light. To the right are fields
of sunflowers that arc far into the distance,
until the eye can see no more.

To the left is a dusty dirt road bordered
by a weather-worn wooden fence
and tall stands of cypress. Past that
are groves whose trees boughs are laden
with nubs of olives; neat rows of vines,
pregnant with muscat grapes
ripening in the sun, are planted alongside.

May 3------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunflowers

Fragrant miniature suns, whose plate faces
are packed rows of burnt umber seeds,
crown thick wooden stalks in summer fields.
Their heavy heads pendulum in the breeze,
provide a banquet for birds and bees
and from a distance provide an all day sunset
that revives the spirit.

May 2-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Iris

Fragrant, frilly and tongued they tower
on slim necks, their regal bonnets
hold court above scythes of verdant leaves.
They follow after Jesus, rise up
from dormant rhizomes that lay in wait.
Tissue wrapped buds have peek-a-boo tips
that forecast variant shades
of purples, reds, whites or yellows;
open at the top first, then bloom their way
in succession back down to the soil
saluting May, announcing the dog days.

May 1------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Soft Shoe (a triolet)

I woke up in his arms
and heard the soft shoe of a shower.
How it mesmerized and charmed
me as I lay awake in his arms.
But the drill of the alarms
bell rained discord. I shuddered
and woke up, left his arms
and soft shoed into a shower.

ALL POEMS COPYRIGHTED MAY 2006 BY COOKALA. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

2006-05-30T19:21:00.000-04:00

So now Howard and Julie have gone and started more madness - JuPo. The requirements are to write one poem every three days, or ten for the month, and to establish a personal standard/challenge. I've chosen to write long poems (minimum 20 lines). I'm thinking sense of place, narrative, dialog, villianelle (maybe), long poem with economy of language throughout, strange diction and metaphor for freshness (wordplay experiment). We'll see what develops as we go along and where my muse takes me.

And in the meantime, I've really got to start posting my MaPo poems here. Aiy, the time, the time - there's never enough.

2006-05-29T22:57:00.000-04:00

So, finally, for once, I take a quiz and am thoroughly satisfied with the answer I get.

You Should Be A Poet

You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways.
And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery...
Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever.
You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

2006-05-19T16:16:00.000-04:00

So, as Julie says, today is a day of suck. My stepfather passed away today around 1pm. I haven't written about him here in the blog all that much lately simply because I've been busy as hell running between nursing home and hospital, doing the NaPo thing, cleaning out the basement from hell...(sigh)

So, here we go again, and only 6 months and 10 days since mom passed away, too. I'm very sad, but I'm not upset - if that makes sense? I feel mostly relieved because his suffering is over now, and he's finally at peace. We were taking it day by day anyway, knowing he was going to go at any time. And what kind of life did he have anyway? It's funny, too, because he's been quite lucid this past week - you'd never know he had advanced dementia at all. We've actually had meaningful conversations that lasted for quite awhile. But I suppose that's just how dementia is. Still, I'm grateful he came back to us for a little while as the pops he used to be.

So, that's about it for today. I'm pressed for time (my life story lately) because we have to go make arrangements and phone calls, which I'm dreading. It has to be done, but this is what will probably get me all upset emotionally. (sigh again) I'm only here because I have a little time and was checking my email and well, wanted to keep myself occupied for a bit. For me, dwelling on things like this is like eating poison. It's best to keep busy.

So, now my new motto will be: Have you talked to your parents today? Just do it.

2006-05-18T16:56:00.000-04:00

Ok, so these are out of order, and I'm too damn lazy to rearrange them correctly. This is the remaining lot of poems I wrote during April for NaPoWriMo at www.everypoet.org/pffa better known as PFFA. I've stripped out all the commentary so all that's here are the poems themselves. If you want the commentary, you'll have to visit my thread at PFFA. Any comments and suggestions on any of these will be greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy.

My next blog entry will be for the MaPoWriMo poems. I decided to continue writing a poem a day past April to the end of May (who knows, maybe even longer if the muse is still up to it. In that case it'll be JaPo)to keep me in tune with my muse. So far, I've been able to do it, though it has been getting harder to do as I get deeper into May. There are two other nutters out there who are doing the same thing as me - Howard and Julie - you can visit their blogs if you want to view their MaPo entries (and I highly recommend your visiting them - both of these poets are sublime if you ask me, and no, I'm not being paid to advertise - I think hard work deserves some reward.) Tell them I sent ya. The URLs for their blogs are

http://juliecarter.blogspot.com/
http://compost-hedgie.blogspot.com/

And so, without further adieu, here are my poems.

April 14

Reflections on an April Morn

Today, just for a moment, the scent of honeysuckle
laced me with it’s yellow joy as I walked in sunshine
along the hedgerow where chittering sparrows nest.

Nature has slipped from winter’s clasp and changed
out of her hoary nightclothes; she turns the land now
from brittle to pliant, and wears a new wardrobe.

On the surface, all seems good in the earth again;
flowers bloom in droves and even the neighbor’s
wave and say hello; but I ache to know
you will not ever see it again.

I can only hope your view
is much better than mine.

April 15

Daydream 1

Water scenes on the walls splash
a salmagundi of Caribbean bluegreens
against my office’s beige bricks. My eyes
settle on a shot of a horizontal palm tree
whose trunk extends like an arm
to support a hammock.

I imagine myself face up in it
bikini clad, the sun’s hands slick on my body
as trade winds rock my sisal rope cradle.

I drift and dream...

Marooned on an island, I have grown wings
in a heaven of sand and sea; I have no needs
other than to breathe the briny air and feed
on the thought of his coming to carry me
into the blue where we’ll float to oblivion...

He walks into my office,
our eyes meet.

I feel the sizzle of sun,
the taste of salt,
and float...

April 16

Dynamics

She feels like a taut rope
in a game of tug-of-war; looks
a harrowed eyeful holding a glass
of merlot weakened by tears.

Always off to work
for long hours, he travels
to become someone else; a lover
of the places that seduce him.

Plaited personalities, each
with ceaseless needs; their strands
unraveling into separate threads
unless she can become an anchor, and he
notices her empty glass.

April 17

Daydream 2

Orion peers at us from a diamond dust sky
as we drive home from dinner. The top is down,
wind whips my hair wild.

We pass a mass of lights torching the dark -
a roadside carnival. I can see the fun
house, the games, the glittering carousel.

I close my eyes, imagine...

I am straddling a Pegasus with my thighs
clamping his sides, marveling
at his resplendent wings
when I hear a squelch of gears.

My body jerks forward, we spin
with the merry-go-round
moving up and down;
gaining speed, flying

as carnival music thrums in my ears.
I become giddy, dizzy; reach out
for the brass ring (three will get me
a free ride on my thumbnut steed);

my long hair ruffles behind me
and my summer dress billows up
like Marilyn Monroe’s, blowing free
in the lift and suck of passing wind...

His hand on my knee wakes me; my Pegasus
come to lay claims, and I am anxious
to fly again.

April 18

About a Blue Balloon

At a glance so gay and bright to see,
lighter than air though it fears sharp objects
that might prick or rend its taut, round skin.

It loathes the leash it wears, choiceless
but to obey the yank at its neck,
yet fears floating free moving ever upward
until air pressure ruptures it.

And if not there’s still the eventual end -
the long, drawn out release of air
as it deflates and gets left behind,
shriveled up like a condom.

April 19

Awakening

Mist arcs in pale rainbows over the river
and the dappled moon disappears
into another red dawn.

A damsel fly flits past in its spangled blueness
then hovers a moment above dew-slick creek moss
before it disappears downstream.

Swallows sit like plump clothes pins
on a line of sheets hung yesterday and swing
in the easy breeze.

Wells of rye turn their ripening eyes
to follow the sun and stare
towards the endless distance,

but here in our flesh warmed bed
we stir to life and listen
to a meadowlark’s benediction.

Daydream 3

Cozy in bed reading Bog Queen from Opened Ground
I am caught up in a master’s words and sounds;
reading for the third time, imagining how she looked
before being macerated by the carious moor
when I nod off...

Tonight along the windward bluffs
the breeze buffets me with steady strokes;
below the moor reclines in her verdant robe
sashed with gray-purple heather, as fog
draws its mist-slick curtains
and settles in for the night.

Ten minutes more and I see the thatched roof
of Crane Neck Cottage, with its lavish fireplace
and hideaway loft. There is a soft, flickering
candescence coming from the kitchen window,
where supple shapes run in silver rivers
along leaded diamond panes.

The door opens and I catch my breath
as he welcomes me into his arms,
takes my cloak, offers me wine. We sup
on lamb stew and a loaf of fresh baked bread;
hot and satisfying like his kiss, his hands.

After supper we sit and talk at the oak table
by the hearth; I grow languid, content
to do little more than lose myself in his eyes
and listen to the timbre of his voice
as I anticipate the ample gifts of his bed...

The alarm jangles and I jump into a new day,
leaving all my warmth behind
in the bedcovers.

April 21

Life Cycle

The old grist mill’s cog finally snaps
and the wooden grinding wheel
wobbles in skewed revolutions
on its axis until everything flies outward
in chunks that go clink or kathunk.

Dazed by the swift, utter damage
it braces for the furnace’s flamed
breakdown to ash and a voyage
on the back of the wind

until it finds a place to settle,
with luck, to become a tree again.

April 22

Early Stages
for Tanya

An embryo, pliable and immediate
the first blush of a new romance
trees, before the clipper ships
the foundation of a home not yet built
Adam and Eve, after the apple
the first, unsteady steps of Secretariat
the first draft of a poem
a canvas, unpainted -

without beginnings
great things would never become.

April 23

Eyes in the Sky

As day rushed into shadow
two eyes opened in the sky;
storm cloud dark, roundish,
their edges a yellow nimbus -
twin orbs of an angry God.
Then sunlight sabered through
their centers and glared down
with its bright certainty.
In a blink the eyes changed
their mood, became dual moons
with white ephemeral lashes;
those double beams a silver glow
that painted leaf tops pewter
and backlit my trivial breath
as it curled up through the air.

April 24

Candle

I am the pooled paraffin that keeps
the wick lit when the light has gone.
I am a slow dissolve and fear nothing
save the leech of flame that siphons
my liquid essence.

I have the power to ensnare your senses
with myriad scents as I pirouette in the air;
and when you need a diversion
I shall entertain you
with shadow dances on the wall.

I shall be as patient as a cat stalking a mouse
until the curtains are drawn
and a new flame is struck.
I will melt until I am no more
than a scented afterthought.

April 25

The Dream Maker

She stirs to life, opens half-lidded eyes,
stretches muscles then moves towards
the dominion of dreams where you sleep.
Her fingers dip, gingerly, into cachets
of colorful memories stored in the clay pots
and cedar boxes of your minds apothecary.

The breeze sighs, restless as it ripples
the translucent curtains of her primeval copse,
as she sifts and sorts through your minds’ recipe book
and decides this evening’s remedy.

No matter your mercury-bright desires
for she selects which visions manifest
in the synapses of your mind, projects
them inside your curved screen of skull;
her glass blower’s breath will give life
and form to your molten orbs of fantasy.

The barometer of her mood decides
the raw ingredients of your dreams -
a dash of joy or a pinch of sorrow -
it’s all the same to her,
for she is a fickle mistress
driven by a moment’s whim.

But there are options: elect to forget
all of what has been conjured
when you are woken by sound or sight,
or write it down to remind yourself
of those twisted threads of hope.

April 26

#1

Satisfaction is Another Name for Lindor Truffles,
for Donner

the dark ones that come twist-wrapped
in sapphire and white foil. The cocoa
essence whiffing from the bag brings drools
of anticipation, a memory of the velvety inside
that melts so delectably upon the tongue...

and satisfies that sometime crave
for something you cannot quantify.

You call it that yen that pangs relentless
every now and then; and when it does
you give in, gorge like an addict,
pop in one burnt umber globe after another
and think with a fleeting sense of guilt
screw the diet and the waist,
and please be blind, oh Lord,
to this second deadly sin.

My trick is to melt the shell
without biting in, to let it dissolve
while savoring the flavor,
bit by bit, make it last
somewhat longer than a sigh.

Each moment is so flavor-intense
it’s almost better than sex (yes!
that old cliche IS true);
that ambrosial, semi-sweetness
on your tongue turning liquid...
that taste of heaven sent to earth.

#2

Beware the Scrubber Bubbles

Adieu, mildew, with your sooty spores.
You thought your dirty feet were dug
too deep for exposure. You thought
you could creep unseen in the crevices
of my tiled floors and up my walls,
blackening my clean, white foundation
of grit. I’ll have no more of it.
Now taste my caustic brew.

here's a link to a photo that's a good example of the scenery in the north fork
http://www.bobmcinnis.com/25.htm

April 27

The North Fork

in looks is a little reminiscent of Tuscanny
with its wide, sculpted expanses; a narrow plain
that harbors a windblown swell of low hills
dotted with red and gray cow barns,
neat rows of ripening grapes, earthen fields
bordered by cyprus, birch and oak; a finger of land
jutting defiantly into the sea.

The fork runs about five miles by thirty
from Riverhead to the tip of Long Island’s tail.
Small townships claim names like Mattituck,
Cutchogue, Peconic in honor of Indian ancestors
and boast old, set back from the road Victorian homes
replete with porch, swing and gingerbread.

The slight beach at Orient Point teems
with tide-stranded scallop shells and capiz
in shades of yellow, bronze and pearl
that scrunch like sand against a driven spade
as you wade through and sink to your ankles.

Looking south Montauk stands regal on the horizon
with his emerald buzz cut, jutting up from the ocean.
Beyond that crisp Atlantic currents swift by with ferries
steaming north to Connecticut casino country.

In the spring and fall roadsides morph into parking lots
while people stop to pick their own crops, or roam
through endless miles of cornfield and grape mazes
while others sample the season’s wines,
tottering from vineyard to vineyard.

April 28

Dinner Date

A glass of pinot noir sweats
its fine bouquet while I finger
a folded napkin in my lap,
take tentative breaths
shallow and short
wait for him to show up
and ease the pulsing in my neck.

He has a knack for making me laugh
and for ushering the sun into dim lit rooms
as though it were a balloon on a tether.

Fifteen minutes has tiptoed past
while I pretend not to notice curious eyes
glancing from adjoining tables, do my best
to make my face an unrippled pond
unreadable as the Sphinx.

Fifteen minutes more brand me
like brimstone before armageddon
when I decide to up and leave, but
he appears, sun in tow,
and lights up the room like Broadway.

My face is impeccably placid
as the napkin unwinds in my lap.

Rheumatoid

I have the gait of a gila lizard
and cannot fit buttons into holes;
knuckles are knobbed, fingers splay out
in obscene angles.

Bone men say stay flexible: walk,
avoid damp drafts and stairwells,
swallow happy pills, lift weights.
But there’s no cure for joints
that stiffen like starched white shirts
when the weather turns wet.

I bend my frowns into easy smiles
and dread being labeled disabled,
not ready to imitate the cat
curled up in a quiet corner.

Daydream 4? (Not sure yet) -

Spider

They nicknamed him that
because of the way he played
the keyboards. Arms and legs
splayed to either side, fingers
flitting along the keys double-time;
legs pumping the pedals below,
pumping up the electricity
for sawdust floor crowds;
his body slung in the gap between
two rows of gleaming ivory teeth
bobbing to the top ten beat.

I never told him how I felt
about the force of his music or
his piercing eyes and sensual hands,
or how the sight and sound of him
carried me off in a carriage of dreams
where we’d meet backstage
at the end of his gig, get lost in a dark nook,
his fingers playing my piano strings
with precision rests and stops
done with perfection
sending me into oblivion.

Humanity, Mostly

This skin is tight, this paraffin wrapper,
that encloses my carcass and gives me
smooth form and protection. Underneath
is a variety of chopped meat - pork,
beef, lamb - bloody and messy
to look at. But then again,
who ever said we were pretty inside?

Perhaps that’s why we keep
our clothes on
and our lids shut tight.

Mirrors are only one dimensional;
to see below that you must look
deep into your eyes. But who ever
looks into their eyes in the mirror
long enough to see what’s really there?

Even if they do, most times
it just doesn’t register.

April 29

Fae
for Nanphi

Bring forth your wands and wily ways;
misbehave and cast slapdash spells
on weary travelers who dare to sleep
too deep in tulgey wood.

Hang gems of dew on spider webs
and tutor larks on how to brood.
Spread thistle bloom and silver weed
along untrod ways, then streak
a stardust path to home and brugh
and bid your kinship well.

Chase lightening bugs then dance a jig
in fey enchanted rings, toot your horns
and bless the crops with your ancient songs.
Steal dairymen’s milk and the weaver’s
wool and put them to good use; braid
meadow rue into your hair and sleep
in sheltering wood.

Dream Seekers
for Annie

If I could send my thoughts flying,
send my gypsy spirit riding
upon the stars silver-bright rays
moving quickly, westward always
across this vast countryside
to you, over on the other side;
and if you should catch them
as they came, and sharing them
dream this dream of mine the same
and decide to join me in this game...
perhaps if we could meet this way,
our thoughts as one, perhaps we may
at all times be united, close
in thought and heart, our hopes
might merge our distant lives at last
and lead us to adjoining paths.

April 30

First Morning In May
for ADK

Humidity lavishes the children of spring,
her dew slathering their birth of bloom.
Tulips raise cupped faces to drink the sun;
trees dress for celebration.

No pastels in this palette, only passionate
reds and yellows and greens and blues;
all of it harmonious, balanced;
coordinated to offer an ethereal view.

The Music Box
for Pearl

Its tinny tune-maker voice
makes metallic tinks and tonks,
spins a spiked wheel of song;
snaps its nubs like a thumb
swept across a brittle-toothed comb.

Echoes in an empty box play best
when tightly wound; for in unwinding
the melody plinks down
to an off-beat, off-kiltered twang
that eventually stops.

2006-05-12T21:56:00.000-04:00

Little by little, when I can find the time, I'll be uploading my NaPo and MaPo poems here, ande trying to match photos to them if possible. So, from where I left off we have

April 9

Becoming a Figment

Swift hands progress around times dial
yet I fritter the hours with mundane chores
that could wait for another day.
My feet feel like pails of wet sand as I trudge
on my overcoat, lock the door, head west.

Too soon the forty-five minute ride deposits me
on the shore of his ward’s great room. I notice
the dinge of dust has yellowed the walls
and windows; tinted the balloon valance curtains
from blinding white on a sunny day
to today’s low tide brown.

He sits with new friends, forty-two in all,
head slumped towards the table
like some post-modern statue
napping from summer’s heat,
invisible to me as I scan the room;
the attendant must point him out
before my mind blushes recognition.

My hand on his arm springs his jack-in-the-box
awareness. His tongue stirs and jumps
into overdrive as he remembers and says my name,
then blurts that he was once embalmed
and buried alive. I am startled
by the metaphor he makes.

He gibbers on as I observe
a surreal rendition of the movie Awakenings;
there is the hunched over, white headed lady
who shuffles from chair to chair non-stop
muttering nananananana and grabbing wrists;
the dark-haired woman who ambles about
pulling the diaper out of her pants; the black man
who stands facing a corner preaching a sermon
to a stain on the wall that looks like a face
and everywhere the smell of pine sol and urine.

The hour passes like the sap that seeps
from a maple tree. I grow saturated
with my pathetic quota of discomfort.
The urge to run leverages my internal tug-of-war
and my conscience tumbles into the mud
as I stand, pull on my overcoat, say goodbye.
He rises to go with me, dull eyes suddenly fire-worked
with cognizance. He thinks he is going home
but I must tell him he cannot come.

I leave quickly so I will not see him
sag down, close his eyes and hunch over the table again
as though I was never there.

April 10

No More

I’ll have none of it. No more
will I bare my neck or be knackered
by your champagne bubble promises.

I’m fini with reaching for golden rings
and grasping at wraiths in the air
while your carousel spins to circus music.

I’m kaput with crossing invisible bridges;
and before I offer to cup your tears
I must remove the patch from my eye
and look directly into your fun house’s mirror.

The ride has stopped, it’s timer’s run out;
now let me by
while I still have enough moxie
to disembark.

April 11

Muse

She is like a whisper of taffeta,
sensed rather than heard; a water sprite
skimming over a sunlit lake, her thoughts
rippling into my own.

She is a minx, a feminine Marquise de Sade,
this Mona Lisa of the mind; a woman of moods
as fitful and mysterious as the ocean’s
breath over the moors

she slips like a fog bank through my mind;
heavy and wet, then gone with a kiss from the sun.
She is a quicksilver stream of elusive thought;
an ethereal nymph who knows she’s brought

much beauty into this world.

April 13

The Raven

From a distance he is a mere smudge
of kohl on the sky’s blue lid.
Closer up his quills look prismatic,
like an oil slick risen from rain
on tar. Sleek and patient as a snake,
his onyx eye is drawn to glint
and unprotected nests.

Clownish hops and raucous caws
proclaim his imperial presence,
his black intent to rob and run.

Better lock your doors little sparrows
and guard your young!

(for maximum effect read with a strong French accent AND an attitude)

April 13

Le Chat

Bah! You infidels, you sorry pictures
of foul felines with brains of soiled
kitty litter! You’ve no idea
of my spectacular charms, you sons
of ugly whores, you’ve no stinking
brain the size of a baby pea
idea of what it takes to be

Le Chat

forever on the hunt for tasty snacks.
I am she cat extroadinaire, follower
of none, possessor of a champagne tongue
and sparkling wit of which you fetid
clumps of flea-bitten fur have none.

I am Le Chat!

Merde! You’ve no conception
of how to woo a prissy puss
or turn a tail, and lack the balls
to steal fresh bacala from beneath
a fishmonger’s nose;
you’ve no design for keeping
your stupid bellies full of fresh rats
while I can easily do all that, for

I am Le Chat!

You are all born of lecherous lineage,
you randy rogues who stink like fish water,
you foul possessors of guinea pig faces;
none of you are worthy of the grass
I squat on.

I am Le Chat!
She cat extroadinaire;
you’ll not hear me mewl
after the sad likes of you.

Adieu!

2006-04-27T20:03:00.000-04:00

Ok, so it's been a while since I updated the blog, but NaPo has had me in fisticuffs trying to come up with a poem every day of this month. I've already posted some of what I've written in my last post, but I thought it would be easier to provide a link (well, that, and I'm basically lazy when it comes to keypunching, so...) I hope you'll check in and have a few chuckles and maybe spend a moment in contemplation as you read my daily poems. I hope you'll enjoy!

SO, after trying and giving up, I can't figure out how to do the link thing. Sorry, you'll have to click on PFFA on the right side under "links" and then naviagate the PFFA website to NaPoWriMo 2006 and look for Cookala's I Can't Believe I'm Doing This Again thread.

2006-04-09T22:14:00.000-04:00

So, a week's gone by and I'm still doing NaPo. To be honest, I'm dead meat today. Completely brain wiped. I'm not surprised, though, as today marks the 5th month since mom's passsing. I've noticed a sort of pattern in my grieving - it always haunts me around the 9th. Well, it has so far. Not to say it doesn't rear up it's painful head at odd moments as well. It does. It's just that around the 9th for a few days, it gets me in it's jaws and I find myself shutting down a bit. Especially in the concentration department. Unfortunately, I had to cheat today for NaPo and submit a poem I wrote awhile back and posted here named "Becoming a Figment". But anywho, I thought I'd post some of my better efforts written for NaPo on the up and up. Oh, and let me say, it feel quite wonderful to be writing again! Thank you NaPoWriMo!

Remembering
-For Mom

Today I walked along the fragrant back wall
snipping stems of crocus, hyacinth and daffodil, remembering
how she always loved this time of year, and how

she’d sit and stare for hours at the garden as though
etching the scene deep enough to take with her
into the afterlife, or wherever it is we go after we die.

There are so many things I never told her,
like how her presence was an anchor
in my lost at sea life and how the essence of her smile
could still its white capped waves; so many things
I wanted to show her to bring her the joy that she gave.

And so today I will try as I do everyday:
I’ve put the flowers in her favorite blue vase
next to her picture on my night table, lit
a candle; and as I sit on the edge of my bed
I feel the essence of her smile again.

And the Moral of the Story is?

The wipers scritch their penultimate
displeasure as they friction along the glass,
but I delight as the sun light sabers
through a blanket of blue-black clouds
before hoisting half of a corona.

It is finally fini, this meringue-tossed
falling-out between Mr. Dust and Mistress Mist
which caught their gasbag counselor
Dr. Ozone in the middle.

So once again the tempestuous two lovers
return to floating on clouds; and the counselor,
well, let’s just say he got quite a charge
out of their row.

April 4

Fear of Flying?

That bottle of fine pinot noir has sucked
me into a heady drowse. My body is now
an iron boot rooted to my gyral mattress;
and the balloon of my head strains doggedly
against its cord, determined to detach
and drift far away from the anchor of continents.

April 6

Confessions of a Cowgirl

Always the same man, who commands
the same dream. He comes, diabolical
as a demon; assumes squatters rights
in my head; takes control and lashes me
spread-eagled. He smirks like a cowboy
who’s trussed a calf, then brands me
with his fire-kissed poker until I am welted
toes to head. Reduced to a shiver of desire
I want to suck ice until my tongue swells
numb, mum with protest, hungry for heat.

April 8

Dim Sum Delights

For lunch we feed each other with fingers
warmed by dumpling heat. Their delectable meat
has just the right amount of green onion crunch
topped by a tasty oyster gravy.
Their supple translucent skins beg our teeth
and delight our tongues.

We finish the bottle of fine rice wine and grow heady,
ready to slide between the sheets for an afternoon’s
sampling of non-caloric desserts.

*Note: Loosely translated, dim sum means “to touch your heart”.

All Poems copyrighted in 2006 by Cookala

2006-04-01T23:07:00.000-05:00

Well, I've done it. I've posted my first *gag, upchuck* poem for NaPoWriMo. Took me all of 6 hours, most of which were spent staring into space trying to come up with something to write a poem about. In the end, after desperation had set in, I finally wrote something about not being able to write. Ick. What a mess. What a way to return to PFFA. *sigh* Everyone else did a fab job with their first poem. *louder sigh*

Oh well, it's done and posted and Day 1 is behind me. Nothing to worry about now, except day 2. Aiy. What have I gotten myself into?

Well, if anything, I hope it gets my rhyme rushing out in torrents, and quickly. I don't want to murder my readers AND my muse any more than is necessary.

2006-03-31T16:50:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm going to gloat yet some more....
I've had another of my ATC cards posted on a different swap group's homepage. This is so cool! Twice in a week - wowee! I am completely tickled. I've posted it below so you can see which one everyone went nutso for. Damn, if this doesn't stop my head is going to swell way beyond proportion - if that happens, somebody please slap me back down to my regular size already! Just remind me of how stinky my peotry writing has become...

And so today is the last day of March, and that means one thing to me - tomorrow NaPoWriMi starts over at PFFA, and I am already breaking out in sweats because slow death is hovering nearby. I mean, I haven't exercised the poetry muscles for months now, and I know they're rusted stiff. My poor muse. She's already ten sheets to the wind with anxiety in anticipation of the coming torture I will put her through. I figure the real reason I signed up again this year is because, truly, I am a masochist. There's just no other explanation. But then again, so are all the other folks who've signed up. I guess we all get into partaking of this poetic communal misery and downright embarassment...heh.

Well, we'll see what happens. I'm going to be optimistic and brainwash myself into believing I'll be able to come up with some halfway decent poems, and that my muse will be strong enough to fight off another stroke.

T-minus 1 day to go. Let the upchucking begin!

2006-03-25T00:01:00.000-05:00

So, I'm going to gloat a little. heh. ATC_World - one of the groups I'm trading ATCs (artist trading cards) with - has just posted a card I made on their homepage as the card of the week. I am totally surprised and flattered and humbled. The card (which I've psoted below) was one of a set of 8 I made for a swap that mimics the look of stained glass. You can see the other cards in the set on my ATC blog - Cookalas House of Cards (there's a link on the right).

It was a new technique for me, but not all that hard. First, I drew the image on the card, then I squeezed a line of black glue over all the lines to mimic solder. When the glue dried, I colored in the image "panes" with markers. The results were amazing in that the cards really did look like stained glass. The hardest thing was squeezing a steady and uniform flow of glue from the bottle - too much and you got a blob, too little and you got nothing or a non-uniform thickness of line.

I've been getting back lots of wonderful ATCs from other artists, too. Each of them is like a miniature work of art. By studying them, I'm learning new techniques and ways of seeing. I think it was Harry who said I should post the cards I was getting back, and I'm thinking maybe I'll start a third blog for just that purpose.

And so with that I leave you. And remember, go call your mom.

2006-03-17T23:30:00.000-05:00

So, things have been quiet. I'm almost afraid to say that for fear it will change...but pops is out of the hospital and back at the nursing home. Can't say for how long this time. We met with the nursing staff and they're going to start giving him an appetite stimulant. If this doesn't work, then it's just a matter of time. But any way, that's not what I want to talk about.

Well, April is National Poetry Month, and you know poetry is very near and dear to my heart. Over at PFFA they're having a NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writers Month) challenge again this year. You have to write a poem a day for April - 30 poems in 30 days. Aiy! I did it last year and nearly sucked all the blood out of my muse. I didn't write didlysquat for a long time after that. A lot of people didn't.

But guess what? heh. I've signed up again. I swear, I'm a masochist. I really am. I was lurking and I saw the notice up in Challenges, and I started to feel left out and out in the field, or something like that. Even though I had a major brain drain after last year's WriMo, it was a lot of fun to be a part of. So, yeah, I'm doing it again. I'm hoping it will get me kick started again with writing poetry, somthing that's nagged at me since last November, when I pretty much just stopped.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

2006-03-11T14:53:00.000-05:00

It always amazes me, when I come back to my blog and take note of how long it's been since I signed in. When I started Cheesecloth Moon, I had hoped I'd be able to post something on a close to daily basis, mostly put out my poetry and match it to photos, if possible. I guess things have a way of getting left by the wayside when life intrudes.

I've been so busy lately, it seems like I never have time anymore to do the things I like to do. *sigh* I do a lot of sighing these days. I miss my poetry, but my brain is too loose right now to concentrate on it. I miss going out on my photography excursions, and poking around the arboretums, shores and beaches, and communing with nature. I miss lurking at PFFA, and reading my web buddies blogs. I've decided I don't like being grown up and taking care of business at all. There's no fun in it.

These days all I have time for is running to the nursing home or the hospital (btw, pops is back in the hospital for the 3rd time, same thing - kidney failure), or cleaning the basement or getting the upstairs ready, or taking care of mom's estate. The only thing I've kept up with is making the ATC cards - but I have to because I've signed up for a number of swaps. Besides, it's the only thing that's been keeping me sane these days.

And I'm always exhausted. I'm running on empty, and I've begun to fear that it's just a matter of time until I shut down and coast to the side of the highway, get stripped and rust away...

Well, I'm whining here, and I hate to whine, but that's how my life is right now. No fun, too much drudgery to take care of, no time for myself, ick ick ick ick ick.
I'm tired of it. I want to run away to a tropical island and never come back. But I can't. So it's buckle up and shut up and just get things done, and try to keep a glimmer of hope that better days are coming. I just hope they get here soon.

2006-03-02T14:18:00.000-05:00

Well, I've been neglectful of late, being so busy and all. But I'm home early today because of the snow that hit us mid-morning. So I found myself popping in at some of my buddyblogs. Natch, when I get to Julie's blog, there's a new quiz. heh. Julies's a sucker for quizes same as me. So, here it is. (Oh, and Julie, if you happen to visit, I think we should both move to Australia)

Which country should you REALLY be living in?

Australia

G'day bazza! You're a yokker. A true Aussie. You love the beach and barbies, as well as sport and sex. Life couldn't get any simpler, and thats the way it should be. C'mon Aussie, C'mon!

Click Here to Take This Quiz
Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

2006-03-01T06:46:00.000-05:00

On a maybe happier note, pops is out of the hospital and back at the nursing home. This is good, but I'm feeling a bit pessimistic about it. If the nurses at the home don't follow through on my instructions to keep him from getting dehydrated, his kidneys will fail yet again and he'll end up back in the hospital. And each time this happens, it weakens him considerably more. Eventually, if this keeps up, he won't recover.

I can't tell you how hard it is to have to sit by and see this happen. I almost feel like we've signed his death warrant. We can't bring him back home because of his dementia. We have to depend on the nursing staff to keep him healthy, and that's really scary. Now, instead of worrying about him being home alone I worry about him being in the nursing home. I wonder if he's any better off, considering what seems like an inaptitude of care he's getting, even though this home is light years better than the other one. I mean, I can tell them what they have to do to keep him well, but will they do it? There's just no way to know, but time will tell.

So, it looks like my life is going to be on hold for awhile. In the meantime, I'll be taking turns with my brother checking on pops at the home. Thank God it's only a 15 minute drive, though the parking is horrendous. If you can't find a spot across the street, you've got to park in a lot that's a 10 minute walk away, and it's friggin cold out now. *sigh* Why is it that things always have to be so hard? You get a little break in one sense, and then lose it in another.

Well, I've got to toodle. So much to do so little time and all that. Have you hugged your mom today? Or called her? Do it now. You'll be glad you did.

2006-02-21T10:29:00.000-05:00

Wow, time flies. Even when you’re not having any fun. Yeah, more good/bad news since the last post. We got pops into a much better nursing home (good), but he’s in the hospital again (bad). *sigh* I’m tired of this already. Poor guy. Yesterday, the nursing home sent him to the hospital because he was running a 102 fever, had a sore throat and had a blood sugar count of 240 - in the morning. By noon, he’d become very listless and had a blood sugar level of 500+ (which is somewhat common with diabetics, seems their sugar level rises with infections). So, the hospital admitted him overnight, maybe longer. I have to call later on to find out. I got a feeling pops may not be around a lot longer. I mean, he’s 83, and every time I visit I can see him declining more and more. It’s just his time. To be honest, I’ll be surprised if he makes a comeback of any kind.

I don’t think it’s coincidental that he’s taken a nose dive since we put him in a home. He was fine health-wise before we put him in a home. I think he’s extremely depressed, and I think that’s what’s killing him. It’s sapping him of the will to live.

I’m ok, though. This is different than losing mom - nowhere near the same thing for me. I don’t have a close and intimate relationship with the stepfather and actually, it’s quite the opposite. We’ve rarely gotten along and I’ve never liked him as a person, even when I was young. He’s rarely supported my family through the years, and he’s been a source of contention for everyone in my family at one time or another and sometimes simultaneously. Still, I hate to see anyone decline and suffer in the way he has. I do feel sympathy for him, and though he’s severely mistreated me in the past I don’t wish him ill. He doesn’t really comprehend what’s happening to him. All he knows is that he wants to go home, and he can’t do that now. Not with his dementia making him uncontrollable.

So, that’s what’s going on. I’m finding it harder and harder to find any cheer in my life right now. It seems that as soon as I do, it’s whisked away before I can build on it. I’ve been making ATC cards like crazy as an escape. Making them takes my mind off of things. They offer me a temporary distance and give me a chance to feel a little better. Creating something beautiful always does that for me. I guess in some small way I’m pushing things aside, but it’s better than turning to drugs or alcohol. Sadly, my poetry has fallen by the wayside for the time being. I just can’t seem to concentrate right now. I miss it. A lot. And I miss the guys at PFFA. A lot. But writing poetry is extremely demanding for me mentally, and right now my head just isn’t there and doesn’t wish to go there. So, I’m having a setback poetically. The ATCs are easy, and really don’t require any brain power. Creating art has always been easy for me.

My photography has fallen by the wayside, too, because of the weather; but mainly because of all the work I have to do in the house and with mom’s estate. I just finished cleaning out her room, and now I have to sort through the basement stuff. My brother cleaned out all the stuff that had water damage from last October’s deluge of rain. Now I have to weed out about half of a basement full of holiday decorations, extra kitchen stuff and small appliances, materials I had saved from my days of floral and wood painting craft vendoring at craft shows, books, old clothes, etc. Lots of stuff to sort through. Should take me a few weekends. Then I still have to finish my apartment upstairs. And then there’s mom’s estate. I have to make an accounting of all her worldly goods to the court before they’ll start probate. I have gotten my letters of testamentary, so now I have to start visiting the banks and calling the insurance and stock companies. I have to have the house appraised and get an estimate. I have to open a new bank account to deposit all her monies into. I have to file her income taxes, keep the house going (pay its bills) and account for that. I have to account for any disbursements I’ve already made from her estate to anyone for services or whatever. *sigh* It’s a lot of paper to go through. And all this to do before beach weather hits, and that’s only 3 months away. I absolutely refuse to give up beach time because of all the stuff I have to clean out. This year, more than any that I can remember, I’m really going to need to go there to restore my peace of mind and put myself back together again.

These last three months have been the worst ever in so many ways. There’s been so much upheaval and emotional upset going on for weeks on end. And it’s taking it’s toll on me. If I’m lucky I manage 4-6 hours of solid sleep a night, my asthma and allergies are active again, S.A.D. is kicking my ass (as it usually does), my mind wanders far too much and I’ve become very forgetful. And then there’s the grief, which comes and goes and beats me up pretty bad damn good when it does. Thank God it doesn’t last too long, like it did in the beginning. Oh yeah, and then there’s (ahem) my menses, which just makes all these things double whammies. Add all these together and, well, let’s just say I’m nowhere near my usual, vibrant, che sera sera self. I go through my days at work smiling and being my usual self, while inside I’m withering up. Then I go home and loose myself in fits of cleaning or making ATCs. *sigh*

Ah well, I guess I’m in a feeling sorry for myself frame of mind today, and that’s unlike me, too. I don’t usually buy into that whining and moaning kind of crap because I think of it as being a weakness. And I hate it when other people do it. No one I know has ever told me I’m like that so I guess I’m not, but I can’t help feel a bit guilty when I do feel this way. *sigh* What can I say? I’m complex. I want my old, boring life back. God, how I miss that life.

2006-02-12T18:19:00.000-05:00

Well, just when you think it's as bad as it can get it always gets worse. The pops ended up in the hospital Friday - seems the freakin nursing home screwed up on his diabetes meds and let him get severely dehydrated - enough so that his sugar level dropped to 23 grams which sent him into diabetic shock. *SIGH* I tell you, it just never ends. But I'm ok, surprisingly. And he's ok as far as I know. Now, that is. He almost died. If he'd of gone into a diabetic coma, that probably would've been it for him and my brother and I would be financing a second funeral right now. It was touch and go for awhile and they had to insert a catheter (ick) and his urine was first brown then red (double ick) but it's normal now and he's back to hallucinating and yelling about the people on the wall watching him, so things are getting back to normal. heh. He's giving the nurses a good old time, screaming for hours on end, speaking gibberish and being generally a pain in the ass. I guess he's feeling better.

Anywho, he's not going back to that place. We don't know when he'll be released, but when he is he's going to a new nursing home that's only about 15 minutes from home. This way we can keep a closer eye on him. Shit, he was fine last Sunday when I went to visit him and five days later he's in the hospital. I got the call around 1pm Friday from the social director, and she tells me he's having "stroke like" symptoms, that he's weak and disoriented and not responding to pain. So I ask her if they've checked his sugar level lately and she says to me, "Oh, that's a good idea. I'll have to tell them that."

Can you imagine that?! What idiots! aarrrrghghgh! I want to kill someone over there! Well, I got a call later on from the big manager wanting to talk to me but screw her. She can talk to my lawyer. And then she can talk to the folks over at JHACO and then she can talk to the Dept of Mental Health. Tomorrow I'll be on the phone all day calling the senior citizen advocate and whoever else I have to to get an investigation started. No way are they going to get away with this. Someone has to make these people get their act together. Not just for my stepfather's sake, but also for the sake of all those other people that they supposedly care for. Yeah, I'm angry all right.

Oh yeah. And my brother had to call medicaid the other day to find something out and he tells me the stepfather's case STILL hasn't been approved and that it's still pending. SO, after all this shit, we still don't know who's going to have to pay for what. Idiots all. I swear, when I find an elder lawyer, they're all going to get it good. Idiots! Bahhhhhh!

Well, that's it. I'm done ranting...for now. And remember to go and talk to your mom, damn it. Grrrrrrrrghhhh!

2006-02-09T18:12:00.000-05:00

I've been haunted since last Sunday's visit to the stepfather, and this poem has burbled up out of me. I guess it's my way of trying to come to some kind of terms with my current situation. Whether it has promise as a poem remains to be seen. Any and all feedback will be greatly appreciated.

On A Cold and Cloudy Sunday Afternoon (working title)

Swift hands have progressed around times dial
this day, yet I hedge and fritter the hours away
at inconsequential chores that could wait
for another moment. My feet feel like pails
of wet cement as I trudge on my overcoat,
lock the door, head the car west.

Too soon the forty-five minute ride deposits me
at the door of a new experience. As I enter
his ward’s great room I notice its dinge of dust,
layered through the years, has yellowed the walls
and windows; tinted the balloon valance curtains
from blinding white on a sunny day
to today’s tea stain brown.

He sits with his new friends, forty-two in all,
head slumped down towards the table
with eyes closed like some post-modern statue,
invisible to me as I scan the room; the attendant
must point him out before my mind blushes recognition.

My touch on his arm springs his jack-in-the-box
awareness, his in and out consciousness
that is alternately sensible and senseless.
As his tongue stirs into overdrive he remembers
and says my name, then blurts that he was once
embalmed and buried alive. I am startled
by the metaphor he makes, which makes me smile
for a fraction of a moment before I inwardly weep.

He rambles away as I monitor the room. Some of them
offer me an oddly surreal rendition of the movie Awakenings:
the hunched over, white headed lady who shuffles
from chair to chair non-stop muttering nananananana
and grabbing wrists; the dark-haired woman who ambles about
pulling the diaper out of her pants; the black man
who stands facing a corner while preaching a sermon
to a stain on the wall that looks like a face.

No one visits them.

The hour passes by like sap that seeps from a maple tree
until I am saturated with it and my pathetic quota
of miserly misery. The urge to run gains the advantage
in my internal game of tug-of-war and my conscience
tumbles into the mud as I stand, pull on my overcoat
and tell him goodbye.

He rises to go with me, dull eyes suddenly sparked
with cognizance. He thinks he is going home
but I must tell him no, he cannot come.

I leave quickly so I will not see him
sag back into his chair, close his eyes
and hunch over the table
as though I was never there.

copyright by Cookala 02-06-2006

2006-02-05T19:50:00.000-05:00

Well, thought I'd drop by for an update. A lot's been happening. The biggest thing is that I've managed to get medicaid to approve my stepfather's application and he is now firmly ensconced in a nursing home. We had to admit him to a psych hospital first for a few days because we started to lose control of him, and he began to wander outside the house. And he really started to have hallucinations and delusions big time - he swore we were trying to poison him (he just about stopped eating for 2 weeks and lost about 20 pounds) and he started refusing to get into the car because he swore we were going to kill him and throw him into the ocean. We even had to call the police a few times because he was out of control - the first was when he pulled a 10" knife on us, the second was when he walked down to the local speed zone and was intending to walk into traffic and we had to physically block him from going further until the cops came. He locked us out of the house for awhile, too, the day we tried to take him to an interview at another nursing home. *sigh*

So, it came down to admitting him into a psych hospital because he needed to be watched around the clock and we couldn't do it. But this ironically was the best thing we could do, because the hospital case worker used her contacts to help us place him in a nursing home. Took all of 4 days - something that would've taken me, as a private citizen, months and months to accomplish. As the saying goes, it's not what you know but who you know.

So, I went to visit him for the first time today and wow, what a head trip. His "ward" is a lock down, because he would definitely wander off the grounds, and he has the company of about 30 other oldsters with varying degrees of dementia. It's so sad to watch them all.

There was one woman who walked constantly saying nanananana, nanananana, nanananana. She'd walk up to someone and rub their arm or put her hand around their wrist for a moment, utter a loud nananananana, and then walk away again. She kept doing this over and over.

There was another old lady who kept pushing a sleeping man in a wheeled recliner out of the day room. Probably because he smelled like he'd shit himself. And there was an old black man who was holding a bible and preaching to the corner. One old woman walked up to me, smiled and held out her hand. So, I shook it and she smiled again and walked away. The rest of them pretty much just dosed in their chairs from the meds.

This is my first visit to a nursing home, and what a shocker. The whole time I was there all stepfather did was talk about getting a job as an autobody repairman, and when did his father die? and he was going to give me all his money, and how was my mom doing, and where was she? and about how shiny the floor was, and how smooth the table was. *sigh* I stayed for almost an hour and then left as the attendants were starting to feed everyone a snack as there was suddenly a lot of activity. I thought it was a good time to slip out. Even so, he got up with me thinking I was taking him home. He got a bit upset when I told him he had to stay, but that I'd be back again. The attendant had to calm him down so I could leave. *sigh*

One observation - I didn't see anyone else come to visit in the time I was there. And the attendant said it was nice of me to come. Makes me think these people have been forgotten by their families. How sad. How very sad.

Now, I have a bad past with this man but damn it to hell, I still felt my heart break a little for him. And I cried in the car on the 45 minute drive home. This is so hard. I mean, it's such a huge relief to know he's got someone watching him on the one hand, but on the other it's such a sad thing to see him come to this. It still hasn't hit him that this is his new home. He thinks it's temporary, but there's no way to get him to understand it isn't.

*sigh* So, I'm very sad now, very down, very bothered. Tomorrow I have to touch base with the admin at another, much closer home. Hopefully, this home will be cheerier and more like a home than a hospital, and will have an opening very soon so we can transfer him over. I have to make an appointment to go see this place before we transfer him, though, just to make sure it isn't worse than the place he's in now. That would be truly awful. So I'm asking you all to say a prayer for me, and damn it, send me some funny stuff to cheer me up. I need it. Fast. Oh, and go call your mom, will ya already? Bye for now.

2006-01-29T19:07:00.000-05:00

So, here's the results of yet more web quickie quizes (guess you can tell I'm a sucker for these things...) This one comes courtesy of PFFA, and the next come courtesy of other tests at the test site.

Who Should Paint You: Alfred Gockel

All American yet funky, you inspire an artist's imagination
And while not everyone will understand your portrait, you will!

What Artist Should Paint Your Portrait?

You Are a Rainbow

Breathtaking and rare
You are totally enchanting and intriguing
But you usually don't stick around long!

You are best known for: your beauty

Your dominant state: seducing

What Type of Weather Are You?

Your Hidden Talent

Your natural talent is interpersonal relations and dealing with people.
You communicate well and are able to bring disparate groups together.
Your calming presence helps everything go more smoothly.
People crave your praise and complements.

What's Your Hidden Talent?

And seeing this one, how could I resist getting confirmation of the one I took at Julie's blog?

Your Career Type: Artistic

You are expressive, original, and independent.
Your talents lie in your artistic abilities: creative writing, drama, crafts, music, or art.

You would make an excellent:

Actor - Art Teacher - Book Editor
Clothes Designer - Comedian - Composer
Dancer - DJ - Graphic Designer
Illustrator - Musician - Sculptor

The worst career options for your are conventional careers, like bank teller or secretary.

What's Your Ideal Career?

Well, I'm not in the least bit surprised!

You Are a Dreaming Soul

Your vivid emotions and imagination takes you away from this world
So much so that you tend to live in your head most of the time
You have great dreams and ambitions that could be the envy of all...
But for you, following through with your dreams is a bit difficult

You are charming, endearing, and people tend to love you.
Forgiving and tolerant, you see the world through rose colored glasses.
Underneath it all, you have a ton of passion that you hide from others.
Always hopeful, you tend to expect positive outcomes in your life.

Souls you are most compatible with: Newborn Soul, Prophet Soul, and Traveler Soul

What Kind of Soul Are You?

Your Birthdate: October 15

You take life as it is, and you find happiness in a variety of things.
You tend to be close to family and friends. But it's hard to get into your inner circle.
Making the little things wonderful is important to you, and you probably have an inviting home.
You seek harmony with others, but occasionally you have a very stubborn streak.

Your strength: Your intense optimism

Your weakness: You shy away from exploring your talents

Your power color: Jade

Your power symbol: Flower

Your power month: June

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

You Are Balanced - Realist - Powerful

You feel your life is controlled both externally and internally.
You have a good sense of what you can control and what you should let go.
Depending on the situation, you sometimes try to exert more control.
Other times, you accept things for what they are and go with the flow.

You are a realist when it comes to luck.
You don't attribute everything to luck, but you do know some things are random.
You don't beat yourself up when bad things happen to you...
But you do your best to try to make your own luck.

When it comes to who's in charge, it's you.
Life is a kingdom, and you're the grand ruler.
You don't care much about what others think.
But they better care what you think!

The Three Dimension Luck and Power Test

Butterfinger

They call you sticky fingers for a reason!

What Kind of Candy Are You?

And last but not in the very least, they actually had a quiz for blogthings.

You Are 60% Addicted to Blogthings

You're a Blogthings fiend - addicted but not totally dependent.
So what if you know your personality type by heart?
And while you may feel like Blogthings is crack...
There are people much worse off than you!

How Addicted To Blogthings Are You?

See, I told you I was a sucker for them.

2006-01-28T13:31:00.000-05:00

I've been a bit scarce lately, I know. I've been busy cleaning out mom's stuff, my stuff, the stuff that got ruined this past October when the basement flooded after weeks of rain. It's amazing how much crap you can accumulate over the years. Well, I'm a changed woman now. No more pack rat. No more keep it for a rainy day mentality. Now things are going to be kept lean, cut to the bone in many ways. Yep, becoming an orphan definitely shakes up your mindset.

Thing is, there's so much damned dust! I've been hacking and wheezing since last weekend when I got into some really old stuff that had been sitting in the back of the closets for years. Now I have to go get some surgical masks. My lungs are all clogged up again after I'd been asthma free for months. Oh well. But it has to get done. The time for purging and cutting to the quick is here. Long live Good Will, who speedily comes and picks up all the fat, black bags of old clothes you put out the front door, and who makes it so convenient to dispose of the good part of a lifetime of stuff. Long may they reign.

And then I'm fashioning the upstairs into an apartment for myself. This means new rugs and linoleum, new drapes and window hardware, get rid of the furniture I don't want, buy a sofa and chair. Oh yeah, and now I'll have room for something I've wanted to have for years now - a treadmill. Yay! Now I can walk whenever I want to every day while I watch tv. Yay! This pleases me.

So does decorating. I've discovered I love to decorate. I've decided on mostly blues and greens for bedroom, living room/kitchen area and bath, with accents of mauve and beige and brown here and there. I just got my new bed - a Sealy with a pillowtop mattress. Believe me, you haven't experienced bliss until you sleep on one of those.

Anyway, I've got to go and put the mask back on. So much to do, so little time. The beach season is 3 months off, and I have to get all this done! I'm already tired just thinking about it. Well, I'm off. Just wanted to let you know I'm going to be a bit scarce at times for a little while. In the meantime, be well, and spend some time with your mom.

Oh yeah, and congrats to Tanya and Marty, who have just welcomed their first child in to the world, a little bundle of love they've named Heidi. A warm and loving welcome to you, Heidi.

2006-01-27T12:51:00.000-05:00

Well, I've been lurking at Julie's again. Damn, she finds the bossest tests. The most recent is the superhero test. Holy results, Batman, here's my "score"(the formatting comes out weird though, even though I cut and pasted the results):

The Detective
You scored 6 idealist points, 11 detective points, 1 kick-in-the-door points, and 0 help points!

You use logic, rationale, deductive reasoning, the scientific method, and just plain smarts to figure things out. You are a problem-solver and a resourceful quick-thinker. You always have a spare plan or five to fall back on, in case your first well-thought out plan doesn't work out. You are a super-sleuth, and no enemy is safe from your cognitive capabilities! Examples: Batman, DareDevil

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 65% on idealist

You scored higher than 85% on detective

You scored higher than 14% on kickinthedoor

You scored higher than 7% on helppoints

Link: The Superhero Archetype Test written by rhombusoval on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

2006-01-19T19:09:00.000-05:00

Ok, I was lurking over at Julie's place and saw the damn test thing. Of course, I had to do one for me. Here's my results: I'm cutting and pasting, so

Global Personality Test Results

Stability (46%) medium which suggests you average somewhere in between being calm and resilient and being anxious and reactive.
Orderliness (46%) medium which suggests you are moderately organized, hard working, and reliable while still remaining flexible, efficient, and fun.
Extraversion (43%) moderately low which suggests you are reclusive, quiet, unassertive, and secretive.

Take Free Global Personality Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

And then, damn it, I took another one, which says I'm an INFP, and that it supposedly means I'm

creative, smart, idealist, loner, attracted to sad things, disorganized, avoidant, can be overwhelmed by unpleasant feelings, prone to quitting, prone to feelings of loneliness, ambivalent of the rules, solitary, daydreams about people to maintain a sense of closeness, focus on fantasies, acts without planning, low self confidence, emotionally moody, can feel defective, prone to lateness, likes esoteric things, wounded at the core, feels shame, frequently losing things, prone to sadness, prone to dreaming about a rescuer, disorderly, observer, easily distracted, does not like crowds, can act without thinking, private, can feel uncomfortable around others, familiar with the darkside, hermit, more likely to support marijuana legalization, can sabotage self, likes the rain, sometimes can't control fearful thoughts, prone to crying, prone to regret, attracted to the counter culture, can be submissive, prone to feeling discouraged, frequently second guesses self, not punctual, not always prepared, can feel victimized, prone to confusion, prone to irresponsibility, can be pessimistic

(Though I completely disagree about quitting, being easily distracted, hermit, liking rain - ick, and being irresponsible. no way)

favored careers:

poet, painter, freelance artist, musician, writer, art therapist, teacher (art, music, drama), songwriter, art historian, library assistant, composer, work in the perfoming arts, art curator, playwrite, bookseller, cartoonist, video editor, photographer, philosopher, record store owner, digital artist, cinematographer, costume designer, film producer, philosophy professor, librarian, music therapist, enviromentalist, movie director, activist, bookstore owner, filmmaker

disfavored careers:

business professional, manager, executive, administrator, business owner, supervisor, office manager, business analyst, financial analyst, public relations manager, ceo, executive assistant, judge, event coordinator, lawyer, office worker

Hah! Notice that Poet is listed first as choice of career Hah! And painter is next! And there's even several film-related careers, too. I knew it. I was born to be an artist. It's in my soul, and my genes, and my blood, and my distilled essence. (erm, that sounds a bit icky, doesn't it?) I shall lift my arms up in supplication to my muse, and sing paens to them with my pagan tongue.

When I was a teenager, I wanted to become an artiste in the worst possible way. I wanted to go to college to study art and become the next Picasso, or the next Ansel Adams, (my quest to become a poet has only come to me much later in life even though I've always loved poetry) only my mom talked me out of it. She said I'd always be scrounging for money. So, like a good girl, I listened and instead of going off to college like all my friends I got a job in public service from which I will retire in about 4 years and have a very nice pension and health insurance plan, thank you. But still, I've never ever had a lot of money - just enough to get by and not go hungry. Ok, I have a nice car now, but the last new car I bought lasted me 13 years. *sigh*

Well, I suppose mom knew best. Funny thing is, I've never had lots of money. Actually, I've always just about made ends meet. Even more ironic is that my career turned out to be one like those listed under disfavored. Well, maybe that explains why I generally feel frustrated and boxed in most of the time for no reason at all. At least I've finally decided to go for what I desire. This life is short. It's time to follow my dreams while I still have the wings and strength enough to fly. I suspect this desire is culminating suddenly because I'm an orphan now. I've been made to face my own mortality - I'm the next in line to go. Orphanhood is a mind shaker, all right. It gets your ass into gear as far as seeking out some self-satisfaction. Someday, when find yourself parentless, you'll understand.

And on that tangental rant and ramble, I shall leave you.

Peace.

2006-01-19T06:36:00.000-05:00

So, I've decided to start a new blog just for my ATC creations and keep this one mostly for poetry, silly ramblings and occasional rantings. I'm getting good feedback on the ATCs I've made, so I guess I'm on the right track. And they're so much easier than writing poetry! Anyway, I'm naming the new blog "Cookala's House of Cards", so please do visit!

ATC 3

2006-01-12T18:37:00.001-05:00

ATC 3
Originally uploaded by cookala.

and this one is blurry (fer shame on me, I'm going blind and getting lazy!)

ATC 9

2006-01-12T18:37:00.000-05:00

ATC 9
Originally uploaded by cookala.

another one with a glosys surface that didn't photograph well.

ATC 2

2006-01-12T18:34:00.001-05:00

ATC 2
Originally uploaded by cookala.

ATC 6

2006-01-12T18:34:00.000-05:00

ATC 6
Originally uploaded by cookala.

ATC 7

2006-01-12T18:31:00.001-05:00

ATC 7
Originally uploaded by cookala.

It's hard to photograph these when they have glossy coatings - like this one. The picture really doesn't do this real justice.

ATC 8

2006-01-12T18:31:00.000-05:00

ATC 8
Originally uploaded by cookala.

ATC 10

2006-01-12T18:30:00.000-05:00

ATC 10
Originally uploaded by cookala.

Here's a few samples of what's been keeping me busy lately in my spare time. These are the first one's I've made. (I wonder how Julie and her mom are doing with theirs??) Anywho, I've signed up for about a dozen swaps so I've got lots of cards to get to making. These are really fun to do, and totally addictive.

2006-01-08T14:39:00.000-05:00

Been busy making ATCs and joining swaps. This is so much fun, and instantly addictive. Also been busy setting about turning the upstairs into an apartment for myself. And there's still the estate stuff and the stepfather. My poetic muse has taken a vacation again, but my artistic muse is suddenly hot, hot, hot.

I sometimes bite off more than I can chew, and that's where I'm at right now. Ho hum, better than sitting and sulking. These diversions are good for me right now. They'll keep me occupied so I don't dwell too much on mom. I miss her so much. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about her, busy as all get out or not.

So that's it, not enough time to write something substantial. Will be back when I can. So I leave you with my broken record of a mantra - go hug your mom, or give her a call while you still can.

2006-01-05T12:35:00.000-05:00

Here's #5, again, this is as rough as they come, and it's not finished. It's little more than an embryo right now.

The Dream Maker

She opens half-lidded eyes
and stretches towards the dominion
of dreams. Her fingers dip, gingerly,
into cachets of colorful memories
stored in cedar boxes.

The breeze sighs, restless
in her primeval copse as she sifts
and sorts then decides the segments
of the evening’s reel.

No matter our mercury-bright desires;
she decides what we’ll see, or not.
The barometer of her mood ordains
horror or love, fight or flight,
though we may decide
to forget her show when we wake
to sound or sight.

She is a persisting fire who flames
and shapes molten orbs of fantasy

copyright 2005 by Cookala

2006-01-03T12:50:00.000-05:00

Here's #4 - another super rough draft (finally, a non-death related poem):

Candle

I am the pooled paraffin that keeps
the wick lit when the light has gone.
I am a slow dissolve and fear nothing
save the leech of flame that siphons
my liquid essence.

I have the power to ensnare your senses
with myriad scents as I pirouette with the air;
and when you need a diversion
I shall entertain you
with shadow dancers on the wall.

When you have no further need of me
I shall be as patient as a cat stalking a mouse
until the curtains are drawn
and a new flame is struck.

I will melt until I am no more
than a scented afterthought.

copyright 2005 by Cookala

2005-12-31T14:06:00.000-05:00

Tonight I will add line breaks to my prose - an exercise that will flex my skillset a bit.

Here's an old poem of mine, one I like
quite a bit. I hope you'll enjoy it.
Oh, and Happy New Year. Finally
an end to this absolute worst year in my life
and all of its trials by brimstone.

It goes out for me with a certain
somberness and an internal quietness,
but that is a GOOD thing
(as Harry would put it).
I think. At least, I'm not sure.
Yet.

Hey, at least I'm not slobbering. Yet, that is.
Though I'm sure that I will be
when the ball drops and the fireworks begin. I'm sure
Auld Lang Syne will take on new meaning for me tonight
when the counter is set to zero again.
A new year, a new chance, a blank slate,
kinda.

New Year's will be yet another anniversary,
another chisel mark in my new way of marking time, difficult
(to say the least) and yet, and yet....I will take it
and it's pain gladly if it means the memories will flood in.
I begin to see.
This is how one defines melancholy.

Oh, and don't forget about your mom
as you ready yourself for that party
tonight. Pick up the phone and call her
now, while you still can. You'll be glad
you did.

*sigh*

how I long to lie in the sun, rocked
in the lap of the waves, adrift and free
as the fair weather clouds overhead.

(*edited 12/31/05 at 9:04 pm)

So, 'nuf said. 'nuf temporary poetic insanity. (someone out there throws a boot which clonks side of my head, causing me to utter a guttural sounding unghhhhhhhh)

Here's the poem now...

Haven

That particular mesmerizing sound
of the water’s lapping;
its hollow, steady slapping against fiberglass
lulls me just like dosed valium.

I lie face-up on this wooden deck
with the sun’s rays warming my carcass
of weathered skin and brittle bones.

A balmy breeze teases tendrils of my hair
as I’m rocked by the motion of the waves.
I could drift this way the entire day
without a thought of passing time,
my mind blank and loose, adrift
in the isolated freedom that comes
of a life left behind;
even if just for awhile.

Perhaps I’ll remember now
what it is to smile.

copyright 2003 by Cookala

Farewell 2005.

2005-12-30T09:57:00.000-05:00

And then there were 3 1st draft poems:

This grief

clothes me like a woolen suit
and has it’s own agenda. It does not share
its schedule of highs and lows, or its timing
of angry bites and bitter lashes. I find myself
spread-eagled before its capricious grin
as it mocks and torments and lays me low.

There is no defense. I am at its whim.
I cannot chart its ebb and flow.

It simply is.

copyright 2005 by Cookala

2005-12-28T12:04:00.000-05:00

Another 1st draft poem, written when I was dealing with grief. Please feel free to nit either yay or nay. (I suspect it's a twee bit overdone) Thanks!

After a month

the concern begins
to flicker out. Calls dwindle,
invitations stop. I’ve disembarked
from that train called life;
it has left me standing alone
in the station without a ride.

I wear the cloyed silence
like a gray, woolen cloak
as my eyes turn inward. Closing
them does not shut out the grief
that melts into my dreams.

Appetites have faded.
Nothing appeals
and nothing lights the cold wax
of my heart; it has sputtered out
like a candle deprived of oxygen.

I wander through an empty house
searching but knowing she is gone
forever.

My protective shield is
broken.
I find myself naked
as the future advances like a cresting wave.

I pray for strong lungs.

copyright 2005 by Cookala

2005-12-27T16:06:00.000-05:00

So, here's one of the recent poems I've written. I haven't done much of anything with, it's as rough as they get. Please feel free to comment whether it's yay or nay. Think it's worth developing? Thanks, and I hope you enjoy.

Internalizing

So there she is done up fine and fancy
as a suckling pig, the kind people make a fuss about.
Her makeup is perfect, the periwinkle blue gown
I bought at the mall for her yesterday fits
and she's lost the maggoty pallor she wore
when I found her sprawled on the floor four days ago.

The first time we go to see her at that dreaded place
that for years we dared not think about or mention
my brother whispers in my right ear,
don't touch her,
but of course I do out of curiousity
mixed with a pinch of sibling defiance.

Her right arm feels hard as a muscle spasm, and fat
and bumpy like she's been packed with wadded up sheets
of newspaper. She looks so real, yet surreal
as a sleeping beauty waiting for a kiss to wake her up.
I bend and kiss her cheek but all I get is a cold face.

I am relieved. She will pass the inspection of relatives
who will come to ogle her and meet their standards
for looking good, or peaceful, or younger
or whatever else it is people say
about the dead at funerals.

For this I will be told I've done well
and that I should be proud,
but inside I feel like a piece of lead
that dangles by a fraying thread.

I have become a multitasking robot
performing hostessing services by rote
while I heed an inner, repeating voice
that says this is just a nightmare
and that it will go away
just as soon as I wake up.

The service ends just as suddenly as the way
she passed. People leave in a rush to get home
and wash their hands of death
as though it were some kind of contagious germ.

copyright 2005 by Cookala

NYC

2005-12-26T18:52:00.000-05:00

PC228581
Originally uploaded by cookala.

Anyone know the name of this building? I love the way they lit it for Christmas! It wasover by Trump Plaza and Bergdorf Goodman.

2005-12-25T13:11:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas people, and Happy Holidays. I hope they are safe, healthy and filled with all good things.

2005-12-23T14:17:00.000-05:00

Shortly we'll be leaving to go to NYC to see the tree, go to Macy's and then have dinner at Ruth Chris. We're taking my cousin from Texas out for some sightseeing. The transit strike is over, the sun has come out and it's a little warmer today than it has been all week. Things are on an upswing.

I just finished making a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, and a batch of chocolate chip with pecans. Then my brother walks in with a plate of fancy cookies from his office party. Well, I guess we'll be eating lots of cookies for the next few days, courtesy of Murphy's Law.

This morning my cousin and I went to the graves - first her mom's and then mine. They've put up the new headstone, so that was a nice surprise and a nice Christmas gift. And they even replaced the balsam wreath I'd placed on the grave. We put in some pointsetta plants at both gravesites We both cried on the way home, and I can feel myself welling up a little as I write this. *sigh* Well, I 'll try not to dwell on it too much today so I don't depress everyone around me.

I can't wait to get started making ATC's. I've even got Julie's mom into it. Yay! It's like a Christmas present to be able to get a fellow artist out of a rut. Good for her - you go, Julie's mom! I look forward to trading with you someday!

So, gotta run and catch a train. And remember, go talk to or hug your mom.

P1291847

2005-12-20T13:32:00.000-05:00

P1291847
Originally uploaded by cookala.

Wow, this Blog It thing is so easy to do! Finally, something useful that actually works. Yay! Flicker rocks!

This is a shot of the Fire Island Lighthouse - my home away from home -the place where I generally spend most of my time in warm weather. I can usually be found within sight of the lighthouse, soaking up the sun. I even go there when it snows. I just can't get enough of it.

P5215609

2005-12-20T13:20:00.000-05:00

P5215609
Originally uploaded by cookala.

I'm trying out the Blog It option at Flickr. I took this pic during hte summer at the Bronx Zoo in their Butterfly Exhibit. It was an amazing experience - they had a white tent set up that you walked through, and as you did there were millions of butterflys all over the place. They even landed on you momentarily. There were many different types - whites, blacks, monarchs, oranges, zebras and more. I got some fab pics that day.

2005-12-19T20:58:00.000-05:00

I've been checking out websites that host Artist Trading Cards, or ATCs. These are cards no larger than the size of a regular playing card, and they must be handmade. When the artist finishes creating their cards, they swap them via the web or at face-to-face swap meets. No money is ever exchanged, and each card is a work of art. There can be series, sets and one-of-a-kinds. All sorts of embellishments and found objects can be incorporated into the card, and the card can be dimensional or can even be made to fold outwards.

Some of this will be repetitive but Wikipedia says:

Artist trading cards, also known as ATCs, are 2½ x 3½ inch (64 x 89 mm) miniature works of art which artists trade with one another, similar to the way people trade sports cards. They can be any medium: pencil, watercolor, acrylic, oil, collage, scratch board, mixed media - anything the creative mind of the artist can think up. Artist Trading Cards are produced as originals, as limited editions, or as a series. ATCs are a relatively new art form which formally began in September 1996. The concept was created by Swiss artist M. VÃ¤nÃ§i Stirnemann. [1]

Conceptually ATCs are about exchanging art without the interface of the art world and without money being involved. Artists trade their cards in face-to-face trading sessions as well as via mail. Artists who trade by mail often make their arrangements online and/or through e-mail. In some ATC artists' opinions, trading cards by mail is a diminished experience when compared to an ATC Trading Session.

Rules of ATCs
There are only two true rules applied to Artist Trading Cards:

The dimensions of the card must be 2.5 x 3.5 inches (64 x 89 mm).
The cards must be traded - never bought or sold.
Artist Trading Cards are typically made on a base of card stock, although this is not mandatory. ATCs have been created on metal, stiffened fabric, plastic, clay, and many other materials. Various techniques are then applied to the chosen canvas: collage, assemblage, digital art, calligraphy, beadwork, watercolors, rubber stamps, and many others. The back of the card typically includes the artist's signature, the date, and the number (if the card is part of an edition or series).

These little cards are fascinating and fun to make. I find that they help me to get past my usual boundaries and help give me a sense of free reign with what I'm creating. I've known what they are for about a year or two now, but have only just started to make them myself and they are totally addictive. Because your palette is so small, you have to think in terms of scale. I've seen some really beautiful cards on the web. So, when I've finished making some decent cards I'll post my endeavors here. I'm also toying with putting snippets of my poetry and scaled down photos into them.

So, stay tuned and after the holidays, about the time the snow starts littering the ground, I'll get busy taking photos of some I've made and show off my artwork. Right now things are just too hectic.

And, of course, did you talk to or hug your mom today? No?! Well, get to it!!!

2005-12-17T13:49:00.000-05:00

I just picked up a copy of "Little, Big," by John Crowley. Has anyone read it? Is it any good? I bought it based on the back cover snippet of what it's about. They claim if you liked LOTR than you'll love this book, too. Guess I'l find out when I get around to reading it.

Took a ride down to the beach today. Wow, the wind was super bitter. Two minutes without gloves while fiddling with the camera and I thought I had frostbite. Ouch. Needless to say, I didn't walk very far before I ran back to the warmth of my car. Oh well. But it felt good to get out with the camera. Doing that always recharges me. I've posted a few here, but you can see the rest at Flickr if you're so inclined. There's a link on the right.

I'm feeling almost normal today, yay, even though I did get some bad news yesterday. My sister-in-law passed away. I feel bad, but not so bad because she'd had a stroke twenty years ago and was completely paralyzed since. She couldn't even talk. Yet she had her mind. I can't think of a worse kind of hell than that. So, even though it's sad she's passed on, it's kinda not because at least now she's not in torture anymore.

And what is all this death around me lately? I've lost two aunts, (one of whom was like a second mother to me) my mom and now my sister-in-law - and all of them in the space of less than 4 months. Enough already. Honestly, I think 2005 has been the worst year of my life so far. I can't help but wonder why so many pieces of my life are disappearing all of a sudden. Is it any wonder why I've got such intense feelings of grief and feel completely out there sometimes? I think about all these people in my life and I wonder. Why have they all passed away so closely together? Does that mean something? Is it setting the stage for something else? *sigh* I don't know. ALl I can do is get through one day at a time. Que sera, sera.

So, here'e some of those pics I took today.

2005-12-16T18:10:00.000-05:00

Ok, somebody just tagged me (it was Chuck) and now I have to do this:

Rules: The 1st player of this "game" starts with the topic "5 weird habits of yourself" and people who get tagged need to write a blog entry about their 5 weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next 5 people to be tagged and list their names.

Ok, here I go:

1-I'm right handed and wear my watch on my right wrist. (Most everyone else who's right handed wears their watch on their left wrist.)

2-I'm a private perfectionist (private meaning I keep it confined to myself because I've gotten enough beatings over it)

3-I'm a total beach freak - I actually get depressed when I can't get in any sun time. And, once I'm there, I absolutely hate it (it actually almost ruins my day)if someone spreads their blanket within 25 feet of me so I have to walk down the shore at least 300 ft before I can set up camp for the day. And I'm carrying about 40 lbs, too, between the cooler and backpack (towels,lotions, etc), chair and umbrella. (and I swear, I am NOT antisocial...)

4-I hate spiral ham hot, but love it cold. (don't ask me...)

5-I spend way too much money on stuff I don't need when I'm depressed.

Ok, my turn - I tag Rob (romac), Harry, Heather, Tanya and Autumn

2005-12-14T18:31:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm in much better spirit today so I figure I should write now. My last few posts have been really dismal. This grief is just very unpredictable - I never know when I'll be down and when I'll be up. I just want you to know that I'm not so down all the time, I do have good days, too.

It's really cold out, and boy do I hate the cold. It's painful. It makes my muscles spasm. I makes my head hurt and my eyes tear. Ick. I've been toying with the idea of moving to central California when I retire in a few years. Maybe somewhere around Santa Barbara, but not in it - ain't got those kind of bucks. I'm thinking I should take a vacation or two there in 2006 and then maybe every other year until I do retire to scout the area and check into rentals and talk to the residents about community and taxes and such. I've always dreamed of living there, and now with mom gone I suddenly have wings.

Everywhere everyone is getting ready for Christmas. Everyone but me - and honestly, it's something of a relief not to worry about decorating the house and making big, fancy dinners, and shopping for gifts. I do have some gifts to give out, but only because I'd already picked them up throughout the year. I'm not really going to celebrate. I don't think it's appropriate this year.

Having said that, I'm toying with the idea of driving around the neighborhood like I always do and checking out the lights. The people around here really go all out with the lights and animated thingies - some of the houses are really awesome. But I feel a bit guilty about doing it, because of mom. A part of me thinks it's disrespectful in some weird way, and I feel somewhat guilty about it, too. I mean, she only died a month ago and I shouldn't even want to or care about seeing the lights. I dunno, am I being silly? Well, it's two weeks away. Who knows what mood I'll be in then. I know if I'm down, I won't go. (I mostly prefer to sulk in private and alone). Well, we'll see,

I finally got to the salon and got my hair done. It was looking rather ravaged and wild and limp and hangy all at the same time. Yuk. It always shocks the shit out of me when one day I look in the mirror and see how bad things have gotten. Never mind I look in the mirror every day and somehow didn't notice it. But I look and think, wow, that looks pretty bad. When did that happen? I should've gotten myself to the salon a month ago, but I was sick so I couldn't, and then all the other stuff happened. As always, I like what my stylist did, but I just need time to get used to it. heh. I'm sure I'll like it better after I adjust to the length. It was good to get it done, because it always lifts my mood and y'all know I need good slatherings of that right now.

I've been writing a bit again. Six poems since Sunday. Four about my life's current events, two not. It's hard to write about anything besides the last month, but I don't care as it's a catharis for me. I'll probably throw out most of it as it's very depressing and emotional, but probably save some snips here and there as I'm coming up with some nice turns of phrase and diction and sonics(which is surprising because I haven't written anything new since summer).

Speaking of poetry, I've been thinking about NaPoWriMo. I'm inclined to think I probably won't participate in NAPo at PFFA in 2006 - this past year very nearly murdered my poor muse. I went dry for months after NaPo and it drove me nuts, and I don't want to do that again. It was just too draining.

Well, let me end here. Hope you're all having a good day, and remember to hug your mom!

2005-12-09T18:13:00.000-05:00

Today is a bad day for me. It's been a month today that Mom's passed, and it's hitting me pretty fucking hard. I miss her in ways I can't even put into words - no small task for a budding poet. Right now as I write this I'm also busy printing out old photos of Mom for my cousin from Texas who's coming to stay with us for the holidays, and some pics for my brother. There's one I'm going to frame and put on my desk at work when the grief has subsided somewhat. Mom looks really happy in all the pics, and that makes me both happy and sad at the same time.

I don't know where the month went - and it's all a blur anyway. I'm finding that as the days pass I'm becoming more deeply upset and depressed. Seems I'm taking some backward steps this week, but I suppose grief is like that in the way it comes and goes. I put on a strong facade, but inside I feel like I'm hanging by a thread sometimes. The word hollow has taken on new meaning for me.

Last night we met with a lawyer, so probate has begun. It's both a relief and a source of disquiet for me. Everything is in order and neither my brother nor myself are contesting anything, so it should only take a few weeks to transfer the house into our names. I'm the executrix, so I will also have yet more stuff to take care of.

It seems there is always someone to call or see, or papers to fill out and mail, or medicaid people to cuss at. Those medicaid people define the word incompetent. The other day when I picked up an application form, the woman told me to bring it back to the chronic care office in a different town. So I did, even though it was an hour and a half of a drive back and forth. Then today, I get a letter from the chronic care office stating that they were sending it to the other office - the one I got the application from. Stupid idiots. I've learned that everything they say and tell me I must do is questionable, and usually wrong. *sigh*

I haven't been sleeping well, so I'm wiped. I took a day off this week just to sleep but it didn't help all that much. I feel like I need a month of shut eye to feel normal in a physical sense again. I only managed to get 13 hours of sleep between Sunday and Tuesday and I know the lack of sleep is making me more distraught.

It's amazing what sleep deprivation will do to you. Everything, no matter how small and simple, seems so utterly hard to do, and I want to cry all the time. I'm getting really strung out. Yesterday my brother got impatient with me and I burst into tears. It scared the shit out of him because it's not like me. Needless to say, he's suddenly started keeping watch on me. Today especially, I had a sense of not knowing what was happening to me. I felt so lost and alone. I think I'm running on empty.

So, that's about it. On the upside, I wrote two new poems this week and that brought me a nip of happiness. I had some good moments - I made it to work and home in one piece and without mishap for the two days that we had snow (driving in snow and ice makes me freak big time), I saw the new Harry Potter pic, I bought some poetry books and artsy/crafty magazines to read and went out for dinner with a close friend. The rest of the week was spent just getting through. Well, let's hope the coming week is better. I'm tired of this grief.

And don't forget about your mom, hear?

2005-12-04T19:32:00.000-05:00

And I've survived another week. It's true, life does go on though it may be altered in intangible ways. It's surreal, really, how things seem the same on the surface and yet are so profoundly changed inside of you, in your soul. And as I've said before, grief is exceedingly weird. Right now I'm feeling like my old self, but that can change in a blink. I've been crying less, but when I do it's more intense and comes from a deeper place than before, when I cried a lot. I think it's because I've been trying not to dwell on being in the place I'm in. I'm not denying my feelings, but I've found I am pushing them aside. I don't know if that's good or bad. I've been finding things to keep myself distracted, and trying to avoid quiet time.

You know, before mom died I couldn't bear to think of her dying. I thought for sure I'd be so devastated I wouldn't be able to function at all for a long time, but I fooled myself. I didn't fall apart to the extent I thought I would, and I somehow found the strength to make funeral arrangements, tend to the stepfather and the brother, deal with Medicaid (I hate those people. I would like to shoot them all, but that's for another time to rant on) clean the house and go through mom's private papers in search of needed documents and a will. And all that while I had a nasty upper respiratory thing going on. I guess it comes down to somebody having to do it, and I guess that somebody had to be me. And yet I feel guilty that I should be falling apart - does that sound nutso?

I dunno, but I wonder about a lot of things now. For one thing, becoming an "orphan" in mid-life is a real humdinger of a head trip. It's just me now, and that scares me much more than I care to admit. Truth is, I'm afraid to go alone into the world. I know, that must sound rather pathetic, especially coming from someone like me, but that's one of the things that's begun to haunt me. I expect I will be moving out of the house I've lived in for a large part of my life in a few years, but where to go? I've been thinking maybe California, somewhere near Monterey or Santa Barbara. I don't know a soul in that area, so that's a little scary, but from what I've read and seen on TV I think I'll fall in love with the area. CA would also be good for me because I'm in the IT business, so finding part time computer related consulting work probably wouldn't be too hard.

For a long time I had thought I'd move to Florida where I have some relatives, but after this past year's hurricanes, forget that. Yeah, CA has earthqueakes and mud slides and fires, but the area I've mentioned seems pretty removed from that, or at least it's not a common place event. Anyway, I need to be near the ocean and rid of cold weather and snow. Ick. I'd wither up and die if I moved inland. Though I love LI, it's just too damned expensive. Taxes are through the roof and so is the housing. Moving away from "safe" to "completely new and unknown" is daunting. Ah, well, it's all conjecture right now anyway.

I finally "found" (located might be a better word) the will. Well, actually, the lawyer had it all along. See, what happened was that I called the wrong lawyer the first time. (Who said grief doesn't make you stupid?) Heh. Anywho, this past weekend I found some correspondence from a different lawyer about her will. So I called them and, yup, they had a copy. Phew, was I relieved! It's in their hands now, so probate has begun. And with that I groan long and hard because I'm already thinking in terms of the tax man and my 2006 return.

I have no idea what inheritance tax is, or how to do all this new stuff on my 1040. *SIGH* Still more stuff I have to read up on. I tell ya, I'm sure getting an intense, albeit crash course education out of all this - what with medicaid (seriously, I really want to harm those people somehow), and medicare (and them too, but not as much) and Empire's Senior Choice Plan, and now taxes and probate. And it's all so damned complex and boring to me. I hate it. Almost overnight, my life has gotten extremely complicated. I'm learning I have a low capacity for dealing with this type of stuff. It's been extremely frustrating and will probably continue, maybe for the rest of my life. How sucky is that.

Well, that's all for now. I still have a million things to do - seems my life has changed that way, too. I'm always busy now, and always exhausted. I haven't written anything for over a week. It seems the muse has deserted me again, and that frustrates me. I'm hoping she'll come back when things settle down. Oh yeah, and I've been suffering from insomnia. Seems that as soon as the distractions fade into quiet, my thoughts turn to mom and all sorts of things. I've been having to leave the tv turned on low to distract me. Thing is, sometimes it distracts me into watching it so I get interested in what's on and end up getting 3-4 hours of sleep. I was late for work two days last week. There's only so much of that the boss will overlook. Shit, what a dilemma my life's become. *sigh again*

And so, I leave you with my usual mantra - go talk to your mom. Life is uncertain, be with her while you can.