Shudder

Don't touch that. The fork's sharp
on his wrist. Dean's guarding his pie,
but his look says he felt the touch
like skin to skin same as Sam.

Oh yeah try and stop me.
Twitched fingers and a mischievous grin.
Pressed, the fork breaks skin.
Sonovabitch!
Wait your turn, Dean retorts.

Side by side in the motel mirror, one arm up,
a hand to graze his cheek. Just a gash, he bluffs,
not that bad. He gets a frown. Yes it is.

They are both stripped. Bare souls.
Pink again? How come nothing
ever comes out clean anymore?
It’s so dark right now, Sam. Can’t see. Sammy…?

in the morning he yawns
presses against protracted time
feels the heat of him
whose heart holds them against
the stretch of eternity
in one moment

alarm blare vibrates along the hair of his arm,
attenuated time from the slap of his palm to the
grip on the halo of warmth around his waist

There’s sweetness curling in my chest.
It spirals when you’re safe, twists inside me.
I will keep you safe (for a kiss)
I will keep your soul


I had to share this. It was entirely unintended to turn into a poem. This was an exercise between 5 friends, to try to write a short story about two characters (named Sam and Dean) using only 140 characters, including spaces and punctuation. Only two of the works were intended to compliment each other (the two about pie, and the two about waking up in the morning.)

But I strung them all together, and look what happened. Cool, hmm?

I've been writing poetry again, so I'll try to post some soon. Also, my website is finally back up, here.

Hope all are well.

Visits

Bagman and I had a nice visit and lunch in Charleston last week. He's okay...no, I mean really! He's driving around in this sweet little red Honda sports car, a convertible no less; and I'm jealous. I thought we would surely draw some babes to our lair, wherever that may be. No such luck, but that's only because none of them actually saw the car. I shall return for another ride across the bridge into James Island, the wind slicing through my, uh, scalp. Thanks Mark. We must do this again... and bring the others along. They would not fit into the car, of course. They'll have to just follow us to some nice seedy dive. I have dibs on the shotgun seat.

New Poem

I PRAYED

I prayed for fire and found enough
strength to burn the lies that bound me
to an unforgiving wife.
I prayed for fire and found enough
healing to believe the dawn
does not destroy my dreams.
I prayed for fire and found enough
inspiration to tell you the truth
and the truth and the truth.
I prayed for fire and found enough
passion to hold you naked,
smouldering in my arms.
I prayed for fire.

Of squirrels, buzzards, and babies

The wheel of life keeps turning, and I love the Tibetans' take on being alive: it is a glorious opportunity, we're very fortunate to have been born human, because we therefore have the ability to end our own suffering.

Today is my birthday. I always thought I would live a long life, so I feel very young (even though I'm nearing retirement age). The Hindus believe that life comes in stages: the first 20 years is for youth and learning to be responsible, the second 20 years is for starting and raising a family, the third 20 is for the career and making the world a better place, and the final 20 is for rest and spiritual practice. I like that notion.

It's delightful to hear from almost all of you, and I hope you're all being poets (in various ways). I'm working on a birthday poem, but my mother is here for the day so I haven't made a lot of progress. Today is really a day to honor her, b/c she's the one who delivered me, and from what she says, it wasn't easy!

Bagman's resting right now

It must be spring. A few of the Rugfarmers are about, sighing about things and missing each other. Bagman and I have been just hanging out doing stuff. Our son, Brian (actually it's not really "our" son...its the son we have with Karen) is engaged, living in a trailer in the middle of nowhere with the love of his life, Melody, and expecting a baby (actually he's not expecting, she is...well, I guess he's "expecting" but won't have to do all the work...yet). And I (the singular pronoun that covers the Bagman and Butler twins) have been corresponding alot and talking on the phone with my long lost daughter...8 when I last saw her and 30 now...So I guess all is well on the dirt road that runs by the Rugfarm fence.

good friday morning

sigh... i miss bagman, and sophie is fresh out of pearls.

Help Tiny Tim or Bill

Just call me Tiny, as in reduced memory, not to imply a areas... I have survived relatively unscathed where it counts! (-:

So, I need everyone's email address again. I've lost them somewhere in the new job transition with addresses changing and names and numbers flying. Will anyone oblige me or allow me to swing slowly in the ethereal void?

TB

Back from Alabama

I've been in Alabama taking care of my mother. She had an ovarian cyst removed. It was benign and she has recovered quite well. I stayed until she was able to drive herself around. I really love sitting on her front porch early in the morning. Here are two cutesy poems that came to me there.


BEAUREGARD

Beauregard, the Labrador,
barks at buzzards. Not ground bound
vultures, but the ones circling

in the sky. I remind him
to get them down he should be
less lively. He’d rather bark.

The idea of carrion
he finds offensive. Who knew
dogs can see so far.



SQUIRRELS

All the dogs I know proclaim:
Squirrels! Most evil and devious
creatures in the universe!
Do not let them in your yard!
In my mother’s neighborhood
evil abounds. It searches
for acorns, chases itself
in circles, and flees up trees.
It chatters from a safe height:
All the dogs are fenced or leashed
and no one owns a kitty.

I'm Tired

It's that point in the year...semester's end, flagging spirits, incredible fatigue. Every year the same struggle, my mood lightened only by the return of the nesting hawks, the flycatchers' early whistle, and the appearance of blooms on our native shrubs. I turned in my spring grades last Friday, had a housefull of guests all weekend, then started teaching Maymester on Monday (Latinos in the U.S.). Mrs. Lytle steps in and takes over at this time of year. Eve is teaching a yoga class at the university, which is among the few bright spots in my May and the only time Zoe appears until I get rested.

well

So, where is everybody? I know. Life doesn't allow for every dalliance. I think it's more about time than inclination. I just heard a most remarkable CD by Peter Rowan with guitar viruoso Tony Rice. It's Rowan's latest effort, and he demonstrates that his voice is pregant with lyricism. There is poetry here in presentation, very much in the tradition of poetry readings/slams. The lyrics of virtually every song on this album are like incantation, a form of magic transporting the listener to places that exist eternally in the human heart.

I'll have more on this later. Consider this a call to arms for the RUG. So?

2 Poems

CAUTION

Newly divorced, I wanted
sexy friends and friendly sex.
I found you who knew her heart
was cold; romance, a failed dream.
A perfect match. We wanted
to get laid. Our bodies fit
too well. You advised caution.
But our spirits fit too well.
We tried to stop at respect
and adoration. Our minds
fit too well. We admitted love
and learned the truth of caution.
We whisper the same promise:
I’m as reckless with my heart
as I am careful with yours.



AFTER

After the wisteria
shatters and honeysuckle
becomes a fragrant tangle
at woods edge, it seems the world
has always been this lush green.
The memory of branches
stripped bare brown is powerless
to prevent the moment
from stretching to forever.
And vice versa. The moment,
whether hopeful or helpless,
grows into a destiny.
If it isn’t yours, just seize
the moment after.

Merlefest 2008

Carolina Chocolate Drops Sweeten the Night

The Man Speaks

Saturday at America's largest roots music festival was messy, to put it kindly. The rains came that morning and turned the parking fields and the festival grounds ashen gray. Still, a muddy day at Merlefest is better than any work day... ever.

Doc Rolls Along

There is so much to recall about this year's four day journey through music paradise, and I will get to that in due time. Much to recount. Much to admire. So many fine threads of memory to spin into a fine cloth to keep the spirit warm in the days and months to come. Stay tuned.

Waiting and Cleaning

Outside your house in the red dusk
With the yellow glow of roses
In the window,
waiting for the invitation,
that never comes.

In my kitchen red sauces and
Squash blossoms on the fire simmer
Into the night.
The scorched caramel is washed away
At day's cleaning.

Glimpses of Divinity

GLIMPSES OF DIVINITY


1. Beginnings

In the gravel of our drive,
I built roads and rivers, woods
and mountains. I was the force
that animated the trucks
and cars, horses and knights,
cowboys and soldiers. I was
God until Mother called me
for lunch.

I wore a clip-on bow tie
to visit God’s house. There were
so many of them. How could
this fieldstone Methodist one
be His? I didn’t feel a presence
except when sun-lit stained glass
colored floating motes with shafts
of tinted light. Where did God
sleep? Maybe the Baptists
built Him a bedroom.

In the woods I was at home.
Sitting in the cool green fronds
or racing down a rabbit path
through the tangle on the tail
of my dog, I became another
force of nature.

Because my skin was so fair,
Daddy took me to the beach
early. The rising sun cast
a glittering path to Africa.
Before I learned to swim,
I’d claw through the shallow surf
pretending to be a boat
or some newly created
life-form, safely tumbled
on the heaving breast of the sea.



2. Bottoms

As a teenager, I ate enough
psilocybin to see God often.
Shiva danced in oaks. Gaia
blessed Buddha as Raven croaked
a re-creation. Addictions
trumped the divine.

I listened to Pathetique
and I reconsidered God.
My closed-eye-visions resolved
into clear patterns flowing
from Greek keys to paisley
to Celtic knots. Focusing
on space or the denim stretched
on my thigh, I imagined
a force that flows away.

A moment before launching
a sixty thousand ton missile
from the center of a submarine,
I muttered a foxhole prayer.
Don’t let us break in two.

At the bottom, all is brown
or grey or black. A hopeless,
helpless place where I lost all
my answers.



3. Births

In the morning I prayed,
Help me.
At bedtime I prayed,
Thank you,
and, Who are You?
One night She replied,
I am the one who answers
your prayers.
I found faith enough to heal.

At the moment of release
our faces shed all our years.
We rejuvenate. We fly
between the bonfires, maiden
and swain, nymph and faun,
Goddess and God. On our lips
we taste immortality.

An unseen crow caws,
pops its head above the clover
like a black thistle, dances
two hops to the side, and flies
into the woods. She shows me
a dozen paths easily missed.

One day in every twenty,
at sunset I light a lamp.
I honor Her flame all night,
waiting for dawn to bring us
face to face, waiting
for the world to catch fire.

Flow

The wine flows freely tonight.
All else is scraps;
They lie there untended and happy.

Nefertiti must have felt this
loosening of restraint.
She drank and prayed to the one.

There is power in the grape,
so why should we worry about
unkempt papyrus?

She died knowing the one
thing we abhor in our waking hours:
the unison of gods,

the Solidarity of drunken men
born to create order when
they come around.

Let's not rouse them.

This place

I keep wondering what we're doing here.... how we reached the point when technology overlaps intimacy. This medium has become so much the place where dreams and fantasies are played out; since we dare not do so in our real lives. That's a good thing in some respects, but I'm struggling with the implications. Has the internet become our lover, our collective mistress?

So many words flow through the medium every hour, every minute. I've had to learn a new vocabulary: it's a kind of slang that is found only on the blogs... a kind of urban slang which, therefore, requires an urban slang dictionary. You can find it online, as you can find everything else. I've been thinking about research, and how the old timers used to slave through those huge massive County registrar books that contained property records (slaves included), birth and death records, marriage license information.... Is that time past? It was very tactile. It presented itself as a physical connection to the past, to the fate of your ancestors.

To all my friends from the RUG, I miss you all and wonder what a true meeting would be like? Are we so ensconced in the technology, so comfortable behind the facade, that we would not recognize each other without the digital barrier? Many of us have met each other, but do the same subjects emerge in our fleshy conversations; or do we resort to the age old standbys: weather speak and career choices, and how's the husband or the wife? Fine, thank you. We're all fine! I do not mean to wax cynical here in this forum that has given me new life, a forum for immediate expression. I question the technology even as I cling to it as a child to his mother's breast....

I simply don't know the answer. Perhaps that's the point. All new technology has brought with it profound changes in how humans relate to one another. I don't understand web speak, but I do understand our need for connection; dare I say, our need for acceptance and self expression. I do love you all. Elaine, you are a delightful academic who does not flaunt your degrees and your great knowledge. Eve, you are a wondrous mystery, a deep well of thought, the great interrogator. Mark, you are my friend, even from a distance; thus proving that the ether can pass along great affection. You have taught me things that men should know. Susan, you know how I feel about you, despite the fact that we've been in the same physical space a portion of perhaps seven days in our entire lives. Tim, et. al. I am intrigued by you. I have never met you; but the internet brought us together.

So, what now? I am along here tonight, relishing the soft amber sunset and the song of chicadees, mockingbirds, nuthatches..... neighbors..... the smell of cut grass... the fading light of a South Carolina day in the heart of spring. Given these gifts, what is my complaint? IT is that so many on this planet struggle just to live another day; and I have the nerve to question my life's choices? So many in Haiti eat dirt pies to live. They are closer to the essence of life than I could ever imagine. So many in the Congo, in Darfur, live in fear of the death squads.... their children live in the moment, with little hope of hope.

Billions go hungry or live under the oppression of an old man regime in China that survives by suppressing the truth. Their mega growth is capitalism gone wild.... a convenient subterfuge. See how free our capitalists are to get rich and to inflate the price of steel for all the world? Pay no attention to that man blocking the tank in Tiananmen Square. He is of no consequence.

I've said enough. I've rambled without purpose, without intent. Isn't it delicious?

Spring at the Farm

The mermaid swims to the pond's surface and deposits a jewel, a beautiful poem about the woods, on the shore, smiles, and vanishes. Greenman, ever diligent, hears the water rippling and shyly tosses a couple of poems into the pond after her. Zoe watches from the back porch, where she and Princess Afternoon do yoga postures. Zoe asks Princess, "Did you hear the warblers this morning? They were in the tall pines behind the barn. I think the Magnolia warblers have returned for summer."

Plink-plonk-plink

Greenman hears a plink in the pond. He peers out of the solid wood and vast stretch of fern-blanketed earth on the verge of being swallowed up by night. "Maybe I'll plink a couple of poems into the pond, too."



BEFORE DADDY DIED

Before Daddy died, I didn’t feel
like an orphan the month between
Father’s day and his birthday.

Before Daddy died, I thought
the ocean safe, the forest
friendly, and life unending.

Before Daddy died, I knew who
to call when the name of a tree
or flower eluded me.

Today I ask him anyway.
Like school vocabulary words,
he says to look it up.



THE LOVE OF CROWS

When you love me, you invite
the crows. I open the door
and they caw good morning.
At each curve, they remind me
of past deaths suffered or caused.
You must hear the whole story.
Seeing them pick some last scrap
from the road and fly into
the woods, I’m guided to tell
a truth. They will follow you.
When I’m away crows will perch
on your mailbox. When we are
together, they’ll dance a jig
of mischief. Raucous laughter
caws at us or with us.
When you love me, you invite
the crows to foretell futures,
black as the space between stars,
filled with dreams. All true.

answer in the wood

This cool green wood that silent waits
guarded, watchful
catching the last clear rays of light
with upturned boughs of verdant trees
before the mist rises to veil the calm-laden valley
It softens the heat, lightens the gloom of evening, and
for brief silver seconds the world seems to shimmer, not really there,
but an intangible thing;
Solid wood and vast stretch of fern-blanketed earth
seems momentarily fragile,
on the verge of being swallowed up by night.
Here is where I played,
I stood in the shadows and watched--
my mind alive,
hearing finely tuned,
straining to catch the essence of the wooded green
in the treasure chest of my imagination.
I could not hold it for more than a moment,
the vibrant pitch of waiting, growing greenery
would filter through when all was silent,
and as quickly, was lost, when I turned away and
answered the call of the outside world.

I must return to the wood,
go back and walk those paths
along which I ran as a child
when I was too busy chasing dreams
to gather in the wonder that lay about me.
To examine bark, and leaf, and twig,
touching needle-strewn beds of moss,
gazing intently at the pattern of life within
each tiny sprout and curling lichen
Something rests here, which helped me
to make peace with my world,
and I need to find that, to once more make it a part of me
the young part, the growing, wondering, reflecting part,
the part of me which accepts,
and believes in the future,
and grows wiser, knowing.


As the wood, we grow tall, stretching forth our branches,
we answer the call of the whippoorwill,
our voices teasing, beckoning,
wanting deep within our hearts to mate,
but always holding something back, something vast,
precious, and green...
...answer, tell, pray, answer, look, tell, answer, answer, tell:
Believe, said the spirit, and isn't it a shame that the
legend is such that the magician had to die before he could
communicate to his wife that one small intelligence?
that love surpasses even Death?

We should know this, and trust in it, and go on,
wiser,
knowing.
What is it that we do not acknowledge?
I think that deeper than Fear, it is our Want,
our need of soulful replenishment
our craving of a concrete essence to re-affirm our own choices,
our own decisions.
Laughing, we mate, we do not think that a lifetime will be so long
to share with another.
Laughing, we were wrong.
So misguided.
We are lost, after a time. Life itself eludes us, we look upon one another as at the door of death itself, and recoil –
aghast, shivering, disgusted.
Depleted, indifferent, yet still tightly nursing the flame of want within our own being.
And so we return to the wood, we look at every tree and branch,
and slowly, we understand.
We grow old, we wither, we die, but
though individually the trees of the wood do just that, the forest remains.
Whole. Vital. Alive.
With every death, a new seed sprouts forth,
to feed upon the old.
Either within the wood, or just outside of it.
Love doesn't die; the men and women do,
so says old Will in the midst of rising waters and thrashing wild palms;
and so right he was.
Love doesn’t die, it outlives us all.
We can hold nothing fast to us
when we are constantly changing, evolving, growing
into someone else ourselves.
The very limbs we use to clasp will wither away to dust,
and grow again, as flowers, new fronds of sun-kissed willow,
and the tiniest of earth-bound leaves.
So. Like the seeds of larch, oak and pine,
we too reach out to grow new roots,
and embrace the Death when we can do no more,
draw from it, extract its nourishment
adding strength to the stand from within ourselves,
expanding our very breadth,
breathing life into death
with new seeds to sow,
ideas and sustenance that we’ve brought in
on winds aloft, from far away.
---Susannah

Note: This is an old version of a poem; the final version was much shorter. Posted in honor of National Poetry Month.

Free Tibet

http://www.tibet.org/index.html

Easter Eggs in East Texas

The teachers spent a morning
Sliding pastel eggs in Johnson grass
Or under dead logs in the quiet woods,
Then unleashed scores of us
Armed with baskets and determination.
We walked the dusty mile
In total disarray,
then trampled new grass,
Now minty green,
And tore through brown, spidery leaves.
The one foil-wrapped egg
Would fetch fifty cents and
The envy of all,
so we scrambled and poked,
dug and dreamed
bare hands muddy and cold
hearts filled with dread that
we wouldn’t be the one,
that the silver egg
would elude us again.

A Busy Week at Work

What We Did at Work This Week

Elements assaulted us
as we set our instruments
deep beneath the mesa's top.
We expected a few hours
of work. The task took one week
then also consumed the next.

System after system failed
and was replaced or repaired.
Until finally, sensors
calibrated began to
whisper readings in secret
languages of intellect.

We found what we expected
to find. We did not hear the
songs of the blue and humpback
as they slid past our sensors
in their brilliant under earth
caverns.

diving

The divers must come up soon. THey have found the great oysters, and beside them the grand jewels of Nefertiti...but how did they arrive here, so far from Achenoton's kingdom, so grandly alone?

Sans Images

An oldy but an oldy.......


The Long Earth

In the long earth, dreams abide of you.
These are not my dreams
As in a sequence of calendar pages,
Ripped by the numbers and
Each day representing missed time,
Days when your lower lip may have quivered
At the edges,
But not so I could see,
Raising the question not purely aesthetic,
Of what significance the gesture has for me
Unobserved.
What indeed is the shared reality, if any,
Of these days lived in parallel?
I am not sure that Frost’s roads capture it quite,
His having some symbolist aspiration in the guise
Of yankee common sense.
And I, I lose the common touch when I think of you
For longer than the time required to build a construct
Upon which any such ambitious language can be hoisted.

I lose the sense of you when I leave the confluence of memory
And sensation,
As would be the case with any strained
Attempt at grander verse.

lovely

Don't know about Greenman, but I can certainly use one.. Tiny Bill needs his pearl, his only ornamentation.

dear greenman

just a little something i found. maybe you can use one?
love, sophie pie

Greenman meets a mermaid?

Greenman thinks he has seen the mermaid gliding just beneath the surface. Or maybe he's heard her sing. Or maybe he's just imagining a reincarnation of . . .


NEFERTITI

When the sky turns deep dawn blue,
I sink in a bath of wild musk
rose petals. Though we proclaim
the One God, we don’t discard
our divinity. A Goddess
must seduce the sun. Daughters
shave my body, anoint me
with cinnamon and myrrh.
Their careful hands keep my nipples
hard. Arousal is my religion.
They dress me in gauze and gold,
bejeweled with chips of hard light.
A choir of blinded men sings
our praises. They hear me jingle,
smell the perfume of my skin,
my sex. Imagination
makes them hard. When the horizon
turns pink and purple, I loosen
the red sash. My gown whispers
to the floor. I weave between
the daughters and the choir,
stalking the altar, waiting
for the luminous moment
to sprawl spread eagle,
to thrust my hips at the red
rim rising above the sands,
to arch my breasts into the sky.
The first sun shaft penetrates me,
turns the slow slick heat to flame.
The blind men raise their voices
to match my cry. We rejoice
together. Blessed. Consumed.

Tide

The tide is out, but Tiny Bill knows it will always return, and with it his hopes of seeing the beautiful mermaid. She swims without effort and undetected in the ocean. She dances like Pavlova.... he needs only to see her, for then magic will occur and all history will pause in admiration. Then, with a melancholy backward glance toward the stormy shore, history will move on to its next assignment, sad but heartened.... "With such creatures about, surely the world will not destroy itself and miss out on her next appearance, her first farewell tour!"

spirits dancing

susannah came out of the farmhouse with a basket, intending to collect a few daffodils and perhaps branches from the blooming quince and azaleas down by the road. she dipped under the prayer flags waving in the breeze, and danced away over the grass. turning, she spied greenman, who had taken up residence near the pond, assumedly because sophie was said to be in residence. susannah knew that sophie would only appear by the light of the moon, and at dawn would go back down into the water, unless pancakes were being served at breakfast, in which case she might linger for a moment or two over coffee with the intellegentsia at the table. she liked discussing things with zoe - the two of them seemed to have an innate understanding of the world's more esoteric vibrations. susannah wondered how long it would take greenman to register the comings and goings of her friend, and sighed, wondering what unearthly dross would catapult next from the pen of the mermaid.

it was certain to be eye-opening and provocative, at the very least. susannah bent this way and that, snipping buttery-yellow blooms and adding them to the basket. when it was full, she carried it back up to the house and made a lovely arrangement for the kitchen table, being careful to wipe up the tiny spots of water before mrs. lytle could see them.

Falling words

Mrs. Lytle stepped briskly onto the back porch to sweep off the pine pollen and ponder what to do about the zipped tent (did she imagine it, or does that tent glow in the dark?) that seemed to move about the side yard. She sensed a renewed energy on RUGfarm, what that flaky Zoe called "chi," in the last day or so. From the tall grasses around the pond Greenman hummed haunting melodies, and that mystical young erasure head was heating up the place with his energy. She would need help keeping the place in order. How could she get Butler to agree to help her manage the place again? What would it take to persuade him?

Brow furrowed over this problem, Mrs. Lytle failed to notice Zoe and Princess Afternoon stretching the prayer flags across the back yard. Zoe was explaining the situation in Tibet and urging Princess to delay her trip so they could chant mantras, but Princess was more intent on doing a few yoga postures before the long trip to New York. Greenman watched from the tall grass and Sophie from just below the pond's surface as Zoe's and Princess' words fell like crystal onto the new spring grass. They noticed how the words became attached to one another as they fell to earth. Greenman knew about connections. He, like Erasure Head, knew all about interconnectedness.

Blurt on Today

Today Jude Fernando explained
why micro lending in Bangladesh
and Sri Lanka
doesn't empower women
or change the infrastructure
to alleviate poverty.
Today the Dalai Lama
said he would resign
if the violence continues
in Lasa.
Today a Black woman
with several sick children
who call her cell phone
when she is trying
to learn history
cheated on my exam
and got caught.
I said please drop the course
and I won't tell.
Today I felt the wind
blow right through me;
there was no one there
to stop it.

Nearly spring

Greenman is amazed. This new cyber-woods has turned him a tarnished coppery color. And more amazing there's activity again at the farm house. It's spring time and his thoughts naturally turn to baseball and nymphs.

OMAHA

Once I dreamed of Omaha
in early summer.
I saved spare change
to finance the trip
to sit in the stands
with my grandson
or in a grander dream
to watch him pitch
at Rosenblatt.
Far fetched dreams.
If they happen,
I will not be there.
Once I believed baseball
diamonds were sacred
geometries. Add sunshine
and grandkids,
and they could soothe
any trouble
like a well turned double play.
Lift the spirit
like a line drive streaking
for the centerfield fence.
Watching the game
is a pale passion
when the invitations stop.
Once my granddaughter
gave me a piggy bank
with the body
of a baseball. She feared
it was a stupid gift.
It was perfect
even with the crack by the slot
that Nana had to point out.
It was our last Christmas.
I still use it when change
jingles with too much loss.




NAIAD

The Shady Lady’s sign
proclaims:
Pool
Spirits
Dancing.
I’m tempted
to discover
what drought or dam
or sewage treatment
spill would drive
a water nymph
to domestication.
Is it chlorine
or gin
that makes her dance?
I don’t go in.
A world so full
of disbelief
condemns her
to a dive.

without a trace

Butler runs over to Bagman’s door to tell him that people are eating pancakes but, feeling guilty that he has perhaps strayed too far from his appointed role as protector of propriety, knocks first this time. Unlatched, it swings open from the pressure of the knock, and Butler realizes with a sinking sensation that the room is empty. My God, what have I done? Impulsively buttoning his collar, he walks over to see if Bagman’s computer might give him a clue. Just the blank Google search page. Butler hurries out, pausing only to straighten the pencils on Bagman’s desk, setting them out parallel to each other in order of height.

Tweed Crushes And the Speed of Light

Princess Afternoon was sitting at breakfast with Erasurehead and Sophie Pie. They were having banana fudge pancakes and she was trying out Zoe's pancake trick on Erasure. She was just getting into the part about subjective speeding pancakes when Earasurehead took the last pancake and began munching. "No, wait," cried princess, " You have to win the pancake first!"

"Erasurehead looked blank , his cheeks bulging in mid-chew. " Win the pancake?" he asked,his voice muffled by fudge chunks " I thought they were breakfast" "yes, they are, but the last one has to be won by argument over who gets it", said Princess, waving her hands in distress, trying to decide if the trick would work on the remaining 1/2 pancake. Would it speed the same way as a whole? " But there were four pancakes and you had two, so I thought I could have the last one." Erasure head said reasonably, starting on the second half. Princess gave up and slumped back in her chair. She eyed Sophie Pie wondering if she might whip up four more pancakes and try it out on the new Rugger. But she was full now and anyway,  Sophie looked busy writing about tender tongues massaging things, probably not pancakes. She briefly wondered if you could tongue massage a pancake at the speed of light but that got too confusing, she would probably have to borrow one of  Zoe's postmodern theories on the subject for a better grip on the thing. A heavy clumping broke the silence and Mrs. Lytle arrived in the kitchen, dressed in a fresh spring lilac tweed with matching duty-weight hose and a firmly holstered whiffler at her belt. "Good Morning all", she announced in a very definite sort of a way. Princess noticed that Erasure had gone slightly pink on the top of his baldness and was shifting in his seat looking everywhere but mrs. Lytle. "What's the matter, boy.  Is your private clothing too tight? It's terribly unhealthy , I say. You should see to it immediately before injury occurs" She walked over to the side board and served herself some of the warm English Oats with clotted cream 

Zoe flounced in wearing shortie pajamas and a T-shirt that said "Buddhists Do It With One Hand Clapping". Mrs. Lytle looked slightly perplexed, but unwilling to press the matter, although she suspected root sentence structure oddities.  Tiny Bill was still in his tent, Zoe informed the small group, the Amazons had gotten bored and left. She thought maybe someone should tell him it was safe to come out. "Where's Butler and Bagman?" asked Erasure, still shyly avoiding looking at Mrs. Lytle, he was feeling a little overwhelmed by females who were purported to explode with sharp teeth at any moment. " Still considering the possibilities.' said Zoe. "She looked around for the banana fudge pancakes. "No banana fudgies today?" " There were," said Princess, "Erasure had two and I had two." '"But there are three of us!" said Zoe, " you should have saved me one!" "Princess considered trying to explain how Erasure's tongue had massaged the last one at the speed of light but didn't feel up to the subject. Instead she announced, " I am leaving on a trip tomorrow to Long Island for a week"

It Must Be Good Karma to be Back on the Farm

While Erasure head was buried the PO Box of the farm changed. He appreciates the postcard with the forwarding address and the picture of the Mermaid. Gentlemen he thinks prefer mermaids over cereal in the morning any day.

Erasure Head grew up on a farm, and thinks farm work is hard work. He received a distance education so that he would be too far away to ever dig another post hole. Ironic now to have lived in a post hole for these last two years. It must be strong karma to be one with dirt.

Holed up with his moles, Erasure Head did tunnel two years through his rocky karma. He learned that starting takes more energy than continuing and continuing takes more energy than quitting. That made him wonder why anything happened at all, but he came up empty. However, a postcard back to the farm, and a crush on Mrs. Lytle, of all the synchronous things, were reason enough to turn his hole into a crater. He doesn't even like the smell of mothballs and tweed.

He learned that no one should be on the Farm at all, but we are. Karma is the reason the barn is going to be purple, the porn will be in tents, and that good stairs will run from the ground to the porch and visa versa to support the weight of all of us as we take a group photo to hang on the hallway wall. His contribution to the Farm beautification project.

Mr. Head's taxes have not been paid in two years, so you will forgive him please if he is locked into his room till the IRS is satisfied. Why can't I vote for Ron Paul?

Making Do

Zoe hopped off the ethereal blue bus, which had stopped in a cloud of cyber dust just outside RUGfarm. She preferred the "chicken" buses when she went into town, because there were always Guatemalans in the back carrying their chickens and goats to market, and she loved the informality and good humor.

Today Zoe had been to a lecture on Peter Singer's theories on ethics. Zoe loves lectures on ethics, because despite what the Jews, Greeks, Romans, and so many others had argued over time, philosophers still are arguing over how we know what's ethical. Kicking up more cyberdustwith her tan cowboy boots as she walked up the drive, she thought about the Tibetan Buddhist texts she studied late at night (after Mrs. Lytle did the room checks), and decided to think more about the power of karma...maybe Princess Afternoon would want to talk about this tomorrow as they hung the prayer flags between the barn and the big oak tree.

As she starts to enter the house Zoe sees the tent, zipped up tight with a "no girls allowed" sign posted in front. Tiny Bill must still be avoiding the ethereal women. Surely he'll let the exotic new RUGfarm resident, Sophie, in for a nightcap? Zoe decided to call his cellphone and ask.

Entering the dark kitchen, Zoe was reminded how tidiness (thanks to Mrs. Lytle) doesn't make up for the quiet now that Princess Afternoon is out sending faxes, smoke signals, and missiles to Baubo and Butler, among others. The quiet, sexy Sophie appeared and disappeared, and Tiny Bill popped in and out with fantastic ideas, but he was like a wood sprite...Zoe never knew when he would show up with something fun to talk about.

She longed for Butler and Bagman's return, and to see all the other former residents, who must be campaigning for some candidate somewhere. Clomping up the stairs to bed, Zoe decided that the farm needed art. She would work on a new poem and would paint the barn a lovely shade of purple.

End of the Day

Princess Afternoon arrived back at the farm late and in a funk. She couldn't find Erasurehead and figure he was either off gluing things together with his new self or else he would show up on his own. At the moment she was suffering from snowmobile butt and wanted a hot bath.  She walked up the rotting farm steps and thought how badly the place needed work. Butler had been so good at pulling the farm together, organizing, focusing. Now the place was in disrepair, moldy, in danger of termites and extraneous rot. She leaned against the porch railing and enjoyed the swirling pastels in the evening sky, enjoyed the crickets humming their twilight thrum. She dreamily wondered what Kierkegaard would have thought about living underground, maybe he did and just got stuck down there asking a bunch of questions that whirl around and around like a four dimensional rubik's cube that moves like this.  and she wondered about Zoe's pancake trick and if Einstein had actually eaten his pancakes at the speed of light, she wondered if Tiny bill was OK in his tent or if those Amazons could do light speed tricks also, she wondered if Bagman was thinking about his feather boas packed in mothballs, . She wondered if Butler liked chatrooms that moved at the speed of light, and how small those rooms might be and if the farm would even fit in a fast blog. She wondered if Baubo now wore chicken feather head dresses. She wondered if Mrs. Lytle and Mrs. Wrenthwhistle would ever raise dual whifflers again and cry out in unison "God save the Queen". She wondered about Sophie the new porno Queen and if the chicken scandals would blow out of control and create a Birdzilla that would have really sharp teeth. She wondered if Erasurehead heard special secrets from the moles that he might share. She wondered if Greenman had decomposed into organic compounds or just gotten bored and loped off to Butler's house. 

She wondered whether they would have Banana fudge pancakes again for breakfast and if she could figure out a trick to do on Zoe where she could finally get the last pancake.  Then she went inside to wait and see.

Moling and the Pancake trick

Princess Afternoon squinted her eyes and looked around. Man, this was really out in nowhere. Where was Erasurehead anyway? This was definitely the site from which the flares had gone up, in fact, she could see the cartridges lying on the ground. She peered around again and sighed.
Five hours ago she had been arguing with Zoe over who got to eat the last banana fudge pancake for breakfast. She had just finished a brilliant argument that since there were four pancakes they each should get two when Zoe breezily countered with the postulation that if you combined Kierkegaard, Baudrillard, and Einstein then pancakes moving at the speed of light will actually create a new territory which moves out of the realm of the objective and into the subjective making it therefore, no longer bound by the rules of time. While Princess was still puzzling out this progression Zoe nipped up the pancake up at what seemed to be close to the speed of light and in a twinkling it had disappeared. "See?" she said, and danced off to perform some special meditation exercises she had recently imported from Malaysia.
Seconds later they both heard the whine and bang of the flares and ran outside to see what was happening. "What the hey!" cried Princess Afternoon, one hundred flares shot up one after the other, brilliantly colored fireworks in the shapes of all kinds of underground creatures and organic compounds. "It must be Erasurehead", said Zoe, "the mole experiment is over." "The mole experiment?" said Princess. "Yes, he thought that if he lived with the moles for a period of time he could transcend the dirt and become one with the energetic matter that holds it together." "Transcend the dirt?" said Princess; why did she always sound like she never knew what was going on, she thought, probably because she didn't.
Zoe sighed and rolled her eyes, "You know," she said, " his theory that if you move past the fermions of everyday matter you can actually become a gluon and become one with other gluons in the space-time fabric." "I see. " said Princess, she actually didn't but it sounded better if she said she did, in truth she was still puzzling over the pancake trick. "Anyway," said Zoe, "the experiment was a bust so you'd better go pick him up."
"What! Go pick him up where?!" cried Princess. "Over there of course," Zoe pointed in the direction of where the flare smoke still touched the sky. "But that's probably hundreds of miles away, that might take hours!" said Princess Afternoon who had been really looking forward to an afternoon nap. "Nonsense! Remember," Zoe spoke slowly as if to a mentally challenged mole, "If you stay close to the speed of light, the road will shorten and you will be there and back in a twinkling. "Twinkling!? what about the speed of limit, I'll get a ticket!"
"Well, then," said Zoe, ever resourceful, "just take Bagman's old graviton time-machine. No one will even see you then." Princess eyed Bagman's last experiment lying over by the garage. It was a collection of lucky charm cereal boxes hooked up to a keg of dynamite powder and a laptop computer with some special equations in there having to do with the speed of pornography. She remembered several exploded chicken houses connected with this and the fact that nobody had actually ever seen a graviton. She decided to stick with one of the retrofitted snowmobiles still, amazingly enough, functional and waiting in the grass next to the time machine. "Why can't Tiny Bill go?" she made one last ditch effort to realize her dream of an afternoon nap. "He is busy with the Amazonian crotchnippers in his tent, they are holding him hostage in the tent and we have to wait for Baubo to come and be interpreter for their earth-based Rain forest language" "I see", said Princess, although she really didn't...
So five hours later she was waiting. Peering around into the desert, wondering if Erasurehead had actually become a gluon and how would she recognize him...

an assembly such as this

Butler is doing his best to prize Bagman out from behind his desk - although Susannah hopes that he will be careful and not too hasty, as Bagman may be --er, busy at the moment. Princess Afternoon appears exhausted and will soon need a nap... and there is no telling what Mrs. Lytle will do in her absence!! The chickens have escaped and are running in and out of the house, and apparently Erasure Head has attempted to blow up Mole End, and nearly succeeded in detonating the farm. Zoe is in the mountains of her mind, and Sophie is headed out to sea for parts unknown.

Maybe Kierkegaard needs to come down off the porch swing and do the hula, or something.

Bagman stops growling

Butler, back from the Blogspot sticks his head into Bagman’s study despite the risk of having it chewed off, but Bagman just stares back. “I went to the party without you,” he says. “And why do I care about this?” Bagman growls. “Because they are all coming back! The Rug is not dead despite what you have convinced yourself.” “I don’t have time for this crap anymore,” Bagman growls. “You need to find another word for “growls”,” articulates Butler. “I don’t need to do anything,” Bagman insistently continues to growl. Butler stamps his foot like a small child. “You’ve become a real pain in the ass and I think it’s because you’re not getting enough sex anymore. And there’s even this new Sophie lady who claims she takes requests! Right up your alley! Come on, Bagman! Live a little! I’m a neophyte at this. Loosen your pants! It’s not all about Kierkegaard! They even have a beach!” “Not interested,” snarled Bagman, shifting behind his desk. Butler noticed the way Bagman was shifting behind his desk. He’d watched Bagman long enough to know what that meant. “You can’t fool me,” he said. “You say you aren’t interested but you’ve got an erection, don’t you?” “Shut the door on your way out,” barked Bagman. Dejected, Butler backed out and closed the door, reminding himself that Bagman had at least stopped growling.

Butler Enters the Room

Butler entered the room.
Butler noticed that group blogging is like an extremely slow chatroom.
Butler left the room.

an introduction

she is sitting there on the surface of the sand
her back to you, gazing out at the promontory of knitted stone
turning, she raises one elegant brow
in quizzical contrast
like a grace note above sparkling eyes
the color of the winter sea
and leaning forward dropping
her chin delicately in acknowledgment
says, 'how-do.'

the long icy fingers tapping the keys
palms resting on the curvature of the spine
where tingles remain from yesterday's tattoo
she only speaks in rhythm
and prefers tactile explorations
tongue
taste
time
to telling
observations noted in the passage of all three
over the sibilant whispers of her mind

she is silent as a mermaid
soaring up out of the dark waves
and disappearing just as you think you see her
iridescent fin shining, a flash and she is gone
but she will tell all eventually
she is a treasure trove of life
like a pearl that evolves from a grain of sand
tender muscles massaging the point of irritation
sharp as bitter glass until it opens and
the oyster reveals a lustrous gift from the sea.


--sophie pie

a dry retribution

he hears the wind ruffling the pines,
soaring up the mountainside
tossing the chickens over the fence
and into the dog's breakfast.

cock and hen alike had always
clucked cheekily between the roughened boards,
refusing to share even a daily ovum,
quibbling merrily over the the latest bug.

fateful diligence spared them not
and it came to pass, in an instant,
that they were merrily consumed
by all who knew them.

and on and on and on
said she, skipping through the grass
skirts lifting, apron cupped and
running smack into bedlam

where she sees the fine sharp
teeth glinting in the sunlight
with the damply clinging feathers of
gold, and white, and green

she whirls, in the swing of time
upward shrieking in a slice of sky
and the errant muddy fiend's appetite
is gone forever, leaving only a trace

of rheumy fleabitten cowering
faintly shadowed by the fall,
into the ready and vacant dust beside
an angry, sodden puff of red-encrusted white.

Critical Mass

Princess Afternoon sighed and leaned against the porch railing, it had been a productive day. She pulled a small paper bag from her pocket and rustled around in it selecting one of the  swiss chocolate mocha melt creams that she had pilfered from Zoe's international chocolate drawer. Well, not pilfered exactly, Princess Afternoon absolutely did NOT believe in stolen property, she intended fully to replace the chocolates if she ever in her life got to Switzerland. She was thoughtful as she virtuously munched the chocolate, things were looking up. Baubo was sending postcards from the forest, she could not actually come to the convocation because ... her thoughts broke off as a thundering noise breeched her consciousness and the distinct clump of mrs. lytle's brough encased stride hit the porch floor coming to stop precisely in front of her. She instantly placed the small bag behind her back, regretting her recent decision that five chocolates at one time would provide a singular taste experience as she likely appeared a somewhat desperate rodent packed with her winter stash. 

"Gel, I..." Mrs. Lytle started after planting herself in a firm no-nonsense stance, then she faltered, something was amiss. She whipped out of her tweed morning suit pocket a quizzing glass and held it up to her eyes. "Saints! You've swollen up like a toad! It looks like mumps, slightly higher up the throat than usual, but nonetheless, a definite result of superfluous pontification, i'm sure, and now your body has reacted violently. Today of all days!" She placed the glass safely back in the tweed and crossed her arms under her impressive chest, fortifying the image of a military gunboat sited for action. " We have impending chaos. Zoe has locked herself in her meditation boudoir, Tiny Bill is running around in a Testicular Protection Device.." Princess Afternoon raised her eyebrows "mmooph?" she asked. "Well, yes, he seems to have imported some several Amazonian maidens from the rainforest, something about ethereal romance, but they apparently involve nutcrackers in their joues de'amor and Tiny is in retreat, having fortified the tent. Anyway, Baubo is mashing her chickens and cannot attend the Convocation, Bagman and Butler are still refusing to come impose order, although they did send a postcard and you can't tell one from the other anymore, Zoe is, as i said, ensconced and refuses to emerge, she keeps complaining about stolen chocolates, you wouldn't know anything about that would you?" Mrs. Lytle peered suspiciously at Princess's mouth, something about the odor... "Mmurphug!' said Princess. "Hmmmph." said mrs. Lytle getting her mind back on track, " yes, well, as I said disorder is abounding and there seems to be a Miss Pie , an author of some racy repute who is creating suggestive chicken scandals about the Farm. It is simply not acceptable, I say!" Her voice raised a notch and Princess could see her feeling about for the whiffler she usually kept attached to her belt in a special holster. She  had seemingly forgotten to don it in her haste this morning, and so became slightly distracted. " Well, you must tend to your condition and return to defend the Queen's Farm! I am imposing Military Curfew until order is restored!" She did a quick about face and marched inside to find the necessary piece of defensive equipment she needed to fully arm herself from the impending Anarchy. Princess Afternoon quickly swallowed the chocolates and ran into the kitchen to e-mail Butler and Baubo: Code Red, she wrote, insanity level reaching critical mass, report immediately.

Kierkegaard?

Sounds like my idea of a good vacation. Silence. Peace.

I would like to hear more on Kierkegaard. I want to know why Elaine sees him as a postmodernist and what Bill sees him saying about the connection between spirit and self. He seems as though he was a complex and melancholy guy. 

Mountain retreats

I was just there for a board meeting this past weekend, but we did some meditation (2x daily) also. That was, of course, the best part. The board members are from a variety of Buddhist traditions: Zen, Tibetan, and Vipassana, and we also have a Quaker or two who regularly meditate.

The retreat schedule for 2008 is up on the Southern Dharma Retreat Center website. To get to it, go to http://www.southerndharma.org/RetreatSchedule2008.htm There are some for beginners, and some for more advanced. They let you know in the description. We started with beginner retreats back in 1996 and have been going back every year.

Each retreat is described (click on the link for each), so you can pick out what you like. And, yes, there are always women looking for ethereal men, but since I usually go there with my own ethereal man and am always very much focused on the retreat itself I don't pay attention to anyone else's doings.

The last retreat I attended was 12/27/07 to 1/04/08. The first half was Zen and yoga and the second half was a Tibetan retreat. The first one helped center me and relax me, and the second was very intellectual. The Tibetans are definately the most cerebral of the Buddhist traditions I think. In so many ways I'm still a beginner.

out there

Elaine, I never asked you about your experience in the mountains this year. Tell me more. I really could use something like this... Are there any women looking for ethereal men? (-: Long story. Anyway, tell me more about why you like this retreat. I want to be convinced.

B

Gathering of the Convocation

Princess Afternoon was running back and forth between fiber-optic venues and starting to feel slightly disoriented. However, Zoe had broken off meditation exercises to come outside and begin to uphold the freedom inherent in Postmodernism with her Burmese silks floating in the spring breeze. Mrs. Lytle was right behind her, of course, her bosom cutting the air like the prow of a military gunboat, ready to uphold the Queen's lexicon as taking primacy over any foolishness about freedom and prefixes involving "post-". Bagman and Butler were still behaving in a shady manner pretending they were receiving phone messages from Danish pornographers as an excuse for not answering calls. Tiny was disturbed by the cyberspotlight that had swiveled in his direction and was presently burning him in the eyeballs, so that he couldn't see and the screen door hit him in the face after Mrs. Lytle sailed out. 

Things were starting to cook

What's All This?

Mrs. Lytle has spent the winter reorganizing the library books at RUGfarm (who is it that keeps putting them out of Dewey Decimal System order????) and categorizing the grammatical errors of all political candidates. Sniffing the first spring-like weather, she starts to plan spring cleaning chores, arranging her garter belt and making sure her tightly permed hair is in place before approaching the remaining residents of RUGfarm with their "to do" list.

Walking out the back door to ring the bell that would summon everyone, Mrs. Lytle is astonished to discover that the farm is now floating in cyberspace. "What's All This??" she demands of Princess Afternoon, who, seated on the porch swing, blithely continues reading Kirkegaard to Tiny Bill, who is squirming in his seat, desperately hoping to escape to go swimming in the pond before heading off to a new job. Bagman listens from the bushes, frowning and muttering, "I hope she gets to the part about indirect communication soon!" Zoe leans out of the upstairs window and reminds Princess Afternoon to remind Bill that Kirkegaard was the first postmodernist. "Remember his admonition that 'subjectivity is truth' and 'truth is subjectivity,' she exclaimed.

Mrs. Lytle harrumphed, and with index finger high in the air began to pontificate on the value of hard work and the silliness of Danish philosophers. At the same time, her eyes were sweeping the skies of cyberspace for Butler and the others, all of whom had mysteriously disappeared as soon as the presidential campaigns had started. Perhaps they were all now political advisors instead of poets?

On Bill's reading Kierkegaard and his ruminations On faith

OK, Bill, I am assuming you are reading Sickness Unto Death because this is his most popular book and it is the one that allows atheists to regard faith from a point of view not over run by Christian terminology to the point where all he hears is "Blah, blah, blah" the book makes no case for Christianity but does make a particular case for faith as separate from religion which is an important distinction to have under your belt. 

Before we go any father are we discussing Sickness Unto Death?

Where Audacious Speech is Considered

Princess Afternoon was out of breath. She had been stamping back and forth saying provocative things for some time and she felt a wheeze coming on. Zoe had briefly peeked out the upstairs window where she had been performing a special kind of meditation that involved a lot of silence and green silk pajamas from Burma.  There was a suspicious rustling in the bushes and she caught the tail end of Bagman's fringed lemon yellow sarong disappear into the brush. "Smokin' Jehosephat", she swore," this goading business is feverish stuff" She hoped the dam would break soon or she might have to consider the explosive mix  of politics, religion and sex to blow the doors off the reluctant bunch and send them streaming towards her in a maddened froth. Hmmm... that could have its drawbacks if she continued to the end of that particular image. She sighed and went into the kitchen for a glass of lemonade. She would take a break and think this over.

Let's keep this quiet

Hi, Zoe here, just back from meditating in the mountains and pleading with everyone to keep this locale a secret from Mrs. Lytle. She will surely find something to criticize, and I think it's so lovely to be here in outerspace with so much energy (chi) floating around me.

Not in kansas

Holy smokes Andy, we've gone into cyberland. Is this the part where we make secret names like

"Cyber Wiz" or "Smokin' Jo"? 

Princess Afternoon

Welcome to the RUGFarm

Geez, I hope I spelled that right.

Comment here to let everyone know you're around, k?

*hugs*

Susannah