Tag Archives: nature

called by the clouds

the slight sweat gathering
under pant legs and sleeves whilel i
wrestly poison ivy
along the down-sloping path

the staggered ding! of the wind-up kitchen timer and the beep beep beep of my watch timer
while i stand in front of the two mighty pots
of water boiling before me
and the mountains of kale and collard leaves
that i drop in and then scoop out
called by the clouds
i walk up on slaters hill and through clearings then woods then clearings
all the grass that was once there yellowing
in bales scattered
the jingle jang of jack’s collar sometimes alongside me sometimes up ahead but rarely behind
and the thunderclouds looming
clearer into view
and later when corinne tells me it’s solstice, i feel bad for not realizing/knowing
and then i don’t feel bad because i celebrated it
in my own small way
by being called
and heeding it
and walking even when the day was long
and celebrating: the deer prints in the wet earth, the black eyed susans coming up, the white tail of a deer scrambling off after my human presence rattles them, all the ornaments hung and flickering on night trees and sky (lightning bugs), the bat that seems to have taken up residence on the exterior eastern wall of my room
the cat who is called ashby
curled up on my loft bed as i write
how most nights
the sound of so many bugs
colliding with screen over and over again
sound something
like rain

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encounters with the wild lives

never, until this morning, have i stepped out onto my porch to stand within three feet of a bat
as the bat cleans themselves
the quick flicks of their tiny pink-red tongue
and the bathing movements similar to that of a cat and bird

we’re on a mission! emory says as we paddle our way
around the pond searching for tangled fishing line
that we pull out of the willows

no real exact words
for the pom pom burst of milkweed blooms – sturdy purple-white flowers
and their powdery lilac-ish-but-not smell
filling the room in which i dwell
where they are tucked in a small clear bottle
next to photos of some of the dearest
who have passed on


i learned them as potty shots i say to emory who calls them granny shots
which i, in response, call them grampy shots
and we sometimes count from one to three and then say shoot while we simultaneiously each hurl a ball towards the net

the small bouquet i arrange including day lilies
for a father whose first father’s day in 40-some or 50-some years
goes on without his daughter alive

like a surgeon and their assistant  i say of emory, the lego assembler, and i, the piece-gatherer
as we follow our way through the instruction booklet
for the blue car with monster-ish wheels that, once assembled, one can pull back and then release
to set the vehicle in motion
like going to church i say of my encounters
with the wild lives
that come into close range of my woodsy-edged dwelling
not the kind of church i am forced/expected to go to
but the kind of weird church i make 
and choose


tropical  say of the sunset, which is this florida beach spring break neon pink orange kinds of colors
all under an arrangement of purple gray clouds
against powder blue sky

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all the greens becoming

lying on my stomach
on the cool wood floor
catching up on the poems
sent dailiy to my inbox
the quality
of light flitered by the new green growing
off branches stretching overhead
and all the greens

hauling the final garden cart of my stuff
(clothes) from karma
to the sugar shack 
and the satisfaction i feel of having moved
it all this way 

headpiece i call the earphone/mic combo
which makes both shannon and i laugh
about codpieces
)he little stained glass style hooded nightlight
(which is one of the things of janina siedlewski’s that i aquired)
sending the glow of small light
through its flower petal reds and offwhites
up in the sleeping loft
whose matress is currently draped in layers of bedding including
the afghan janina crocheted
(brght greens and purple-magentas)

from the water world: 

Trash is seen on the polluted El Claro creek on Earth Day in Tigre, Argentina – voice of America, day in photos.

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at the red

the discipline it takes to keep myself
from trimming zoids (it will only be an hour)
on friday, the day of writing
how, from the loft bed perch, i lay and stare
out all the windows:
at an american persimmon and its mottled bark swaying in the wind,
at the red of a cardinal inthe foliage along the chicken yard
at the big drips of rain rolling off the corrugated metal roof edge (which are different than all the little drops in the background which are imperceptible mostly, but create a gray haze),
at all the branches (bare) that will soon be filled in with green
kayah, five years old, in the dinosaur onesie
swinging (by holding robs hand on one side and baigz’s on the other)
at dinner circle

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above the wide waters

the sun on our faces where we sit
at a table near the sidewalk in the second half of november
which is sometimes already filled with snow but not today

tastes vitamin c-y i say
of the deep red tea
(hibiscus) steaming in its clear pot

how the paths lead us up
to overlooks and prairies and down
through forested patches where
sometimes it isn’t the trees
so much as the light on them i notice
and when we get to the sounds of water moving
(a creek)
we occupy the middle space between
loving it for what it is and
feeling wistful for the clearcold rush
of snowmelt tumbling through mountainy forests
of the pacific northwest whose green and grandiosity
we will never fall out of love with

the sound of geese calling
as they swirl from flight to landing
above the wide waters
of the st. croix


i understand the significance
of the moon’s closeness to the earth 

i say but i think all moons are supermoons
and i talk about how i try to catch the sunsets and moonrises
whenever i can

i’ve decided to call him (he whose last name rhymes with grump) ‘what’s his name’ i say

i’ve got an idea i joke with rachel in the bay
we build a big wall
around what’s his face 
to which she agrees and asks if it
can be sound-proof
like pierogies amber says of
mashed potatoes in tortillas
with sour cream on top


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written into

morning she brings me a
coconut oil coating
a slathering
for sun/wind worn face

tears in her eyes when she talks
about the yes men and how they
put out a paper reporting all the news
we’ve been wanting/waiting to hear
(iraq war over, gay marriage legal,
u.s./mexico border wall torn down,
no more killer cops, the glaciers are growing etc.)


flip phones the sprint man on the line says
make you feel real important
they get ringing and you just flip them open
people don’t know how good they are
after i use the word ancient
to describe my 7-year-old un-smart device

two wild wolf/german shepherd –like creatures
ahead of me quietly crossing dirt road
into alpine forest as i exit
secret creek-following path

an attempt to describe this particular
mountain/desert quiet:
it is written into the land

grass seating
featuring surreal mountain backdrop
we three (amanda-panda, liana and i)
talk train treks and
closing the circle and
the significance of

distant lines of lightning
scraggling down
blue-gray sky where
mountains dip down
(some say valley)

walking into sea of pleasanted smiling faces
(mostly retirees we guess)
as they listen on to
local cover-man
whose theme this eve is van morrison

sight of stars emerging through
pine needled branches
while sky sometimes strobes
seat of tiny twigs and dried needles
poking into
rickety tree fort delivery
she brings me clarifying statements
she brings me sleeping bag and pillow
as night cool comes on
she brings me the flicker of the candle
that she lit and left in the window
i did a lot of running away she says

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almost a shimmering

a pot of earl gray i
pour through mesh and
stir in sugar/milk


her father operated the lighthouse
the first time she tasted oranges alline says
was when a ship broke up
and (days?) later
the oranges came floating ashore
seldom-come-by, the name of the town
all the women disappeared she says
into their husband’s names


things found along and above the (mostly gravel, some paved) road
in the three miles between here and there:

a handful of teeth (plucked from a pile of bones amongst the gravel)
clinking in my palm
difficult to tell which animal this was
but it had claws, so i’m guessing it’s a raccoon

ribbons of geese
flying south so far overhead
they remind me of helium balloons that have become almost too small to see
but there is almost a shimmering
as they ribbon-whip their way in the wind
sometimes achieving perfect V-ness

a closeup of the dog i noticed in the ditch back before the snowfell
mostly whole except for an eating-away into deep redness
where jaw-meets ear
body thawing from the melt
fur black and blue-white
(gives away its blue heelerness)


emory and i in the pine tree
while the sun turns gold
how about i hold that rock i say
since it’s perching above your head
later: sap stains on my hands
marked by spring and limb
from the water world:

Devotees react as Buddhist monks spray holy water during the annual Magic Tattoo Festival at Wat Bang Phra in Nakhon Prathom province, Thailand.
voice of america, day in photos

Anti-government protesters run away from a water cannon shot by the national guard during a protest at Altamira Square in Caracas, Venezuela. – voice of america, day in photos

Screen shot 2014-03-15 at 11.19.58 PM
The Turkana region in northern Kenya is facing one of the worst droughts in living memory with more than a million people in need of food aid. The drought comes despite the area sitting on a massive underground water reservoir that has the potential to supply Kenya with water for the next 70 years.
– bbc, week in photos

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