I am in here.
Poetry is a fireplace in summer or a fan in winter. One need not be a haikai poet, but if someone doesn’t live inside ordinary life and understand ordinary feelings, he’s not likely to be a poet. [These come from Learn from the Pine, by Basho, included in Robert Hass’s Essential Haiku. I think I’ll … Continue reading Basho on Poetry
Essential Oils — are wrung — The Attar from the Rose Be not expressed by Suns — alone — It is the gift of Screws — The General Rose — decay — But this — in Lady’s Drawer Make Summer — When the Lady lie In Spiceless Sepulchre — — Emily Dickinson
I don’t have a lot of knowledge of my mother’s family. Oh sure, the basics: her sisters (3, and she was the youngest, by 20 minutes) and my resultant uncles and cousins, her parents’ names (I had to give those for the death certificate – did you know that the funeral home issues that?). But … Continue reading We are our stories.
Why shouldn’t I be relieved? I am not happy, mind you. I have no plans to party now that you’re gone. It’s more like releasing a breath that I’ve been holding for forty-seven years. I don’t want to keep you from your journey, or me from mine. You were my mother for a reason. Why … Continue reading Dear Mom,
white pebble 