I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
I want to be with people who submerge
The work of the world is common as mud.
Looking north it almost looks like a beach at the ocean in this picture. You can see the channel that is getting smaller. A few months ago this was all covered with water. A new island has even emerged on the lake by our house. Believe me... there are many more places to take hikes during the drawdown.
There is a place
where the museum houses thousands of paintings
seen nowhere else in the world,
the colors so bright they grab your eyes
and hold you there, looking,where the library is filled with brand new books
waiting for you to open them first,
to tell stories only you could know,
where fresh cherries have no pits,
where puppies never grow old.
There is such a place,
- Janet Wong
is not silent, it is a speaking-
out-loud voice in your head: it is spoken,
a voice is saying it
as you read. It's the writer's voice,
of course, in a literary sense
his or her "voice" but the sound
of that voice is the sound of your voice.
Not the sound your friends know
or the sound of a tape played back
but your voice
caught in the dark cathedral
of your skull, your voice heard
by an internal ear informed by internal abstracts
and what you know by feeling, having felt. It is your voice
saying, for example, the word "barn"
that the writer wrote
but the "barn" you say
is a barn you know or knew. The voice
in your head, speaking as you read,
never says anything neutrally -- some people
hated the barn they knew,
some people love the barn they know
so you hear the word loaded
and a sensory constellation is lit: horse-gnawed stalls,
hayloft, black heat tape wrapping
a water pipe, a slippery
spilled chirrr of oats from a split sack,
the bony, filthy haunches of cows . . .
And "barn" is only a noun -- no verb
or subject has entered into the sentence yet!
The voice you hear when you read to yourself
is the clearest voice: you speak it
speaking to you.
-- Thomas Lux
I love how old men carry purses for their wives,
those stiff light beige or navy wedge-shaped bags
that match the women’s pumps,
with small gold clasps that click open and shut.
The men drowse off in medical center waiting rooms,
with bags perched in their laps like big tame birds
too worn to flap away. Within, the wives slowly undress,
put on the thin white robes, consult, come out
and wake the husbands dreaming openmouthed.
And when they both rise up
to take their constitutional,
walk up and down the block, her arms are free as air,
his right hand dangles down.
So I, desiring to shed this skin
for some light silken one,
will tell my husband, “Here, hold this,”
and watch him amble off into the mall among the shining
cans of motor oil, my leather bag
slung over his massive shoulder bone,
so prettily slender-waisted, so forgiving of the ways
we hold each other down, that watching him
I see how men love women, and women men,
and how the burden of the other comes to be
light as a feather blown, more quickly vanishing.
As much as you deserve it,
I wouldn’t wish this
Sunday night on you-
not the Osco at closing,
not its two tired women
and shaky security guard,
not its bin of flip-flops
and Tasmanian Devil
not its freshly mopped floors
and fluorescent lights,
not its endless James Taylor
song on the intercom,
and not its last pint of
chocolate mint ice cream,
which I carried
down Milwaukee Ave.
past a man in an unbuttoned
baseball shirt, who stepped
out of a shadow to whisper,
How are you doing?
and the mitt.
bat, or it
hit ball, bat
off bat, flies
air, or thuds
to take bat’s
keep the date.
Ball goes in
(thwack) to mitt,
and goes out
ball gets hit
(pow) when bat
to a place
has to quit
and the fans.
on a diamond,
and for fun.
home, and it’s
In the back part of the house another pine is now down. This tree appeared so much longer when it was on the ground. I think this one will give us another third of a cord of winter wood... or after the two inches of snow that fell today... perhaps spring firewood.
A favorite anthology of poetry I love is called Celebrate America in Poetry in Art. National Museum of American Art, Smithsonian Institution edited by Nora Panzer
This book takes American poetry selections and matches them with American art into a visual and poetic tribute to our country. Here is one sample from the book:
painting is Cowboy Dance by Jenne Magafan
For Robert Penn Warren
At the first strokes of the fiddle bow
the dances rise from their seats.
The dance begins to shape itself
in the crowd, as couples join,
and couples join couples, their movement
together lightening their feet.
They move in the ancient circle
of the dance. The dance and the song
call each other into being. Soon
they are one-rapt in a single
rapture, so that even the night
has its clarity, and time
is the wheel that brings it round.
In this rapture the dead return.
Sorrow is gone from them.
They are light. They step
into the steps of the living
and turn with them in the dance
in the sweet enclosure
of the song, and timeless
is the wheel that brings it round.
The trip was well worth our time. Blueberry Hills Farms has everything I love about a destination. This place has collectibles, homemade pies, canned goods, beautiful gifts and cookbooks for sale, very delicious food, beverages served in canning jars, and a beautiful view. Since we were there in early April I couldn't enjoy the ripened blueberries or the orchards surrounding it ready to bear fruit, but just the view was spectacular. My Reuben sandwich was the best. and we even got homemade french fries. We were so full from lunch we took our homemade pie home to the tent trailer to eat later. The homemade pie is also to die for. The photographs under the glass on the tables are collections of family members through the years. Here is another view of the the rows of blueberries waiting for the snow to melt and the weather to warm.
One collection that caught my eye when we walked in was the one above. I thought it was some fancy dancy light only to find out it was a huge collection of sunglasses. They looked really cool hanging from the ceiling with all their many shapes, sizes, and colors.
Another thing that drew me to this place was the website by Kari Sorenson, the owner. You can visit it here. Just reading the website will inspire you to visit this place if you are in the area. We had a fantastic spring break in the Chelan area and one highlight was our visit to Blueberry Hills Farms.
A few weeks ago
the cashier at the grocery store,
seeing my dark hair
and dark eyes,
counted my change
back to me in Spanish.
Three days later
the waitress at the pizza place
made the same mistake.
Happens all the time
since I moved to Miami.
As though without buckskin, braids and beads
I don’t exist.
At a pow-wow last Sunday
I spoke to a Cherokee
wearing faded black jeans and a tee shirt
standing beside a display of stone sculptures
I told him I admired his work.
He didn’t mistake me for Hispanic
But saw that I was Indian
and even guessed my tribe.
Other Indians always recognize me.
Maybe they hear the echoes of the drums
In the rhythms of my voice.
Glimpses the shadows of my Indian grandmother
In the chiseled cheekbones of my face,
Or see the turquoise in my heart.
-Deloras (Dee) Lane
Yes, on April 20th we had snow in northeastern Washington. The amount varied from a light dusting at our house to 3-5 inches where some of my students live.
To view other camera critters go here.
I’m from Sunbeam mixer
from whipped cream to Tom and Jerry batter,
I’m from fruitcake to Grandma’s banana bread,
potato chip casserole and navy bean soup,
Bazooka, sunflower seeds, and black licorice pipes,
Grape Crush, Shasta, and Canada Dry.
planted each May
with pansies and petunias from Blum’s Nursery,
and the old metal clothesline
from the front of the lilacs
with the strong scent of spring and childhood.
I’m from Grandma’s rich soil with pickling cucumbers,
trick-or-treating and Father Daughter banquets.
From Sunnyside Chili Feed, to the church oyster stew feed,
Kellogg Elk’s Roundup and Smelterville Frontier Days.
I’m from Teeter’s Field and the swimming pool.
And up the river and “I’m going to Dick’s.”
and Beautiful Bill, Boo Boo, and little Pooh.
I'm from the roads are slick and
“you just got put back in the will.”
and sister’s photo ornament hung from the tree,
and a Christmas program and a brown bag of candy.
Breck girls, Clairol girls, Cover Girl
and “only your hairdresser knows for sure.”
Fried eggs and MJB coffee,
Missouri pudding, Bogie Bread, and Olympia beer.
Calling All Girls, Seventeen, The Prophet, and Rod McKuen.
From the arm I cut running through the window,
the foot my brother cut while cleaning the garage,
the chin my sister cut trying to shave and
the eye my dad lost to a splinter of wood.
with the angel chimes and
bows saved over from a year before,
along with dolls, the Sorry game, sponge curlers, and a make-up mirror.
and memories sharpened by the black and white photos
in a heavy, worn box stuck way in the back.