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In 1913 Pollyanna was published, a somewhat syrupy book about an optimistic orphan child.  Eleanor H. Porter was the author, who gained wealth and fame as a writer of such tales.  Her tales were not critically acclaimed, but they were well loved.  Think Dickens without the surrealist e… Read full post »

My area of Colorado has seen a lot of snow lately.  Despite taking a trek on foot with children and man yesterday, we've been, for the most part, sitting by the fire, watching tv and playing Dungeons and Dragons.  Part of the problem when we go out is that snow, invariably,… Read full post »

Anywhere is beautiful and what looks dry and dead, isn't necessarily as it seems.  Looking closely with my camera has shown me this.  Everytime I get depressed about being in an arid, somewhat dull environment, I head out with my camera and see what is beautiful.  The camera has taught… Read full post »

I had been filling out the paperwork for twenty minutes, a cramp in my right hand, when I came to the section about family psychiatric history.
I meticulously went down the rows of disorders, having to circle way too many of them.  After alcoholism, which my family has a long and painful… Read full post »

This is my second head, which is better than the first.  I can only hope that I will keep getting better.  Read full post »

I have been away for a long while.  My husband got an excellent job offer in Colorado and we are settling in, under the shadow of Pike's Peak.  Here is a Seattle poem that I have revised.

 Number 53

Our driver crinkles his brown paper sack
His cola hisses. He finishes… Read full post »

Listening to her sing Manic Depression
I hide behind my shades
Eat salade nicoise
Take in a woman spilling out
Of her red cowgirl
Dress – her boots up to her 
Dimpled knees
She is well made
Tan, blond and behind her own shades
Singing Jimi's song slow
So I can hear the lyrics and chords
And think abo/… Read full post »

dessicated rose - curling back from hidden pollen

reading the lines - tracing the blue veins

   

water bead on a dead leaf - paling parchment  in the sun forge

   

California Poppy - ubiquitous by roadsides - peeling its orange - st… Read full post »

Now that the sculpture is finished, I see many anatomical errrors.  The left eye is two far over.  The socket is not shaped correctly.  The whole left side was in the dark half of my cave-like apartment.   This was a face from my imagination.  Tomorrow, I start sculpting my f… Read full post »

“Whenever she heard the Witch's voice she unloosed her plaits and let her hair fall down out of the window about twenty yards below, and the old Witch climbed up by it.” Lang, Andrew, ed. “Rapunzel.” The Red Fairy Book. New York: Dover, 1966.

it… Read full post »

It is early evening, my favorite time, the time when most of my poems come to me, the hour before dusk changes the landscape. My baby daughter is sleeping in her sling, her reassuring weight bouncing against my hip as I walk down Colorado Avenue. On this Friday before/… Read full post »

After eating at Luna Park, a local favorite greasy spoon (albeit overpriced), the family walks to the van, which is parked up a hill.  We always stop to look at the molten steel coming out of the plant.  We stop on the bridge to admire an industry that is almost gone… Read full post »

It's ten pm and I am so weary that even my marrow is lazy. Instead of doing anything productive, instead of creating things of beauty, I am busy killing in WOW. I am a level 54 Blood Elf. My electronic alter ego looks like a dissafected, yet gorgeous,… Read full post »

 
like the striated muscles from the backbone to the shoulder blades, breaking the soil.

 
white with a red center, a scratch in skin from work in the garden

 
an alien creature hiding in a red dress, a swing dress

 
young tender garlic in the rain, before the… Read full post »

A widowed light dapples checkerboard 
linoleum. Sister joints sorrow, termite 
eaten, supporting ceiling and floors above
A water bug marches slowly through
one wet square then two, a six-legged tap
The hibiscus bush outside blooms despite
years of neglect, centers of hot pink, 
wanto/… Read full post »

These red doors in Chinatown are locked.  Lanterns dance in the stiff breeze.  The weather here changes so quickly.  

The plastic heads of white beauties in a Chinatown salon stare dispassionately at me.  Tiny gold hearts hang in the window, somebody's gilde… Read full post »

There was the boy I could have loved had he spoken more than one word to me. Perhaps I liked him so much, because he looked like me to the point where sometimes people couldn't tell us apart in shitty photographs. If he was juggling, they knew it… Read full post »

It is waiting for something that might not happen. It could be a she, though it is hard for me to tell, tourist as I am. Its blue chest rises up and down beneath a filmy gauze. The sign reads in several alien and earth languages: “Please do… Read full post »

The woman creeps along the alley
between the dumpsters
her pepper wool hair matted
her spine the keel of a ship
been twenty leagues under

She goes her way singing
a lullaby in witch language
I watch mother now I found her
miles away from the tower's
crumbled brick and mortar

She'd hopped the trains here
living/… Read full post »

The woman creeps along the alley
between the dumpsters
her pepper wool hair matted
her spine the keel of a ship
been twenty leagues under

She goes her way singing
a lullaby in witch language
I watch mother now I found her
miles away from the tower's
crumbled brick and mortar

She'd hopped the trains here
living/… Read full post »

When I look at a Georgia O'Keefe painting of a flower, I see a vagina.  My son was most probably conceived after a walk beneath row upon row of cherry blossom trees in Washington DC.  My husband loves to give me flowers and I love to do the same for him.… Read full post »