Seeking

smoke
smoke and mirrors
distortion
elusive

reaching out into the haze
looking for truth and soul
only touching granite
hard and unyielding

sky
navy and vast
clarity
accessible

sending wishes to the stars
looking for answers
open to answers
soft and receptive

The Attic

If I had an attic I would put a mattress on one side with a large flashlight and a blanket for a hiding place. I would collect old stamp books from everyone's childhoods and pile them up on an old chest of drawers. I would hang old evening gowns from the rafters and dangle long scarves from them. I would tuck lavender into envelopes and hide them in the attic's darkest recesses. I would put a whole set of vintage Nancy Drew on an old table and arrange various decks of tarot cards nearby. I would pile sheet music from the 40's and 50's on a piano bench. I would put a teddy bear in an old child's rocker. I would fill a trunk with  maps of every kind.and lastly I would lock a stack of love letters in a wooden box and hide the key.

Serious

selling bikes with boobs
the french did it with class
the ad men not so much
still making money
from some woman's beauty

Verona 2011

tangled in white linen sheets
with sunlight drawing slats
on the golden walls
what dreams does she conjure
what places does she visit
this young woman
adventurous and valiant

no modern day Juliet

Like a circle in a spiral....

from Magpie Tales

like a whirling dervish
life spins
like a fast running stream
time passes
like a carousel
joy circles
like a blink of an eye
moments are lost
like lightning
love strikes
like denim
images fade
like chalk on a sidewalk
life passes
only we can choose to remember

Briny Metaphors

photo from Magpie Tales

spun out of the sea
it reminds us
of summer
of treasures
of youth
of cycles
of time


hard and soft
delicate and sturdy
endless briny metaphors

Optical Hardware

photo from Magpie Tales

sitting all alone staring up at the cosmos

without a point of view

hardly encourages deep thoughts

without my socket I am lost

left to stare and stare

optically competent  

yet needing insight and direction 

without my twin and the muse

I am only hardware

Anything but This

from Magpie Tales

she longed to flee
from the silly lute player
the pompous men
her limitations
she dreamed of muddy legs
grand vistas and the sea


running wild and naked
in dark endless forests
filled with beasts


anything but this

Back from Italy

returned from Italy, no poems today
my heart is full of love and beauty
reflections on ancient surfaces
hustle and bustle, rows of Vespas
gelato piled high, leather shops
ancient walls, old vineyards
narrow alleys, many rooms with a view
beach promenade,
terrace views forever
Michelangelo, Juliet, Galileo,
giants of imagination and love
strung together through the ages

Oh those lips

Magpie Tales Prompt

a whole lot of whoop de do

over a little bit of zippity zip

or zippity lip?

Dancing Particles

it is easy to find fault in other humans, harder to find their core;
easy to criticize and be clever, harder to have compassion;
easy to be smart and hip, harder to be real;
easy to dismiss the object of our fear, harder to understand differences;
mockery is easier, love is harder.
but love trumps hate every time.


we are all just dancing particles.

On the Road Again 2011

road trip down the coast
worries blown away
long before Gold Beach
hopes and dreams
launched in Marin County
youth restored in Pismo Beach
dreamy nirvana in Palm Springs
back to the earth in Tonopah
ancient merchant in Tucson


Willie Nelson eat your heart out..

Berkana

Real runestones were carved primarily as commemorative markers, either of living people, or loved or respected persons who had died. They were sometimes used as crossroad markers, or to impart messages. A great many of them were destroyed by Christian priests and monks at the time of conversion of each country. The priests viewed them as reminders of the pagan past. More have been broken up for construction material by those who did not recognize their historical significance. The present day hazard is defacement by vandals. Carved runestones have been found primarily in Sweden, Denmark, Norway and Iceland, with a few others scattered elsewhere. Each year one or two more rune stones are discovered or rediscovered in Sweden.

berkana
the birch
a big B
calls to me
whispers spring 
moon light
rebirth
buds green
woman 

The Piano

Magpie Tales

front foyer
always closed off
colored leaded window
piano stacked with books, canning jars
newspapers, seed catalogs
and sheet music
a five year old sitting there
propped on stool all straight and professional
hammering on those keys
studying the marks on the yellowed page


dreams are made of this

Connecticut River Valley

resiny scent of tobacco
onions drying in piles on silty soil
sweat mixed with spilled lemonade
drunk from a jug
flowing with the Connecticut
voices, english, polish, ukrainian
scratches from the long wooden slats
up and down the rows
up and down the rows
everybody worked
men, women, old , young
even
relatives from New York City

Ms Marple

squishing clay and listening to Ms Marple

wishing I were more malleable
is it necessary to always be prepared
could one simply be squishy
being a girl scout is such a drag
wondering about spontaneity
making little porcelain bells
Poirot is next

Florence

magpie tales

they carry the memories
the scent of Florence
arthritic fingers
ease into elegance
youth is restored
dreaming of via guicciardini

The Cathedral

Magpie Tales-Tess Kincaid

cold, stone cold

doors large enough

for horses and carriages  

pray in your coach option 
for the aristocracy

the scent of beeswax

smoldering prayers

woolen coats, mittens

for the common folk
sore knees, frozen noses

organ sounds and crystal voices

piercing the nave
images in glass
reminding the sinners
of the possibilities

Hell Racers

from Magpie Tales

cows had carved out the paths

in summer we picked violets there

in winter it was glazed with ice

treacherous on the curves

too close to the partially frozen pond

the sledding course was dangerous

passing for little girls

bundled in our pastel snowsuits

we were hell racers

screaming as we flew

trudging back up again and again 

until near dark

mom's call to dinner

ruined it

Ms Eleven

Magpie Tales

she was an eleven
in every way
idealistic and visionary

better than ten
the light bearer
and peacemaker

the master number
why then
was she so lost


she longed to be a three
or a five or even a seven
longing for conflict
and imperfection.

The Snoop

Magpie Tales

not from Penny's or the 5 and dime

this was foreign stuff

auntie left in on the bed

glamorous as heck

draped from my neck

some strange guy on the pendant

auntie has been around my father says

she wears capes and has a passport

now to look in her suitcases

Chickens in Paradise

awake in the tropics
local rooster singing
plumeria and ginger
swaddle the cottage
a swag of bananas
decorates the doorway
geckos scurry at morning light
wild herd of chickens
dash through the garden
hundreds of  translucent bugs
stuck to the ceiling

another view of paradise.

Village Halloween

country halloween
bundled head to toe
cider and maple leaf air
crunchy paths
long unlit country roads
sparse farm houses
candy in paper sack
no fears of  poison
parading around
village common- then
home to counting the loot

Becoming

Magpie Tales

hand sliding down hip

slow recognition of shape

sneaking glances in mirror

what was this

these curves

the flat places had filled out

there were little gullies 

round tussocks

what did a girl do 

with all of this?

Hiding

for Magpie Tales

in the dark
it's  easy to dream
easy to roll into a ball
and spin gossamer blindfolds
across your eyes

nothing can get you in here
you nestle with closed suitcases
and old cigar boxes
a decaying uniform
serves as blanket

thumps and creaks interrupt
the sensation of safety
old tunes weave in and out
like background music
remembering

yet the light beckons
bringing messages of possibilities
new trails, new monsters
maybe a new song or two
you ever so slowly  venture out

Truth Drug

trying to find some honesty
searching for a truth drug
poking into hidden corners
uncovering some secrets
opening boxes of moldy letters
reading between the lines
peering at the photos

all the secrets, lies and mysteries
are mine.

The Sax Player

in childhood, I remember
golden sax between his knees
round glasses perched on his nose
he wailed me a tune
all deep and mysterious
now he's gone
no trace of the saxophone
no trace of him
only a letter

will the music conjure him up?

Resurgence when? More...

More musings on 60 and above..the sisters

Old friends seem really important. The sharing of a history of linkages which stretches over the years. A remembered collection of stories detailing the relationships, houses, politics, children's follies, work traumas,and buckets of tears. Now the sisterhood returns in a new form; shaping a container around our lives.

The old politics still intact under layers of living in an imperfect world, The idealism of youth popping out now and then in grand pronouncements about Washington, or the state of gender politics.

We marvel at the tenacity, raw strength and fortitude of our friends. The toughness we cannot see in ourselves is so evident in them. They live through illness, death, trauma, poverty, losses and all with sharp retort, a joke, a spiritual  reference rarely going down the path of self-pity.

These feminists who championed the right of women to follow their hearts and dreams now some times live lives with insurmountable limitations.They have been to the mountain top yet they dwell at the base.

The realities of a generation who knew in its heart that it would blossom, achieve, surpass, accomplish every goal now deals with health  issues, diabetes, reduced retirements, a government strangely alien,  and declining hope in their dream of social justice.

Lately, no one calls on the collective wisdom of this sisterhood; we are strangely off, eccentric, curiosities who ranted, wrote, bullied, marched, and strategically implemented a myriad of social improvements.

Those same improvements now enjoyed by arch conservatives, right wing, and fundamentalist women.. The ability to have birth control, to not be pregnant every year, to work outside the home, to own your property; to have day care, to have your own checking account, to get a no fault divorce,
and to adopt children on your own. Not to mention a naming and  awareness of domestic violence.

I remember living when men ruled the home, where many women did not work outside the home, where the church had the last say, where hitting your wife was normal, when kids were seen and not heard and where a woman's options were to be a nun, a wife, a teacher or a secretary.

It seems very important to get with friends and talk about all of this. To re- energize our collective voice , to note that the changes we witnessed and fought for can still be lost. That our efforts should not be dismissed and taken for granted. We in our 60's  and beyond are a force to be heard- that would be resurgence.

Resurgence when?

Approaching the 70's, body looks 60, mind is 30, memory sometimes 100. Trying to eke out a path that is visually stimulating, heartfelt, and amusing. Trying to find meaning in the journey when work as I knew it is over. Looking for life in all the wrong places...

The days roll by sometimes too fast to etch a notch into them; mark them as mine. I reflect on past accomplishments. The huge triumphs of my 40's and I laugh-a rumbling deep chortle. Oh how silly I was at times; trying to be someone be someone.

There are holy moments of true insight when I get it. I see the abundance, the joy, the lineage, the small wonders of my trip but on other days a gray field when memories fall to inspire and I seek a meaningful experience. A monastery, an island, the church. Some genetic strain to laugh at life often saves me just as I give over. Always wonder about others, do they twist and turn on this, do they want more meaning?

Gratitude for the travel. the stories, the foibles, the silly worries, my usual health, the family in all its lovely chaos and confusion. Being a matriarch is a bitch so much to live up to.

I will return as I always do to the calendar, the book, the next projects, the bills, the appointments and let my musings about life fall aside. Call it denial, call it self preservation. I just need to keep keeping on .

Abundance

more orange than one can bear
reflections sharp and clear
crisp sounds that lure you
and the smell- toasty and dry
sometimes a pinky green
that only god could paint
the views stop you cold
breathing stops
in valleys and hilltops
white churches punctuate
the color lights the senses
more beauty than can be imagined

proof of abundance

Omen

she gave me the eye
piercing, direct, challenging
the wind whistled
it felt suddenly colder
what part of the exchange
was in my head
was she menacing
all around leaves flew in litttle
whirlwinds- magic or omen
does one ever know?

The Silk

gold threads held tightly in rigid rows
by deep blue silk soldiers
shimmering bamboo
was the sound emitted
stiff and tough
though wholly elegant
waiting for a muse
to stitch it into something
that can travel

Jasper

jasper johns

it reminded me of old calligraphy
of maps roughly drawn
there was a dingy veil over it

obscuring some truth
my shoulders ached as I stared
just paint and canvas
no big deal anyone could do it
welling up big tears and a mild shaking
art as I know it

These Dogs

 photo by e hudyma 2010

these dogs don't care about
recessions
bailouts
whole foods
arms control
triglyceride levels
pullout from iraq
social security
these dogs just care about
adoring you
walking over the bridge
running up the path
climbing that hill
riding in the car
water in the creek

these dogs got their priorities straight

for em

Ah

evidence of the holiness of things
proof that beauty exists
treatise on the natural world
notes from the dreamstate
report on the state of peace
study on black and white
model of  loveliness
image of purity
the peony

Eyeball

 magpie tales

eyeball, breast, lock
what are you?

memories are sorting
images are clearing
the story is forming
a huge wooden door
rough and weathered
entry to a garden
roses spilling over the wall
honeysuckle breathing
apothecary scents
lilies seeking sex
and the music
low tones of bees
high notes of birds
the green carpet
speckled with clover
in a darkened corner
a cool stone bench

babylon, shangrila
for me-
a secret garden

Honolulu 1965

the pink hotel was still the queen
the hills looked like a christmas tree
the palms shimmered and the sticky scent of
plumeria lingered on the breeze

the new englander danced
barefoot on the sands and streets

the merchants offered cups of noodles
pineapple slices, leis and garish shirts
next to the club where don ho
slack key and hulu was king

mai tais and teriyaki
tropical dreams

and in the back streets
people who had came from everywhere
lit the bundles of firecrackers
tied to every pole

noise and smoke
for her-initiation

Relics

resting on the ceramic counter

it just lay there cast aside

for me, evidence of another

once present now gone

with the empty aspirin bottle 

and a lone dirty sock

relics of a relationship

Soiled Pelican

stoic under layers of oil
pelican parent
facing the inevitable

as we watch
we consider
our connections
our responsibilities

every trip in the car
every plastic bottle
petroleum everywhere

every pelican
every hermit crab
every bit of clean water
soiled forever

now is too late
but we still need  to act

Berlin Market

she wove her way
through the white topped stalls
touching an old leather bound book
laughing at three monkeys cavorting
in a wind up toy
she bought a wooden puppet
carved in some far off village

she crunched on roasted nuts
sat on a bench for a while
watching the leaves falling in waves
chuckled at an old accordion minstrel
stopping here and there
she saw some Soviet era hats
a crisp wind started up from the river

she  paused to chat with some
young backpackers
fresh from the Pergamon
and then she spotted
the vendor from Kreuzberg,
with the brass birds,  monkeys
and the wonderful fish

The Crones

 Magpie Tales

one had an evil eye
one had a third eye
one was always vigilant
one was just plain scary

the old crones of my childhood
knew when someone died
knew about devils in the closet
and bad blood and bad wind

they kept Mary enshrined in the bedroom
and Jesus over the stove
I still connect his crown of thorns
with great Polish food

McBeth would have loved them

More Think Pink

Making Pink

Fresh picked strawberries rubbed on white linen with little fingers
She says, but Mom I am just making pink!

Think Pink

Theme Thursday

she laughs as she tells the story

irish catholic girl

drove west from Boston

arrived in the Haight

pink dress, pink shoes, pink purse

hair curled just right

from rollers at night

friends pull up a mattress

pass her a joint

San Fran the city of love

oh my goodness

this is going to be

quite a trip

for kt with hoots of laughter

Grits

It was the time of
Freedom Riders and lynchings
Selma and civil rights
lunch counters and bus strikes

It was my journey to
Georgia in a Karman Ghia
baby on board
a bag of fruit and 25 dollars

It was a postcard of
sleepy towns
whites only water fountains
cabins in the piney woods

It was kindness from
long haul truckers
small town waitresses
breakfasts of bacon and grits

for this New England girl
a strange new world...