eeo
design • writing • yoga
Category: photography
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Last night I woke in the teeth of the storm, shaking in a strange bed in a strange place. This time, it wasn’t a dream. I woke to thunder so loud I could feel it course through me, over and over, the way a bass beat at a rock concert vibrates in your spine. Thunder…
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plump smell, like baby skin, blooming so beautiful so smooth (everyone says so)
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I took my car to the dealership this afternoon. I brought my work along, dreading having to tune out the flash and blare of the ginormous big-screen TV in the “customer lounge.” Ironically, the last time I was at the dealer, trying to ignore the television, it was Inauguration day. Me, a woman who hasn’t…
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Sunday Morning: a sketch pillows play on the daybed housecat swishes her tail radio paints music chocolate-dark delicious as my espresso the Swedish horse with the broken leg assesses my mental state the coffee cup outlines the circle of its base onto the table my sandals inscribe lines on my feet, a loose sundress erases…
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Happy rebirth-day to me I don’t know the actual date of my rebirth-day. It was a Monday, the day after Easter, 2012. I suppose I could easily google it, but I prefer to let the day float in time, tied forever to the anchor of Easter. I wanders through time the way the ancients believed…
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Dear Tich Naht Hahn Dear Tic Nat Hhan Dear Thich Nhat Hanh, I mislaid your address and even the foreign mystery of the spelling of your name in the explosion. The girls’ school papers and award certificates, sheet music, lithographs, photo albums, love letters from my father to my mother, jars full of buttons and…
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Warm up! Write eleven three-line poems about things you see right where you are, right now. Eleven Miniature Poems, March 25, 2017 1 |Roots The cutting in the windowsill vase is shooting out roots but it cannot grow there forever 2 | Fur Cordelia is striped, like a tyger burning bright descendant of some fierce…
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I’m going to say it straight out. Somebody’s going to die tomorrow. Actually, I’m sure, lots of somebodies will die, but there’s one in particular that I’m thinking of tonight. Nothing lasts forever. Joy comes, and goes. Seasons come, and go. Grief comes and goes, too. Whole countries, entire species, blazing stars in the sky—…
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Louise Erdrich says in her poem, “Thistles”: “under loss and under hard words, under steamrollers under your heart, it doesn’t matter. They can live forever.” I think there are some feelings that are like thistles, that’s why Erdrich’s poem and the thistles along the sidewalk speak to me like an old friend as I ponder…
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Last year evaporated. No. Exploded, boiled over, filled to the brim and poured over the edges leaving December behind. The beauty and the un-beautiful combine combust time escapes like steam from a kettle screaming with possibilities I want to find more magic. I am digging.
eeo 