Thursday, February 27, 2014

Snow Bound Hollow

Snow Bound Hollow

I have spent too much time detailing weather
as if it presumed my mood
and it did or dictated the need for color
living alone in a snow bound hollow.

While the canvas went blank outside
and in, apathy to life muffled
down about the throat, with only the tweets
of gold finch still dull green and titmouse.

Long intervals of nothingness punctuated
by jays and the high ordinance of cardinals.
So much is white or black or gray that brown
appears glorious as it seeps through snow.

I reconnect with slime.

The Count's Plate

The Count's plate

snow outside the window and door
looks like the white dinner plate
Sylvie Ann de la Gueronniere's father
set before me the time I spent the night:
mashed potatoes, boiled calf brain,
and milk,
I tried not to gag,
The Count was known to shoot pigeons
off of his roof
to serve as squab to guests
on retrospect, I think he liked
to see just how polite society
could be in 3rd world
New Orleans.

Friday, February 21, 2014

Dream of my Grandmother, born in the year of the rat

Dream of my grandmother, only wisps of remembering
I look at her picture this morning with a stab of familiarity
as if just hours ago I left her on vacation in Bermuda,
or fell behind as she fast walked up 7th Avenue on her buying trip,
or was it while I struggled to peel a peach for Grampse
she disappeared in the garden?
Her energy announced her
my sister and I her willing audience
or co-conspirators to surprise.
Every night a new story,
her back rubs cast out our nightmares.
The summers with her were hiatus
from the manic atmosphere our home.
Once she tried to charm a cornered rat
which bither hand offering food;
the only unbedazzled animal
she ever met.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014


it is raining heavily
raining on all these fields of whipped cream
raining on the roofs which still are mantled in white
now sliding faster to a fall
raining on deer deep treads to the river
I haven't seen in a week
raining on my ½ mile long drive heavy with foot traffic,
and on my sled course
which I relinquish
to a change of scene.

Saturday, February 15, 2014



Icing of snow now turning to rain, making slick my sled run
Yesterday the twenty inches of snow had diminished by one third
my high rubber boots now  tall enough to not be swamped
I tramped the hill over and over to make a passable track
and only managed two fair rides, with dogs frantic at my side
fearful their person was at risk, they nearly spoiled my joy.
Since the track was more a bob sled trail
the barking was at my ears, I nearly ran over paws,
my guardians fierce and obdurate.
Today I may leave them inside. But then my fun
might be swallowed by acres of snow and sticks of pines;
who would hear my shrieks or witness my run?
Who lick my face awake if I crashed?

Thursday, February 13, 2014

snow pictures

Wednesday night before going to bed:
early Thursday morning:

ah, s-n-o-w

The depth of snow is beyond my 12 inch ruler
all about the house are snow pyramids
topping grill, chair and table.
I dug a path to clear the compressor, mercy,
I have power.
My 11 pound mop of a dog is over topped,
camouflaged, only he's dirty, not pristine.
It will be a trek to the chickens
let alone the mailbox.

Monday, February 10, 2014

for fun

The 10th of February - yellow submarine

Nostalgia rains in the house, Beatles music blaring,
Paul and Ringo reunited
the heart beat of my college days
of my first sexual encounter.
Yoko dancing – very stylized motion –
big warm grin behind those big dark glasses.
We all live in a yellow submarine -
our denial machine
our ride thru dark matter that wearies our soul
our space ship survival cocoon
naivete saving us in colors everywhere
transports us thru the doughnut hole
to another dimension.
Who knows?
My yellow submarine swallows me and all I love
transports my heart to spring in winter,
to picnics on planets unimagined.
Sustains my soul.

winter pictures

the blue heron

Sunday, February 9, 2014

3 little poems


In dream the fence is 12 feet not 6,
no doors or gates work
I have to climb while
chickens scatter in all directions
as neighbor dogs pant and chase.
Only I occupy a superimposed maze,
can see and hear, but cannot
reach the fray, nor
stop the killing spree,
nor save a feather.


too cold to decompose or summon scavengers
the heron curls another week
I nod to corpse and tell myself again
better to let a coyote feast
or vulture come,
then try to bury
the ground too hard for shovel.

stuffed pastries

it doesn't seem linear, this transit to nearly 70,
I am as old as the friends of my greatgrandmother,
bosomy flowery perfumed stuffed pastries,
calling out for a hug,
I ran from
as if they might capture vital particles of joy
or fatten the sleekness of my limbs.
Now I understand their summoning,
merely seeking comingling
of their spirit which was no pastry,
but vigorous still
and wanting out.


Monday, February 3, 2014


Eagle at the river! I tell my son who happens to call
from the Dominican Republic; “the eagle” he says
to his wife nearby, at a beach on the island. They have seen
the eagle at the swimming hole on the river here. But today,
I wonder if the ice drew the expanse of wings, jamming at the bend.
The white shaggy head so distinct flying off down river.