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 |    Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
| 2006-01-14 late afternoon, 56 degrees. 41 and gloomy in Monroe, WA where the rain rains on. My sister Shelley (in Monroe) was named after Shelley Winters (born Shirley Schrift) who died today at age 85. Wonder how many other Shelleys (with an e) were named after her. My sister had to tell people that her name was Shelley not Michelle. Our niece, however, is named Leann Michelle. Written on the way here: Broke down town wending my way down the alley of this broke down town its the same butts and dryleaves each day and greenthings struggling between the bricks puddles reflecting the sunlit church late in the afternoon winter sits at bay somewhere north in Dakotaland the scorched dry hay of Oklahoma won't reach here (we pray) there is little to report under a blue breeze today shuffling in silence along the shadowed alleyway [162.710] 2006-01-14 afternoon, 46 degrees and sunny. 25 and snowy in Olean, NY where my friend Marge Compfort resides with her cat. My red note pad (1st Book of James - he gave it to me as a gift) fell into the toilet today. Fortunately it didn't soak up much of the clean (thought you should know) water and the ink didn't run too bad. It's drying out but looking sad. Pieces of white toilet paper (to separate the pages) stick out of it making it appear raggedy and shaggy. Got a wash done. Took four hours. Found the library book that was overdue, fortunate for me! June Jordan wrote an excellent work on poetry workshops 'for the people'. I'll need to consult it again to start a workshop here. Recently written: The wages of dying is love I will pay the penny and dance the jig, pay said penny and prance a jig. I will paste my smile like a frown on a pig. I will cane two twigs to make a chair two old twigs, a rickety chair, to bring together two lives to share. Fit for the fires of Hell they'll say, not fit for fires of Hell I'll pray, ashes fallen to dust by May. Caught in a photo, once lost, once found. Caught in pictures now lost, now found. How can I let go as memories mound? Thoughts of you flee, to be caught by dreams Thoughts that are woven by dreamcatcher's dreams, There they lie, trapped, forgotten it seems. I will cherish the thoughts of letting you go, perish the thought of letting go. But dreams must wake, I know. I know. I will die knowing it's the price of love, die smiling at the price of love. The wages of dying is love, my love. [162.705] Started as a very different sketch, but I was feeling a bit bluesy when I revised and posted it here. |
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