A Tidings of Magpies

The Second Day of Mourning by Gaston Ng The second day of mourning is always grey, When the grandeur of elaborate pain Fades into a comprehensible dawn. The asthmatic morning laboured to wheeze a few Competent breaths to last from bus to school. A grim visage canopies a lurching heart that still stumbles In the quicksilver and endless corridors of remembering. Mourning seems such a vain thing. It crys aloud to be seen, solicits pity with Conscious tears and wanton dysphoria, Damns an implosion with a paradoxical front. Trudging up the overhead bridge that prevent dented fenders And stubborn bloodstains on the roads, The sweaty morning clings onto my skin and sorrow Weighing with the symbolism of exertion.

The similiarities are too eerily close for coincidence. Must search kitchen for hidden camera broadcasting my every move to his lair of copycattiness. Jamie Lidell

My mother called to tell me about an old classmate of mine who was dying on the parish prayer chain— or was very sick—or destitute— or it had not worked out—the marriage— or the kids were all on drugs—and all the old mothers were praying intensely for all the pain of their children and for life—they were praying for life— in their quiet rooms—sipping decaf coffee— I bet they've been praying for me at times— so I'll find my way—so I won't rob a bank— I'll take them—the mystical prayers of old mothers— it matters—all this patient and purposeful love.

Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone's soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd.

"There are those --soldiers and nurses, poets and priests--for whom death is a sure companion." Nancy Gibbs, TIME, Essay-The Light of Death, May 5, 2008 The flags remain at half mast. Yellow ribbons line Route 32 and dot neighborhood streets in this part of the country to honor Matt Maupin's return to his family. Military jets flew in formation overhead while I watched my daughter's soccer game yesterday near Lunken airport and a plane looking suspiciously Harrison Ford-ish-Air Force One flew in ready to land. The Sunday morning newspaper has as its headline, "Maupin's long journey home finally complete." Another young man is now forever caught in the face of his youth and the countenances of two more parents are etched with grief. Painful days for this community. We have the C-Stars come to our hospital before they are deployed in their military service to Iraq, Afghanistan, or the military hospital in Germany. I can't remember the specifics of the ...

This just in a man has begun writing a poem in a small room in Brooklyn. His curtains are apparently blowing in the breeze. We go now to our man Harry on the scene, what's the story down there Harry? "Well Chuck he has begun the second stanza and seems to be doing fine, he's using a blue pen, most poets these days use blue or black ink so blue is a fine choice. His curtains are indeed blowing in a breeze of some kind and what's more his radiator is 'whistling' somewhat. No metaphors have been written yet, but I'm sure he's rummaging around down there in the tin cans of his soul and will turn up something for us soon. Hang on "just breaking news here Chuck, there are 'birds singing' outside his window, and a car with a bad muffler has just gone by. Yes ... definitely a confirmation on the singing birds." Excuse me Harry but the poem seems to be taking on a very auditory quality at this point wouldn't you say? "Yes Chuck, you...

Looking at 12 and 12 for the next two days. http://www.wikihow.com/Make-an-Anatomically-Correct-Brain-Cake with thanks to http://scienceblogs.com/twominds/ for their original post--they have fabulously interesting material for like-minded individuals, or if you have a neuro-odd-ic sense of humor. God, I am so funny, I can barely contain myself.

But, really, really interesting. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/22/science/22bass.html?ex=1366603200&en=fea4076efc814e53&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

Moving through the bodies that travel my mornings I am sorry to learn of Tom’s death. He and my father, all exiting the comfort of home and an English teacher at Oak Hills, were grabbing our coffees and conversations to go great friends. I remember his wit, in and out doorways. Sidewalks bubble with breath, vibrancy, and passion like yesterday. I’m sorry for the loss buses stop and go, backpacks and briefcases block the path, of your fossil-collecting uncle, brother, and son. Smoke and bodies fill my eyes. My deepest condolences. This originated from a quote I read in Newsweek, "I saw smoke and bodies."-Mohammed Kadhem, witness to a suicide bomb attack killing fifty-two in the Shi'ite holy city of Karbala, Iraq on March 17, 2008.

...it ain't over till it's over, some body crosses the finish line, and the fat lady sings.

The rescued cat recalls the dreadful joke - “Lost dog: one eye, three legs, answers to Lucky” He’s deaf. His hair breaks loose in greasy clumps. Four orange teeth hide in his rancid mouth. His claws were misplaced several homes ago. A foggy stare burns out of fused black orbs. That he’s pathetic wouldn’t come to him: He can’t afford the luxury of doubt. How many homes were his, the rescued cat? How many names? My husband calls him Peter, Which suits, but it is not his own true name. His secret name is Quisling, Dorian Grey. Cranky but not noble, a survivor Who will elude, and never, ever die. He does not purr, but if he takes your lap He’ll bless you with a squint that looks like peace. From our tall patch of woods, hawks eye the yard For moving snacks. He plies the garden path, But something in his creaking stride dissuades. It is well known that prey should walk in fear, But he has seen too much to fret mere death. From time to time, alone, he wails aloud, His cries all that his ruin...

Now that's what I'm talking about...a man who's funny and can dance.

In her room at the prow of the house Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden, My daughter is writing a story. I pause in the stairwell, hearing From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys Like a chain hauled over a gunwale. Young as she is, the stuff Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy: I wish her a lucky passage. But now it is she who pauses, As if to reject my thought and its easy figure. A stillness greatens, in which The whole house seems to be thinking, And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor Of strokes, and again is silent. I remember the dazed starling Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago; How we stole in, lifted a sash And retreated, not to affright it; And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door, We watched the sleek, wild, dark And iridescent creature Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove To the hard floor, or the desk-top, And wait then, humped and bloody, For the wits to try it again; ...

Note Please--This title is particularly HIL-AR-IOUS because in Neuro we tend to keep patients' serum sodium levels quite high in order to pull excess fluid off the brain--cerebral edema from their injury . My husband did not think that you would get it. Just wanted you to know so that I'm not sitting here chuckling to myself. Feel free to chuckle along. I've been off for a week now and having a fabulous time, dollinks... Pilates, dance classes, reading, writing, movies, music, running up and down the streets and byways of River City... But, now the time has come for me to go back and work for The Man. However, there will be dancing and merriment tonight with Dance Master Len before I return to caring for sick and bad brains. please note--art by tartx

Is there any poetry to be found in this day? Waking to a hazy grey light and another day of impending snow, The night spent warm and sleepy. A huge bed, unfamiliar to us— accustomed to legs and arms entangled, always seeking each other. This bed though, as long as it is wide, room to stretch and turn without the touch of another. Waking, sleeping, waking, sleeping, and the lights across the river change from red to green to yellow adrift over empty streets, flashing to a silent rhythm. Debris in the river passes swiftly by our window. My husband always looking… hoping for the gruesome. “Look!” I say in my best pirate voice, “There’s a bloody stump floating by,” to entice him to me watching the river flow by; looking on our world for the day. please note--art by Jim M. Goldstein

Warm breath steams from dog, hangs in the fog and suspends. Life's breath surrounding.

My older daughter is home from college for a few days. We're sitting around contemplating baby names for no reason other than it's a rainy Sunday afternoon. She wants a baby girl of the future to have the middle name of Anne and wants to know what's a good first name. Ummmm...Raggedy?? Nope, she says, "Natasha." I have to laugh. That was my name tag when I worked at the old Rookwood Pottery. It was fabulous, dollink.

Our love is not the short courtly kind but upstream, down, long inside — enjambed, enjoined, conjoined, and jammed, it's you, enkindler, enlarger, jampacked man of many stanzas, my enheartener — love runs on from line to you, from line to me and me to you, from river to sea and sea to land, hits a careless coast, meanders way across the globe — land ahoy! water ahoy! — love with no end, my waters go wherever you are, my stream of consciousness.

I had a dream again last night about jeteing. I've never been asked that in a personality test in any of the multiple magazines passed my way. Do you dream of flying? Falling? Phantoms? Ferocious beasts? But never, Do you dream of dancing? The feel of a few running steps and leaping out into open space, right leg lifted and pointed straight out in front, left leg extended straight behind and arms lifting up towards the heavens for a span of forever. And, in my dream, a slow, drifting descent back down to earth. Something I could never accomplish in my daily life despite years of lessons and the feel of many different ballet barres and resined wooden floors. But in sleep I become airborne after a few attempts, and in the morning rise up from my bed arms, shoulders, and legs sore from my flight.

The hotel dining room smells of omelets, bacon, and onions, accompanied by the music of eating: metallic chimes of forks and knives tapping ceramic plates, percussion of coffee cups hitting tabletops, the occasional morsels of overheard sentences concerning biofuels and predictions of impending restructurings in one company or another. “…can’t keep spending money... How can they keep her on… …flies out every week… district in Missouri… upgraded last month… …a Crown Royale…great ride.” Exotic musings to this little family of four traveling down I-75 in the winter holidays. And all the while, snow is falling lightly, from a wind so fierce the snow is horizontal outside the window in front of us. A giant log rolls by adrift from upriver. Roots barely visible above the waterline; separated from its native soil, Maysville perhaps, Pittsburg, Coney Island, now in an unknown element and riding the currents. Traveling south. please note--art by Ian Walker, crystal microscopy

I have finished The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield and while I see other blogophiles review books and movies I shan't be doing that. Sorry, but I shan't. Really...who here gives a flying rat's patootie about my opinion of the book... "#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER" "Eerie and fascinating."- USA Today ...'nuf said. I don't finish books that I don't like unless they're really, really bad and then I kinda like them for their awfulness. No, what I shall do is to find the quintessential sentence of the book, the one sentence-maybe two-that contains the entire storyline-- --if you have very loose associative thinking. And, I will pull out of the book my new favorite words. That way, everyone knows I've read the book, there's no book report and I get new favorite words to ramble on about inappropriately. (ex. radiculopathy) Okay. Game on. The Thirteenth Tale --A tale in which stories, lives, and histories are built upon the whispe...

My honey haired child woke us up early this morning to tell us she heard footsteps going back and forth in the attic hallway. Ever the helpful and loving mother, I told her it was raccoons and to "... scootch in bed next to me and go to sleep." Was not expecting an earthquake right here in River City :-) http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080418/ap_on_re_us/midwest_earthquake

Lovely spring evening drinking wine sitting in the zoo and listening to gypsy jazz. Life don't get much better than that.

He said he would be back and we'd drink wine together He said that everything would be better than before He said we were on the edge of a new relation He said he would never again cringe before his father He said that he was going to invent full-time He said he loved me that going into me He said was going into the world and the sky He said all the buckles were very firm He said the wax was the best wax He said Wait for me here on the beach He said Just don't cry I remember the gulls and the waves I remember the islands going dark on the sea I remember the girls laughing I remember they said he only wanted to get away from me I remember mother saying : Inventors are like poets,a trashy lot I remember she told me those who try out inventions are worse I remember she added : Women who love such are the Worst of all I have been waiting all day, or perhaps longer. I would have liked to try those wings myself. It would have been better than this.

I walk towards our house after dusk has covered the yard and through the open windows I hear a sharp yelp from our daughter. I look up to the stairwell window where I see the silhouette of a bat flashing across the walls. Inside the house, the sound of your laughter echoes behind the living room door as you try to lasso its beating wings with a green and yellow afghan. Its wild aerobatics finally subdued and rolled up into an acrylic ball, you rush out into the now-black night and like magic, its fluttering wings dissolve into stars.

Grief is not always practical. It leaves white, wooden crosses standing along roads and fast moving highways, some with fresh plastic flowers, by others bouquets now sun- faded and disheveled. All with writings on the hammered strips of wood illegible when driving by at 60 MPH even in the slow lane. Reminders that death is ever present in life, although difficult to mow around. It is grief that has placed the large cardboard box in our dining room filled with my mother-in-law’s papers, next to the piano, under the birdcage, waiting quietly to be filed in manila folders with headings written in black permanent marker— “Doctors’ Bills”, “Letters from Lisa”, “Mom’s Old To-Do Lists,” and grief that collected the fossils and rocks from my brother’s apartment to lie in rest dusty on our bookshelves. It is grief that finds other tasks for me, distractions and obstacles, that keeps me from climbing the stairs to the attic floor and my daughter’s empty bedroom; her clothes that need to be sorte...

Response to Pastor Martin Niemoller What does it take to make a man finally speak against injustice? How to Crush Ideological Opposition. In Haiku. Threaten, ridicule. Dismiss, minimize, slander. Placate the masses. Having gone through this recently yet once again--the business of disagreeing wi th a policy and requesting that more thought and discussion be placed to the longer view and wider implications of new restrictive procedures--the first words I heard were, "Annie, are you starting trouble again?" Got me thinking about the plan in place, the algorithym, the recipe to silence those who step over the lines to speak up and speak out.

Here is a very welcome blast from the past! Fabulous and talented Cincinnati jazz band that played at Bentley's (downtown) and Edwards. They're all off now doing their own thing, but reuniting for one evening. The "Around Cincinnati" link lets you hear some of their music and the interview with Don and Bill. One night only, Saturday, April 28, 2008 8:30pm-1:30am at Molly Malone's in Covington reservations:513-624-7501 http://198.234.121.108/aroundcincinnati/041308_Crosswind.mp3 http://www.crosswindreunion.com/

Went to the zoo today with my hubby for a bit of aerobic walking up and down the steps and hills there. We have a beautiful zoo, and home of the last passenger pigeon until her death and, with that death, the extinction of the species. This is written on the cottage that housed her and now serves as a memorial: "The beauty and genius of a work of art may be reconceived, though its first material expression be destroyed; a vanished harmony may yet again inspire the composer; but when the last individual of a race of living things breathes no more, another heaven and another earth must pass before such a one can be again." -William Beebe and now hosting Blooms and Tunes with a few of my favorite individuals, The Faux Frenchmen http://www.cincyzoo.org/VisitorGuide/planyouradventure/ZooBlooms08/TunesBlooms/tunesbloomsflyer.pdf

Everybody’s got a story. A history. A grab-your-attention moment in the sun. Not all stories are spoken and tales of glory drift away; comedies, tragedies, the everyman’s anthology of fables yellow and crumble to the touch, torn bits of discarded and weathered memories. Ever hear the one about the old man in the ER? Old man lying on a stretcher in the hallway of the ER- true story- one of the many homeless men that travel through the hallways and units of this hospital, carrying a Hamilton County Public Library card in his pocket, $1.68 in change, and years of bad luck or bad choices in the lines of his face, the filth in his pores, the look of surrender in his eyes. One of the cocksure med students says to him, “Hey… Any words of advice for us as we start out?” The student had to lean over and bend closely to the old man’s face; his breath coated with years of cigarettes and God knows what else as he weakly scratched out, “I would have bought the red truck.” Everydamnbody’s got a stor...

"Last Night at the Farm, Spring 2005"by Lilly Marsh Last night, I hadn't known how cold the house was Until I was already downstairs. Coming back up that long series on dark treads, Ascending towards the dark rectangle at the top, The dog nosed the door ajar. I saw the light from the bedside candle spill forth, Across all the angles and shadows of the door frame. Our old farmhouse is so full of angles and shadows. The narrow stairwell hall was dark and colorless, An abstract study of gray and black, Repeated patterns stark and stern. But the candlelight fell golden across all the shadows, and, I ascended, drawn back into the warmth, Called back to bed by you. http://prairiehome.publicradio.org/features/lyrics/2008/sonnets/18.shtml

Nobody in the hospital Could tell the age Of the old woman who Was called Susanna I knew she spoke some English And that she was an immigrant Out of a little country Trampled by armies Because she had no visitors I would stop by to see her But she was always sleeping All I could do Was to get out her comb And carefully untangle The tangles in her hair One day I was beside her When she woke up Opening small dark eyes Of a surprising clearness She looked at me and said You want to know the truth? I answered Yes She said it's something that My mother told me There's not a single inch Of our whole body That the Lord does not love She then went back to sleep.

7 April 2008 When last walked these trails we found the carcass of a young deer lying in the creek bed with her neck heartbreakingly arched and her face turned up towards the sky. It was a dry summer that year with not enough water in the creek to cover the dusty brown fur that gave no rise and fall or distort the dull globe of open eye. We stayed and looked long, you and I, each wondering the logistics of such a fall- the height she had to jump to clear the wooden walls of bridge; perhaps not hard for a running deer. What makes a wild, young creature leap to her death? Merely not knowing what lay on the other side? Or joy of the jump with eyes steady on the stars? note please--art by anikistit tampereella

...if only we were all as safety conscious.

Also Known As: What I Want To Do For My Next Job and... DANCE PARTY FRIDAY Why I Cannot Wait To Get Up At 5:30am On Fridays

The waitresses At the restaurant Have to keep reminding The schizophrenic man That if he keeps acting Like a schizophrenic man They'll have to ask him to leave the restaurant. But he keeps forgetting that he's a schizophrenic man, So they have to keep reminding him. Seriously. It was that kind of a day, minus the top hat.

Some say fun, I say job security.

Holy Moley, Batgirl. I've been tagged. By http://walisabeth.blogspot.com/ , for whom I've now retitled this-- ...and The Home of the Bref. walisabeth was tagged by Drewby, who was tagged by Jen-jen, who was tagged by...you can see where this is going can't you??. Don't have many blogger friends yet, and my readership is in the ones and twos, but here are five folks who just might come out and play: kay@ http://myrandomactsofreading.blogspot.com/ oldmanlincoln@ http://brookvilledailyphoto.blogspot.com/ jillypoet@ http://jillypoet.blogspot.com/ flissandmike@ http://flissandmikeadventures.blogspot.com/ and citykin@ http://www.citykin.com/ Now hush all while I tell you the story... Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersw...

The artwork below is created by an enormously talented artist whose blog I tripped over one day. Lots of reasons why her work resonates, none I want to dissect...just enjoy beauty when and as it appears. I have a link to her blogsite and work at the bottom of the lefthand column if anyone would like to take a minute or two and peruse. Enjoy.

I started Early - Took my Dog And visited the Sea The Mermaids in the Basement Came out to look at me And Frigates - in the Upper Floor Extended Hempen Hands Presuming Me to be a Mouse Aground - upon the Sands But no Man moved Me - till the Tide Went past my simple Shoe And past my Apron - and my Belt And past my Bodice - too And made as He would eat me up As wholly as a Dew Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve And then - I started - too And He - He followed - close behind I felt His Silver Heel Upon my Ankle - Then my Shoes Would overflow with Pearl Until We met the Solid Town No One He seemed to know And bowing - with a Mighty look At me - The Sea withdrew note please--art by tartx

Every night lights are extinguished and not all rekindled with the break of morn. And, so it was with you. Doused to dreams by Morpheus and the cancer dwelling within, your light grew cool, flickered, and was gone. It’s absence but a minute change from the breath before. Your love a blaze lamented too hot by some it touched, erratic in its warmth, bending side to side with drafts of winds, and drafts of change. I mourn not the loss of flame not having felt the heat, but grieve the lack of it for those I love whose ways are dark with loss of you.

Why is it that the very best lines occur when my hands are soapy.