Friday, September 28, 2012


Work is done

and a most companionable moon followed me home
from my shift at the human industrial plant 
where I repair bad brains and injured lives.
We drove as partners through the curving streets of the neighborhood,
yellow-flamed windows beckoning as the dust of the day loosened
and lifted, landing on a half opened car window
before blowing back into the world.

We passed the last dog walks of the evening.
I raise a hand in greeting to all
knowing how quickly their arcs too could be felled.
The moon, my constant, I leave with the remains of the day
for illumination.

please note:photo by

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Saturday in CinCity. The Too Soon for Halloween Edition?

A Munsters' Breakfast

by Jeanne Marie Beaumont

Herman's big on corn, he likes to stuff his mouth

with Kix and practice his diction.

Grandpa and Eddie go for Trix, which pinks

the milk as though it's tinged with blood.

Only blond bland Marilyn will dare

approach the Cheerios. They float in her bowl

like small life-savers—enough she thinks

to save all the passengers on the model Titanic

Eddie is building for his school project

down in the lab, complete with dry-ice berg

and a looped tape of screams Lily has

taken great pains to record for him.

Lily sips only some root-bark tea. Her man

prefers her wraithlike. Tonight's a full moon.

She worries about Eddie's growth spurt;

Herman crisply articulates what's on her mind:

"You come home right after school, Eddie."

The boy drains the last stained drop

from his crock and wipes his moustache.

"We'll work on the levers for tilting the decks,"

Grandpa entices. Eddie's eyes flare like torches.

Then everyone vanishes into their day

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Saturday in CinCity. The Pour Yourself a Drink, Put on Some Lipstick, and Pull Yourself Together Edition.

Well, I celebrated another birthday this week. In a little over a year I've lost some things: memory, a kidney stone I was apparently quite fond of, multiple phone chargers. One daughter has moved to the Big Easy and another to her first student apartment, neighbors have moved for various job transfers, and a best friend is gone, though the pain of her death has lessened a little.

I've gained. My cholesterol numbers should be my bowling score. Or, my IQ. Lots more aches in the mornings, but I'm going to blame the Lipitor and not my new Zumba class. More shoes. Two rooms on the attic floor to remodel. More time with my hubby. We walk a lot more. We argue a lot less.

A birthday around this time of year makes it easy to want to start a "new year" since autumn still feels like a time of beginnings with fresh pens and notebooks. My husband likes to announce that "this is the last roof we're ever going to replace" or "this is the last winter coat I'm going to buy so it has to last" as though the Grim Reaper is only blocks away from our front door. He means well and I love him for it. He wants to remind me to appreciate every day since the days ahead may be different. Emptier.


I'm reminded most days of the fragility of life and then again of the tenacity of the life source. The hardiness of the human spirit. The miracle and the tragedy that "life goes on." But, you know what they say. That's life.


by Dorothea Tanning

On one of those birthdays of which I've had so many

I was walking home through the park from a party,

pleased that I'd resisted mentioning the birthday—

why hear congratulations for doing nothing but live?

The birthday was my secret with myself and gave me,

walking under all those trees, such a strong feeling of

satisfaction that everything else fell away: party sounds,

the hostess who stared and as suddenly disappeared

on seeing her husband walk in with a young(er ) friend;

another guest examining garment labels in the room

where I went to leave my jacket; one of two waiters

balancing a trayful of foot-high champagne glasses;

a bee-like buzz of voices I ought to have enjoyed

but heard as foreign babble, so remote it was from

a birthday, so empty of import nothing would remain.

I got my jacket, waved from the hall, pressed Down.

In summer the park, for an hour or so before night,

is at its greenest, a whole implicit proposition

of green leaves, a triumph of leaves enfolding me

that day in a green intimacy so trustworthy I told

them my secret: "It's my birthday," I said out loud

before turning away to cross the avenue.

please note: title is courtesy of Elizabeth Taylor