A Tidings of Magpies

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.

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.

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

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.

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...

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

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.

of Gathering and Keeping Fruit by William Lawson "Although it be an easie matter, when God shall send it to gather and keep fruit, yet are there certain things worthy your regard: you must gather your fruit when it is ripe and not before, else it will wither and be tough and sour. All fruits generally are ripe when they begin to fall: for trees as all other bearers do, when their young ones are ripe, they will wain them. The dove her pidgeons, the coney her rabbits, and women their children." there are cycles to which are we are chained despite what our minds will us to do i need to clean, i actually want to clean. with one babe away at school and her sister three years to follow, i need to clear our surroundings of the remnants of their flurried growth. so fast it’s gone. before i could clear my eyes from the wonder of their sweet bald heads and feet no bigger than my palm, they are off and running in the time it takes to clear a throat and ask, “what do you think of this,” ...

Forsythia. Buds. Babes playing ball in the park. Spring sprung into place. Yes, Mister Dickens. The Spirits really can do it all in one night.

Does everyone have enough room back there? I do this a little different than Jay does, but Jay's in Iraq and we're going to do it my way. What size gloves do you wear? 6 1/2? What? Are you a girl? See that blue thing over there? No, not that blue thing, the blue thing next to it on your tray. Push that blue thing into the white thing. Push. Push, push, push, and then rotate three times. We're in. Finish up and catch me downstairs in five.

“It has been asserted, by children’s-books illustrators, at dog shows, and by strangers passing on the street, that people often bear a striking resemblance to their pets. We examined whether such observations are empirically warranted by testing whether people can match dogs with their owners.” Michael M Roy and Nicholas J. S. Christenfeld Dept. of Psychology, Univ. of California, San Diego Good natured, affectionate, sociable, head strong, high-energy, Active, playful, loyal, family centered. Lean muscular build, smooth coat, square stance, Steadfast and reliable, Full of love for people and a zest for life. Often described as the clown, Intelligent working class, Instinctive desire to please while at the same time Showing alertness, caution and courage in the face of the unknown. Looks so imposing that she is an effective deterrent even when friendly. NOT for EVERYONE. Being a breed of high-energy She requires plenty of love, and even more patience. She will find many ways to get in...