By Mary Oliver


Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.

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Feels like I have once again fallen off the face of the planet. I’m just overwhelmed currently with all the madness going on. School, work and tutoring take up all my time.


I feel like sometimes the Dragon is being ignored and I hate that. I have been trying to set up times for he and I to have some us time, but it hasn’t been easy.


Perhaps over the break between semesters. Fix it to where we could have one whole day together, maybe spend the whole day in bed.


Hopefully I can also take the time to go over some of the rough drafts I have stored here and flesh out some thoughts.


Right now all I can share is that I am really happy that Obama is going to be my next president. I feel like we actually have a chance again, and to quote the newest first lady, finally I am starting to be proud of my country.


I am really sad at the same time that people in California voted in discrimination. Someday every person on this planet will have their right to be happy honored.


I am 39 now and am thinking I may have a midlife crisis this year. Do women get those?

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      Sun of autumn, thin and shy
And fruit drops off the trees,
Blue silence fills the peace
Of a tardy afternoon’s sky.

Death knells forged of metal,
And a white beast hits the mire.
Brown lasses uncouth choir
Dies in leaves’ drifting prattle.

Brow of God dreams of hues,
Senses madness’ gentle wings.
Round the hill wield in rings
Black decay and shaded views.

Rest and wine in sunset’s gleam,
Sad guitars drizzle into night,
And to the mellow lamp inside
You turn in as in a dream.

Georg Trakl

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Driving home from work yesterday, all the sleepy people heading into their day as mine was ending, I encountered wildlife. I saw a pack of Gazelles, in male form, outfitted in thin sheer running shorts, hooves shod in tight bright colors, promising speed and performance. They darted through the traffic at the stop light, cars belching exhaust, their lungs expelling fog, as they raced their shadows in the morning sun along the asphalt. Two ran in front of me, as I idled, their heads high turning this way and that, smelling the fall air in flared nostrils. I could see each rib in stark relief against their skin. They were an unreal image in a mundane scene, graceful and beautiful. Bathed in the early morning light, heat radiating from each one, vapor trails. Twenty all told heading down the road to the University; legs kicking back in my rear view mirror, propelling them at high speed to their final destination.


As quickly as they invaded our sluggish fleet they were gone, leaving in their wake, a flash of envy to never know their speeds, for my body is not that of a gazelle.

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Somebody took the Obama sign out of my yard sometime either last night while I was at work or this morning. I am pissed!

**::Grumbles::**

Heading back to the campaign headquarters to get another sign on Monday!

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by E.E. cummings

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
-long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
-long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common’s rare and millstones float
-long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts and thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
-time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough

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Woke up today with the definite chill of Autumn in the air. I will have to start bringing plants in soon, from the front porch. The linoleum floor in the kitchen is cold, so very cold under my bare feet. Coffee mugs warm my hands as I walk back to the computer room. The Dragons cigarette smoke seems thicker in the air, as it blows in on the breeze from the back porch. The dogs seem more animated then normal, the cooler weather brings out the puppy in all three of them. Their fur coats getting thicker in expectation of the impending cold. I am starting to see the changing leaves in the cemetery across the street. Fall is coming, my favorite time of year.

I feel bad for not really paying attention to the high holy days of my Pagan faith. It seems this year, I have just let my spiritual practices fall by the wayside. I still acknowledge the Goddess, and try and mentally ground but it hasn’t been going as well. Overwhelmed by all that I have on my plate, I need to work on being more in tune with Her and the world around me. Perhaps getting back into step with the natural world around me and the Goddess herself, will help me deal with the bucket loads of stress I am currently feeling.


Course that stress is not helped at all by the political and economic issues currently filling the news. Sometimes I wish I had a cave off in the hills and I was at the place in my life where I could embrace the inner crazy cat lady who lives in the woods. Sphere: Related Content

Smash down the cities.
Knock the walls to pieces.
Break the factories and cathedrals, warehouses
and homes
Into loose piles of stone and lumber and black
burnt wood:
You are the soldiers and we command you.

Build up the cities.
Set up the walls again.
Put together once more the factories and cathedrals,
warehouses and homes
Into buildings for life and labor:
You are workmen and citizens all: We
command you.

Carl Sandburg

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Yesterday I put an Obama/Biden sign in my front yard. I have a bumper sticker for my car, and a Women for Obama, button on my purse. This is the first time in my voting life that I have been this political. But to be honest I am truly scared. I listen to all the McCain/Palin supporters around me and my head hurts, even more my heart and soul aches. I don’t really have anything deep or major to add to the debate raging across the blogshere about this election. Only that I am scared, and what I hear coming from the right scares me more and more everyday.

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by Pablo Neruda. (trans. Alastair Reid.)

And now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let’s not speak in any language,
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about,
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve,
and you keep quiet and I will go.

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