chasing shadows again











I’ve come back to her now
closer than her haunting dreams
she still sings for me
time can never change her
could never hold hold the sea

she rises up to whisper
to tell me what I need
she’s not like other lovers
she speaks to me in tongues
in the breath from sailors’ graves
cold against my skin
I shake the salt from the sheets when she leaves

she’s walked up from the ocean
but never left my dreams
even when I sleep tangled in her hair
all she does is call
all she does is linger

in every breath of crashing wave
she calls
she cries
she screams
my love come home
come back to me
bring the wounds that will not heal
bring your blood that doesn’t sing
bring the broken shards of dream
but come home
back to me

I can taste her kisses on my skin
this love is forever
and maybe after then
light shimmers over her skin
in rippling paths of truth and shadow
that will always lead me home
back to her
back to me

if I stray too far she calls
she cries
she begs
she screams
my love come home
come back to me
bring your wounds that will not heal
bring your silence and your fears
bring the light you cannot see
and just come home
come back to me

I wake tangled in her hair
surrendered to our dreams
she’s not like other lovers
I shake the salt from the sheets when she leaves

Read the rest of this entry »

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{April 21, 2007}   What am I….

…in love with?at the end of The Esplanade a poem post on in this silence, which seems to have poems that blaze with the immediate beauty and bravery of falling stars. Keep reading on this page – it’s the kind of night that is a meteor shower – not a single, lonely comet. It (along with an earlier e-mail mentioning it, followed by a surprise contact from the person who ran it) reminds me of how much I miss my poetry readings. I want to hear that poem read aloud. I want to read it aloud. I want to hear where my emphasis differs, where my voice would catch and where the author’s would. I want to hear my hear my lovers read it – I want to know at what second, on what word, they would meet my eyes.

—my girlfriend, who knits things that are fantastic – and will send one to me if I ask, though scarves are of little use here in the land of loud and quite tropical birds. I would love it anyway, and I am sure she would do it anyway. I am in love with hand made scarves, especially when made for me. I am all the more aware of them, because I cannot knit, and the very fact that it can be done seems somehow magical.

Perhaps I should get a poetry group going here. Or rather, a writings and et cetera group. I fear I would end up with something like the first poetry group I knew – carefully outlined and distant, and nothing like the second – intimate and fearless. I know I cannot create the second, that’s not the sort of thing you can engineer, and I will have little patience for the first.

I know where I would like to have it though. There is a coffeeshop not far from here, it’s a small place and the coffee takes forever in comparison to every other coffeeshop but I think that somehow they get love into the coffee because it tastes like no other coffee I’ve ever had. Even if I try and no one comes, it will be worth the trip just for that coffee.



Sunday morning is for secrets, and has been since just after I met Frank Warren. Sunday mornings with coffee and postcards from strangers was at first my sense of connection to the world, reading secrets that could have been mine reminded me I was not as alone as I thought. Now that I’ve moved to Hawai’i, my Sunday morning ritual is all the more important – it’s one of the few things I have left of a life I ran out on a bit too quickly to wrap up loose ends. Everything about home seems unfinished and still bleeding, even three months later.

If you must read only one, I’d make it this one. While the ones that touch on pain can seem closer to me, I think I most love to share the ones that have more hope, more joy, more love. And that…that makes me fall in love with this one. That someone sent a message I feel so deeply still written on one of my favorite sculptures ever also touches me – if in entirely different and more painful ways.

Also up this week is a letter from Tina Malament, who discusses briefly her response to anorexia and the tshirts she’s made. I definitely must congratulate her on her efforts to bring more attention to what is so often a disease that is near impossible to talk about. The A(norexia) N(ervosa) and A(ssociated) D(isorders) webpage offers information on support groups, information on finding a therapist, information on anorexia and other eating disorders, and candlelight vigils.



{April 10, 2007}   good morning cosmos (again!)

Good morning. Waking up today has thus far been special—adding dogs that broke into the house and knocked over the trash can to the fact that I generally feel like death in the morning adds that special touch of home to sweeping up used coffee grounds. However, the kitchen is cleaned, the dogs are outside (and entirely unrepentant!), and in about an hour my little sister comes to visit. Until then I shall deal with breakfast and try to pop in a few links.

Ciao.



Or, at least to the children that might have been mine. I determined, years ago now, in Ecuador, to write this letter to you. It was the wake for your grandfather, or at least, the man who would have been your grandfather, a year after he died. I wrote a poem there, which is in the mail, that you should see.

I have had a bit of rum tonight. Mango flavored rum, which as the woman who was almost your mother, I do not recommend. Spiced rum, my darlings, is the way to go. Captain Morgan’s Private Stock is my rum of choice, followed by Stroh 80 (which will add a delightful hint of butterscotch to your rum and Coke). I just climbed out of a bath where I was reading The Te of Piglet aloud to no one at all (and decided there were two people I should read it aloud to). The point of telling you this, as I recall, was to illustrate that I am in fact sober enough to type, but not sober enough to lie. And that is important.

If you see this, children of the father I meant you to have, I want you to know that I love you – because as much as I loved the idea of my own children, I loved the idea of your father’s children and I do not believe that months or years or centuries will rob me of your loss. You will always be what I wanted, and though you may not be what I have had, I could never hold that against you.

In the beginning of the fall, when the sunlight began to die, your father ended our engagement. And in practically every sense that mattered at the time, and that matters to me still, ended the only life I ever meant to have. I will not lie here, not for him, not for you, and not for me. You and your father were all the life that I had ever given myself to. I will not deny that I gave him reason to leave me, nor will I deny that his choice was made with love and much suffering.

You are probably wondering why I am writing you this letter (which I had intended to tuck into the baby book my mother kept for me until you had one of your own and which I had thought of writing as a poem and perhaps sober). I can offer you only two reasons – the first is that something inside of me dies at the thought I will not write this, the second is that I never knew my grandfather and I wanted, desperately, to know who he was. Whatever came to pass between your father and I – I do not want that to rob you of what I meant to tell you of your grandfather.

What you need to know about your father’s father, before anything else, is that from the second he saw you, he would have loved you. I want you to know to know that – no matter what you do, no matter where you go – your grandfather would have loved you. He came to America and (much more so than your father’s mother) he came to speak and listen and breathe with her. I want you to know that when he at looked people he saw them. I want you to know that from that first awkward dinner until the last time he spoke to me in the hospital, he saw me – because I want you to know that he would have seen you.

Your grandfather might not always have been a gentle man, but he was always gentle with me. Before anyone in your family did (other than, of course, your father) he made me feel that I was welcome – he knew at what point exactly I couldn’t stand to not understand the conversation because I didn’t know enough Spanish and would suddenly ask me a question or tell some story in English. I want you to know that a lot of your father’s ability to captivate people comes with his blood. I want you to know that his stories mesmerized me, that his love for a place I’d never seen became my own, and that knowing him -even for a few months- changed my life.

I want you to know that he would have shown you how to find way through life in the dark. I want you to know that he would have known the words that would make you laugh, or cry, or smile. I want you to know that he could see the very best in people, and that he would have seen it in you. I want you to know he looked forward to you and to long vacations and to traveling and to the time he meant to have with you. I want you to know that I would have been both proud and glad to have him as a father and your grandfather – and that I would have shared, and will still share, every memory I have of him with you. I want you to know that cried while I wrote this, not just for him, not just for your father, but for you.

I would have been your mother, but I don’t expect I will now. I want you to know all of this anyway. I will always love your father, just as I will always love you. And, though when I first planned this letter I had expected I would be there to tell you this, that I would watch you grow up, that you would have been mine – your father loves you too. If he can’t always tell you, or always show you, that is not because he doesn’t.

When we talked about you, when you would have been ours, years before you were conceived he loved you. He will love you now. And he will love you always. As will I.

Goodbye.



{April 7, 2007}   A scrap of a story….

But the words were long ago, and no matter how mighty the roar of the lion, no matter how strong, no matter how the sight of him alone filled all the world in the terrifying intimacy of the moment—time would rob him of majesty and leave him crowned with only dust. I remember the words as I remember the lion now.

On nights when I wake to write down prophesy he recurs in my dreams in a grand and abandoned garden, an ancient statue heavy with dust and the weight of the ages. I take up my pen still able to feel the silt-fine dust of decaying marble on my fingertips. On the nights that I wake in terror with his roar still echoing in my ears he appears to me wreathed in flame and tatters of his former glory, wrathful and more than half consumed by madness. But the nights I cannot shake from my memory, the dreams that haunt my every waking hour for days, he walks along beside me through dreams that are not of his making as my companion, my guardian, my brother.

And I know, even as I stand here on the balcony overlooking the sea of lights that is home, he is somewhere out there. Waiting. Walking. Searching.

When he finds me I will ask him if he shared my dreams.

This is a little scrap, unedited. I am not entirely sure who she is talking about, or if I will pick her up again. Her name is Samaria [Sa-ma’-ri-a ~ pertaining to a watch, watch-mountain — according to my copy of the Bible] and that is about all I know about her. Thought I’d toss it up here as I have yet to put up any of my own writing thus far.



Killing time between here and Neverland you might check out—

  • Gumball Poetry which has such things to offer as Nude Badminton by Matt Sandbank!
  • Modern Ruins photographic essays by Shaun O’Boyle – hauntingly lyric photography
  • Poetry Thursday offers links to poems Thursdays, prompts on Fridays, and various other resources and articles
  • Very Short Novels David offers 299 word snapshots of fiction rich with crisp images and a sense of character and humanity – proof that more words do not equal more intensity


And it was a terribly odd dream-any nightmare involving your old house, a farm that had appeared in your old front yard, trips to the beach with your family to go to a place that made tee-shirts, an escaped lamb, a stolen car, your ex-fiancee, and your old Girl Scout troop leader are just bound to leave you more puzzled than terrified after the initial moments of waking up. Now it is a half-remembered haze, and I am content to let it settle into dust in some distant graveyard of dreams.

Today is searching for links, working on some jewelry projects, and right at moment coffee and Stir of Echoes. Links, updates, and hopefully pictures coming soon!



{April 6, 2007}   good morning cosmos

My current project is to get my room to smell like incense – which is harder than one might think as here in the land of loud birds we do not have air conditioning, we simply have large windows and sliding doors. It makes things a touch more difficult, but I picked up vanilla sandalwood incense and the most adorable little panda to hold it.

So far today is lazy. I want to devise a recipe for either a variation on the mango and beans dish I had yesterday (mango is so neat with red bell pepper!) or else try to make a dessert souffle. I should call a couple I met awhile ago and see if we can do anything soon, I should try to actually hang out with people now and again in person.

I would like someone with beautiful eyes to be lost in for awhile. Haunting eyes and echoes like mist from the sea and rain over desert sands that rises tiny comet impact trails. I would prefer if the eyes were blue or green (everyone needs goals somewhere) but any with the appropriate echoes would be more than welcome.

I need to fall in love with someone I can touch.

I should write a poem.

I should pray.

But first…coffee!



{April 5, 2007}   100 Questions

Years ago a friend of mine told me that you can learn more about someone in 100 questions than in twice that many pages they write about themselves and asked me to write him 100 questions. Which I did – though I had lost touch with him before they were finished.

Because the idea is something I’ve never forgotten, I’m throwing out an open invitation to send me 100 questions. I’ll put them up here onsite so that they can be answered by me and/or the universe in general.

Please send questions to ask100questions@gmail.com – I’ll get them up as soon as I can.



et cetera