Sunday, April 27, 2008


Here's something to think about: If you don't ask for something, how can you expect to get it? It's a reminder really, and the trick is that I'm asking it of myself. And you know what? It's happening.

I need to ask something of you too. Very soon. I just have to take a picture first. And then I'm going to ask you to spread the word and together we're going to make something happen for one who has no voice to ask for himself.

Weekend frick and tortured frack


Cheyenne's boyfriend is spending the weekend with us. Right now, every one of her toys is out of the toy box and all over the living room and kitchen. I want to tell them that they cannot play any more today until they clean up their mess, but they would ignore me, I just know they would. On Saturday, at the bottom of Cheyenne's toy box, Isaac discovered an old bone. It's been there for weeks and weeks, long forgotten by my girl. The minute Isaac found it, however, it became the most interesting thing in the house. He kept it between his giant lion's paws while she paced in circles around him, tormented. Then in what I imagine to be an exercise in paying her back for all the dirty tricks she's forever playing on him, he placed his paw on top of the coveted bone. That was too much for her and she collapsed on the floor before him and looked up at me with golden eyes pleading for me to do something about this travesty. He never chewed on the bone, mind you, just kept it away from her. Paybacks... you know what they say.


Thursday, April 24, 2008

This, this makes me smile

Man Writes Poem by Jay Leeming

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're right,
but after years of experience I would hesitate to predict

exactly where this poem is going to go. Why I remember
being on the scene with Frost in '47, and with Stevens in '53,
and if there's one thing about poems these days it's that
hang on, something's happening here, he's just compared the curtains

to his mother, and he's described the radiator as 'Roaring deep
with the red walrus of History.' Now that's a key line,
especially appearing here, somewhat late in the poem,
when all of the similes are about to go home. In fact he seems

a bit knocked out with the effort of writing that line,
and who wouldn't be? Looks like ... yes, he's put down his pen
and has gone to brush his teeth. Back to you Chuck." Well
thanks Harry. Wow, the life of the artist. That's it for now,

but we'll keep you informed of more details as they arise.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

We dig snow and rain and the bright sunshine

On Saturday afternoon, beneath clear blue skies and a warm golden sun, zipping through the cool air of a Texas April afternoon, two friends, Cheyenne and I headed for Austin. The 70s station on the XM radio was playing Kasey Kasem's Top 40 from a year that The Spinners, the Four Tops, the Stylistics, Gladys Knight & the Pips, the Carpenters and Tony Orlando & Dawn were all in the top ten. My friends and I sang along to all the songs, reaching for the volume, smiling, remembering. For a good part of the drive, the sunshine, the music and the singing carried me to a silly and carefree place. It was fun.

The day continued on just like that, filled with these moments where everything was perfect in and of itself, the right music, the right people, the right temperature. I want to tell you how wonderful my niece is and how very much I enjoy her laughter and her friends, about how long the hugs were and how broad the smiles. I want to tell you about the lazy meals on restaurant patios and wearing the wrong shoes to trek around Barton Springs. I want to tell you about how the Wyndam hotel not only welcomed Cheyenne with a goody bag of treats and a pink bandana, and paid an obscene amount of attention to her but also Sunday morning answered my call to the front desk with an exuberant, "Is this Cheyenne's Mom?"

There's just something so nice about an April weekend in Texas, spent with family, friends and my dog.

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Friday, April 18, 2008

Kiss and a wave

Every time I see you, you have a face full of bruises, a heart full of storms, a voice full of denial. Every time I speak with you, your voice is blue, your ideas trying to fly but not lifting. I turn my head before you do, hang up before you do, leave before you do.

Mister, you have no idea.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Bring it on!

Every morning at some point between 6:15 and 6:45, Cheyenne and I set out for our walk. The hour is particularly nice this time of year, the air cool, the light gentle, the birds singing and chirping, twittering and calling. I forget the earth sleeps in winter, and now all around me is growing, spreading and revealing itself. Just a few short weeks ago, all was brown and dull. Now the colors are radiant. Bright green new leaves cover the trees, pale cream jasmine bursts along fence lines, magnolia buds popping from deep green buds. Everything is outlined with newness, fragrance and the dewiness of new life. I walk through it all dizzy with the joy of being witness.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

In honor of their day

Fifty-eight years ago on this date, my parents were married.

Today, their marriage reaches past time, even past their lives. I used to send them each a card and thank them, bring Mom flowers. In the years between his death and her own, I would bring her roses on this day. Knowing she was no longer aware of the date and its meaning, I'd climb onto her bed with her and tell her I loved her, close my eyes and without words wish her happy anniversary and kiss her forehead.

This day, this April 15th, is the first anniversary I've not spent with them or her. But in my heart, in my heart, they are together.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Years may go by

I want to tell you, I do. I spoke with you last night, and I spoke with you last week. And you, you said my name yesterday. The trouble I have today is my dreaming, is that I remember your voice and I remember the way your hand floated so gently to touch my face just before you placed your lips on mine. The trouble is you have no idea how tall I see you, in that light there between the browns and greens of the stretching branches.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

With just a bit of butter

We're talking on the phone. His voice warm and familiar, deep and strong. I can picture his face, his expressions as he speaks. It takes not even a minute before we are riding the ease of our openness with each other, the ease of a friendship forged long ago. We take time to answer the simple question, How are you? He listens to my response. I listen to his response. We laugh here and there, I nod my head in agreement he cannot see. The conversation is not long, not spectacular, but comfortable. Like mashed potatoes.