Monday, July 29, 2013


Taking this time to remember Vincent Van Gogh who was born on March 30th, 1853
 and died on July 29, 1890


After painting peasant pictures  
Country settings-harvest landscapes
He was drawn to the pallets of Paris
Where color was everything

He took long walks to improve his color
With passion and torment he painted
 Poppies, olive groves and night cafés
Compulsively driven by brushes with death
And strokes of genius he worked

With turbulent eyes and brightly colored oils
Creating sunflowers, fishing boats, portraits
And starry nights that will live on forever

But at a young thirty-seven, left his canvas
With so much color and life unpainted
Making us wonder what madness drove him
To leave us with such an impression


Sunday, July 21, 2013



Like houseflies, we buzz upward and hit the white ceiling
Circling around the room, we pass the closed door
How long before we realize this present space and time?
Instinct moves us toward the light of the window
But we bounce off with no escape
Within these walls, this day, we co-exist
 It’s where words fly and we negotiate
To surrender to the will of each other

Saturday, July 6, 2013


Andrew Wyeth

When I took my troubles to bed
Laid them on the pillow next to me
I thought I had put them to rest
So I searched for diversions instead

With heavy eyelids I drifted off
But during my restless sleep
I grabbed the troubled pillow
And placed it under my head

Next to my breath-I inhaled it
Near my ears-I listened to it
Above my heart-I embraced it
And all night wrestled with it

The next day I made my bed
With yesterdays troubles still
Lying there under the covers
Waiting for my sleepy head


Thursday, July 4, 2013


Yesterday, I had the urge to sauté the fresh string beans I bought at the market the day before. When I checked for ingredients and couldn't find any garlic, I remembered the wild garlic growing beside the sage in the front rock garden. It’s really a small patch of earth along the front walkway, so I approached it with only a small pointed hand shovel. Bending over, I could feel the strain on my knees and back, but kept digging and digging.  It was a challenge to pry the bulbs loose without damaging them. One after the other, I uncovered the fully formed but small garlic bulbs and laid them on the ground. There were only four or five but more than enough for an early nights dinner. After fifteen minutes of digging and pulling some weeds along the way, my back was beginning to ache. 

On the farm across the road, the tractor had been running for a couple of hours and the thought of working in the hot sun every day, planting, cutting and harvesting, made my back ache even more. One would really have to be dedicated to it or hungry enough. I headed for the kitchen with my small but ample crop.

I crushed some garlic cloves to sauté the string beans with olive oil, some to flavor the grilled pork chops and snipped pieces of the long stems to sprinkle on the baked potatoes. It would be our special meal of the week and except for the garlic, all purchased at the supermarket. With fork and knife in hand, my husband and I delighted in our simple but most savory feast. Across the field, the tractor was still running over the large expanse of land and I now felt much more appreciation for the farmer who would have many more hours of work before his evening meal.