Sorta Kinda Letter-Poem. Indirect Light.

Let us sit a while, I say to you again, in this good breeze.

There is sunburn from September sun on the top of your knees.

The yellow light highlights the sunbleach in my hair.

You ask me a question, it is a long while before I raise my words

to answer. Right now Vinca is my favorite flower,

for how she sits quiet in the pot on the corner of the porch

& doesn't need for drink or sun. She is light pink, strong.

She issues from herself. It is glorious, and always has been

at the edge of the backyard.


I want to buy you a garden you say. You make noise.

Shift in your seat. I can't see your eyes. My face beams

reflected in your glasses: I am all I see. Or at least

you continue, provide for you the land.


When I move to the city the streets will test me.

I imagine this will be the time I need you to help me grow.

A butterfly flies by--really it is a moth. Paper-wings.

To be a butterfly, so much more romantic.

They both, however, start as worms.


We both, of course, eat ourselves. We disintegrate

in to other new, same things. Have you always worn

or mostly, only black? I wonder. I rack my head

for all the way back then, when we used to be

or still were kids. I dont remember clearly too much

of that.


You stop listening, you always do. Your way of pretending

not to care, to act like you dont hear. You always will, too.

I love the precision of light back here. How easy it is,

how good it looks. I will pick this flower for you and lay it

down. I remember now. It still will grow.

IncantationOne SelfPhotographs Lessons

Crow lives sometimes in her hair. She tells her not to but she doesn't care.

The hot river is the dirtiest-clean smell she knows.

When the sun goes & the dark comes, the wind stops almost completely.

She is Joker. She celebrates as Witness the week of the Fool.

Not Easily When we get beyond beauty and pleasure, to the other side of the heart (but short of the spirit), we are confused about what to do next. It is too easy to say arriving is enough. To pretend the music of the mountain needs only to be heard. That the dance is known by the dancing, and the lasagne is realized by eating it. Not in this place on the other side of desire. We can swim in the Aegean, but we can't take it home. A man finds a melon by the road and continues up the hill thinking it is the warm melon that will remain after he has forgotten the ruins and sea of the summer. He tells himself this even as the idea of the taste is replacing what the melon tasted like.~Jack Gilbert

I had understood freedom and security. The need to rattle the foundation of habit. We relax back into the moulds of habit. They are secure, they bind us and keep us contained at the expense of freedom. To break the moulds, to be heedless of the seductions of security is an impossible struggle, but one of the few that count. To be free is to learn, to test yourself constantly, to gamble. It is not safe. I had learnt to laugh. I felt invincible, untouchable, I had extended myself, and I believed I could now sit back, there was nothing else the desert could teach me. And I wanted to remember all this. Wanted to remember this place and what it meant to me, and how I had arrived here.~Robyn Davidson

She knows Crow is teacher, and holder of good medicine, too. Of course she forgets that sometimes{sometimes that forgets she}too

Wow. Nothing short of miraculous. I'm like in dazed wonder, shaking at the stillness of reverie, when evry little thing literally quakes with the goodness. Vibrating of its own light cuz for a mere moment you realize all, of this lone eternal moment NOW, is perfectly right.

All I can say is that in the last 14 hours, I've definitely undergone a profound alteration in my reaction to life to quote a rather articulate, and often personally quite harmonic spiritual text of which I am rather fond. That line comes straight out from the definition of what a hands-on spritual experience of the living day by day and growing and knowing yourself kind is. Appropriate. Maybe in the nextday or so my thoughts and fire will align just so as to give words to my late (unforced, natural--Kelly!! perception changes, here on this blog.) To help me better understand my process, you know, by processing....

Today is the first day of light. I must be off to the farm to clean now, to move, throw. And celebrate. Hmmmm--what timing, a genuine good ol spring cleaning of sorts. May new things be let to flow....

A Poem, in celebration of the return of light

It Is the Rising I Love by Linda Gregg

As long as I struggle to float above the ground
and fail, there is reason for this poetry.
On the stone back of Ludovici's throne, Venus
is rising from the water. Her face and arms
are raised, and the two women trained in the ways
of the world help her rise, covering her
nakedness with a cloth at the same time.
It is the rising I love, from no matter what element
to the one above. She from water to land,
me from earth to air as if I had a soul.
Helped by prayers and not by women, I say
(ascending in all my sexual glamour), see my body
bathed in light and air. See me rise like a flame,
like the sun, moon, stars, birds, wind. In light.
In dark. But I never achieve it. I get on my knees
this gray April to see if open crocuses have a smell.
I must live in the suffering and desire of what
rises and falls. The terrible blind grinding
of gears against our bodies and lives.

Going Gothic

Winter Shots

@Blue Heron Farm,

C-town