observed celestial recurrences

What's up with Willow these days?  Have you noticed?  She posts a measly poem once a week. That's it. Could it be, after four years of furious daily postings, she ran out of steam?  Well, yes, sort of ... she just ran out of blog steam.  I hear she's been hanging around Facebook a lot, and is busy putting together her second poetry chapbook manuscript. She tells me the time off has been therapeutic, and that she has finally coaxed her bloggy muse off the sofa.  So, stay tuned gentle readers; fresh new posts are on their way.

The daffodils have pushed through the winter soil at Willow Manor early this year, but I hear the manor Christmas tree is still up, gathering dust, while she's heavily into Philip Larkin, among others. She says she will take down the tree for Lent. 

And the empty pages?

Should they ever be filled

Let it be with observed

Celestial recurrences,

The day the flowers come,

And when the birds go.

Philip Larkin, from "Forget What Did"

click to embiggen

I also heard it from the grapevine that Willow is working on updating her image with a new pair of retro Michael Caine glasses. Now all she needs to be way cool, is lose the silly grin, and dangle a cigarette.

You Are A Scorching Salve

I am a tall order,

tree-high,

neatly bleeding

pollard style,

lumberjack-ravaged,

pickaxe-stark.

Your balm

soothes, burns

the lingering sting,

lip-sap applied

to skinned knees

and elbows, sticky

over wild initials

carved graffiti-soft,

forest-deep.

tk/January 2012

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's excellent reading:

(I say sah-ve...he says sal-ve)

Visit his intelligent and eclectic blog Black Dogs.

image: River, Marina Moevs, 2005
Join The Mag creative writing group here.

Too Many Crumbs for a Broom

They linger,

still play in the keys,

stick to my fingers

with marmalade.

I sip coffee impulses,

snack between words

that spill to the desk,

litter the lunchroom

in crossword kisses.

I wear my best

alphabet outfit,

see London, see France,

munch and crunch

the sultry dance,

the sideways glance,

the clickety-clack.

tk/December 2011

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's sexy English accent:

(visit his excellent and diverse blog Black Dogs)

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group here.
image: Lunch, George Tooker, 1964, Columbus Museum of Art

Not Now, I'm Busy

I stare at teacups

and blank walls

squeeze a ball

of bubble wrap

as if some kind

of juicy inspiration

might ooze

through my fingers

onto the keyboard

surrounded by books

none of which I read

start to finish

anymore, but graze

from a smorgasbord

dip into my favorite

playboy phrases

then toss them out

for the dogs to enjoy

secretly hoping

they will boomerang

back in the form

of something sexy

something hip

like a trilby or a kiss

tk, October 2011

Listen to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth's reading of this poem:
(visit his excellent blog Black Dogs here)

Join Magpie Tales interactive writing blog here

the morning after

Let us have wine and women,

myrth and laughter,

Sermons and soda water

the day after.

Lord Byron, from Don Juan

Come in and help yourself to some delicious brunch. There's plenty of my favorite press pot coffee, brewed extra strong, since most of us had a just a few too many Last Word cocktails last night, including Branwell Bronte, brother of the three famous Bronte sisters, who came along with Alan Burnett.  The Bug, didn't imbibe, but was seen flashing around a large nickel-plated revolver.  I'm not sure exactly why.

In addition to our fascinating list of guests there was quite a bit going on all evening, which miraculously lasted 24 hours, including fencing competitions, drag racing, men in kilts, and Tom, Half Moose's attempt to scuba dive in the Scioto River.  Steve Martin once again roamed the grounds of the manor without his pants, or even the rest of his clothes, for that matter.  Tom's tuxedo came loose and floated down the river, on its way to the mighty Mississippi.  Steve was only too happy to loan him his white suit, replaced by a metallic silver thong.

Reya was stunning in her fur trimmed mini Twiggy dress.  Dino Hand, looking just as stunning in his Michael Jackson glove, spent most of the evening hovering behind her.  Lord Thomas of Wellington entertained us on the piano, and Dr. Linthead, dressed in handsome Civil War general's uniform, took over, not even realizing he could play.  Brendan absolutely outdid himself by writing a glorious mythological poem in honor of the ball.

Junk Thief's film presentation of the Willow Manor Ball, included yours truly ice skating with the ever talented Archie Leach. The diligent practicing of my woolly socks triple axel truly paid off.  My personal highlight of the evening, was watching the sunrise over the Scioto, while the dashing R.A.D. Stainforth read me a passage of Lord Byron's Don Juan. He can read poetry just as well as he can tango, by the way.

Some might think this was simply a lot of silly nonsense. But, I happen to believe the fine line between fantasy and reality is the space where artists live.  We should never apologize for this virtual world, if not celebrate it, gorge in its creativity.  This is exactly what we did.  Thank you for dancing that powerful dance on the splendid border between fantasy and reality with me, dear friends.  It was good.

Congratulations to Fireblossom and Rob Kistner,

winners of the door prize of an Ohio Starbucks mug.

(please send me your mailing addresses)

Magpie Tales II

I felt queasy from the cheap champagne served at the embassy

reception. The usual rounds of tedious small talk had given me a

headache. The wet November air was refreshing, as we stepped out

into the rustic streets. Fog had settled in, and it was already dark at

4:00. I felt the match box in my pocket, and realized I had left my

gloves at the hotel.

.

Old Town was unusually quiet; not a car in sight. Bratislava Castle

rose up from the mist on the hilltop, as if by magic, and I remember

thinking the night must have felt just this way, hundreds of years

earlier. He stopped at the corner, and turned to me.

"Heading back to the hotel? Mind if I join you?" His breath visible

in the cold.

.

Normally, I would have shared a cab with a colleague, but it was

only a ten minute walk downhill. Besides, there was not a taxi to be

hailed, even if we wanted one.

.

"Sure, I'd love the company." I smiled.

.

We clip-clopped down the murky pavement in silence, hands in my
pockets, aided by an occasional window, or house light above an

ornately carved door. Suddenly, my heel caught on a piece of

uneven paving stone, and I instinctively grabbed the sleeve of his

overcoat, to steady myself.

.

"Oops! Sorry about that. I guess these old streets aren't so heel

friendly."

.

"No problem. Here, take my arm."

.

We walked on, without speaking, my left hand nestled around his

arm, and my right tightly gripped the matchbox in my pocket.

.

Just before turning down the block leading to the hotel, we paused
under the soft glow of an iron street light, while he pulled a cigar out
of his breast pocket. I struck a match from the box, moist from my

palm, and lit it.

.

.

To sign up for Magpie Tales, or for more participants click [HERE].

Magpie Tales No. 1

Today is opening day for my creative writing blog, Magpie Tales.
Your initial response was incredible. A warm, woolly thank you to all
who signed up to participate, making today a huge success. I can't
wait to read all of your amazing tales.

If you consider yourself a creative writer, and happened to miss
this first photo prompt, no problem. A new weekly prompt will
be issued each Thursday, with the piece of fiction or poetry due
the following Tuesday. So, please join in whenever you can.

This is my sample piece, posted last week. For those of you who
might have missed it, or are wondering what Magpie is all about,
here it is again. The instructions were to write a short fictional piece
inspired from the photo, below.

General Washington's favorite dessert was tipsy pudding. Timing

was everything. When he was home in Philadelphia, he made it a

habit of stopping by Mrs. Anne Lippincott's row house as near tea

time as possible, preferably ten minutes to four, not a minute past.

His three-cornered hat neatly on the peg by the door, he was seated

comfortably by the fire, in time to hear her mantel clock chime four.

.

Anne's table always brimmed with scones, fresh fruit, and pudding

made with the finest sherry in the region, over sponge cake light as

a goose down feather bed. She was one of his dearest friends, and at

times, he wished he had met her years ago, before he had set his cap

for his Martha.

.

The general never took sugar in his tea, just a spot of milk, always

set out in a small, delicately engraved pewter pitcher, near his cup.

.

On a gray November day, some 200 years later the estate of

Anne Lippincott's fourth great grand niece, Stella, went up for auction

on the front lawn of her stately farm house in rural Delaware County,

Ohio. The auctioneer called out from the front porch to the small

crowd gathered outside.

.

A lot of kitchen goods. Do I hear 10?

.

I raised my hand, taking a chance on the worn cardboard box with

the green Palmolive logo on the side. Kitchen lots were dicey. But,

it was a thrill to see what prize my ten dollar bill might land; maybe

a quirky McCoy planter or a Bakelite handled spoon.

.

10 once. 10 twice. Sold to the lady in red for 10 dollars.

.

I carried the box out and slid it into the back of my old Land Rover.

Once home, I emptied the box onto the kitchen counter, piece by

piece. Two well used metal ice cube trays, several nice Mason jars

with lids, a worn, but pretty yellow calico apron, and jostled in the

bottom, an assortment of odd utensils, nearly covering a small

pewter creamer, with a delicate wreath etched on each side.
.