Bridge

No beams or trusses―

just a simple span of obstacles,

make-do suspension, stubborn enough to find a way,

woven one sleepless night at a time.

I take only memory, ditch the bangles.

Each step aches freedom, dreads narrow spaces.

I want to run―but sidle on―frayed ends exposed

as rope unravels, sways so violently I cry out.

Cavernous echo! I dare not look down;

fear the unknown, some great fish throat.

I hear your voice―and remember

this temporary means from here to there.

tk/April 2015

Lovely dramatic read by R.A.D. ...

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Tessellation

From a distance,

the pattern looks right.

Buckles go unnoticed;

rough edges smoothed over

with a Libra trowel.

Hate puzzles.

I take it apart, spread it,

shameless, for a good hard look;

see all sorts of things.

Slowly it comes together;

gaps stare expectant

in the scene like clouds.

Then you. 

End pieces tumble easy, snap,

fully interlock promises
and now.

tk/November 2014

Ronaldo Stainforth steps out of his black and white world... 

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Poppy

I save the red nostalgic kiss.

After the longest moment of silence,

press the petals to my lips.

I have kept the faith, knowing I would love

and be loved, intimately

remember how November lies,

cenotaph on the other side of the Atlantic.

I am like a ghost who signals,

hears the same blood-beat in my ear;

chance shrapnel delivers

the opiate churning up of earth.

This late-flowering lust.

tk/November 2014


Excellent read by R.A.D. Stainforth...love the rare smile...

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Pentimento

Careful consideration shows

traces of underdrawing.

Off-center.  Awkward.

Seed pearl tears dot the canvas.

Then a change of mind: 

brushed over with another venue.

Layers of new whitewash

show the transparency of my skin.

I look taller.  Three-dimensional.

Someone stands close behind.

There are curtainless windows.
Plenty of blue, because it is now.

tk/October 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth enjoys a glass and reads my poem...

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Self-portrait by Vivian Maier 

No Third Thing

Only so much room in a lifeboat,

half-capacity sixareen.  Bushel basket.

Butcher.  Baker.  Maybe

a candlestick-maker;

the notables cross over

in threesomes.

Synchronicities flutter in threes,

casually.  Historically informed,

hinting at world harmony;

a table of elements

that dissolves on the tongue

like rice paper, moths.

This time it's fresh;

just the northeast wind.  

Ball of string.  Buttermilk sky.

A buoyant list scrawled

on a paper kite:

1.  I am loved

2.  There is solace

There is no third thing.

tk/September 2014

Beautiful read by R.A.D. Stainforth...and a bit of music as well...

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Wanderlust

I return.  Two if by sea.

God-force without a compass.

Not for homesickness.

I have no real place.

The rail acts as stylus.

Dirty crackle.  Hiss of anticipation.

I board a north boat with lanterns.  

Gulls in my wake.

The edge of the world knows

the songs of my heavy-booted fathers.

Cliffs rise to welcome me.

Oceanic.  Colder than pewter.

Wyeth skies find a home

on the other side of the Atlantic.

I see an unknown soldier in the clouds,

covered with a greatcoat.  

He whispers.  Mainland.

Welcomes me with a wheelhouse.

Offers cake.  A pillow for my head.
Shows me the next bend in the road.

tk/August 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth, fresh from a wander in Shetland...

*photo: Yell Sound, Shetland, 2014, by R.A.D. Stainforth 

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Refit

The walls are empty,

pocked with nail holes,

shadows of pictures―

a room without windows.

Too many years

since the piano was tuned.

Behind the sofa no longer

a good place to hide.

Laughter sleeps like stones

under shroud sheets.

I have forgotten

the dance, the lampshade.

I pull a chamois from my pocket―

not going over Jordan―just spring cleaning.

Dust smells new:  a scent of yellow.

The holes stare with tiny, hammered eyes.

I could use a shovel. 

tk/March 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth breathes a bit of freshness to my words:

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*Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit, photo by Bonnie Beechler

Climbing

I see your head poke

from a cloud of leaves;

your sap-stained legs dangle

beneath a limb.

Some days you climb further,

to the high branches,

frighten sparrows

from their narrow perches.

In winter you are easily seen

carving graffiti into the bark

with your laser eyes;

four initials and a heart.

I am content to swing low,

absolve myself with hemp,

twist tight, let go,

lose control.

tk/August 2013 

Thank you, R.A.D. Stainforth, for this beautiful read. 

Jeanie Tomenek 

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Virginia Woolf's Bedroom

It's the blue one at the end of the hall ―
cover it with poppies you bought yourself,
let pollen drop from your hair like wedding rice.

Lie on the child-like bed
under the narrow eyes of portraits.
Let your wasp eyes unhinge, draw honey.

Be made a woman here.

Slip endless stones from your pockets ―
raise the window against the rush of the river.
You prefer men to cauliflowers (and hours).

Let life stand still.



tk/June 2013

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for this excellent read.

Charleston Farmhouse Door 

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Beige

You wake up one day,

and think beige―

economically gather all the color

and drop it at Goodwill―

because you're taking the plunge, baby.  

Or maybe it just comes gradually,

over several laissez-faire years,

one well-crafted piece at a time.

When the hair goes all-white,

salon-beige is the politically correct option―

or at least something in champagne.

It's easy since there's no bother 

with coordinating wardrobe― it's all the same.

"Honey, does this make me look beige?" 

tk/May 2013 

Many thanks to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this poem. 

photo by Togan Gokbakar 

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lifestyle

Someone mentioned this week about my blog being a "lifestyle" blog. Five years ago this month, I started blogging fast and furiously.  I blogged about books, food, movies, and just about anything that popped into my little head. I never missed a day.

Then something happened. I started writing poetry. Gradually, the time I spent writing blog posts, shifted to time spent writing poetry. Then something else happened.  Facebook.  I took to Facebook like a duck to water, or shall I say, swan to water.  It's quick and easy to post a random thought, or current Willow Manor event, like the discovery of a dead moth, or spot of the floor that looks amazingly like Boris Pasternak. A conversation thread can be started at the drop of a hat, or feather, twenty-four-seven. Squawk! Do swans squawk? I think so, yes. 

To make a long story short, my way of life has become one of poetry. So, I still consider Life at Willow Manor a lifestyle blog. Even though I rarely visit blogs these days, except for Magpie Tales, I want to thank my faithful readers. Those of you not on Facebook, I promise to make an effort to post occasional recipes, movie reviews, and so on, so stay tuned. You are the best, dear peeps. You really, really are. 

photo: me a la Anne Boleyn, recluse at Willow Manor

Papoose

R.A.D. Stainforth's beautifully poignant recitation...

Clouds play out,
time-lapsed and furious,
above a pulsing angiogram –
the tree of life.

There is no canoe.

Only the river holds me,
colicky, in her arms, 
gentle enough to keep my face
above the water.

Papoose at her mercy.

I float, unable to resist the current,
listen closely 
to her ancient lullaby.

She is my mother.
I don't need to know why.

tk/ July 2012

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I do a lot of staring...

Walker Evans, self-portrait, 1927

Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. 
Die knowing something. 
You are not here long. 

― Walker Evans

Find a memory in every action ...

We are all dying, every moment that passes of every day. That is the inescapable truth of this existence. It is a truth that can paralyze us with fear, or one that can energize us with impatience, with the desire to explore and experience, with the hope―nay, the iron-will!―to find a memory in every action. To be alive, under sunshine, or starlight, in weather fair or stormy. To dance with every step, be they through gardens of flowers or through deep snows.

― R.A. Salvatore 

Best wishes for a safe and happy Memorial Day weekend ...

Ankle Deep

celebrating my second birthday
October 20, 1958, Brown County, Indiana

October is my favorite month.  It also happens to be the month of my birth, and maybe that is why
I consider autumn to be my personal spring, my genesis.  The bite of fresh air, vibrant color, the delicious crunch of leaves, breathe life into my stagnate summer spirit.  And isn't it curious, that autumn is a glorious burst of joy and sorrow, just as I happen to be a quirky mix of funny and melancholy?

The summer chapter of my life is winding down, and with the first small steps into autumn, it should be no surprise, that I find myself quite at home here. I'm snuggling in, making myself comfortable, brewing coffee, expecting a season of great passion, creativity, and happiness.






Ankle Deep

Just beyond

the summer kitchen

down the hall

and to the right

past the prints

of children and roses

is a darker, quiet room

ripe with passion

and woodsmoke

where I bloom 

brighter than fire

in wool socks knit

loose from other years

ankle deep in October 

tk/October 2011

life as a dinner

Banquet Scene with a Lute Player, Nicolas Tournier, 1625

I have a copy of The Art of Living, Epictetus, The Classic Manual on Virtue, Happiness, and Effectiveness, a new interpretation by Sharon Lebell, here on my desk.  Yes, you guessed it.  I picked it up at Gee-Dub, my local Goodwill store for a dollar.  It's a collection of 93, one-page bits of wisdom written in exile by Epictetus, who taught in Rome until the year 94, when Emperor Domintian banished philosophers from the city.  The book reminds me a bit of the little paperback Our Daily Bread devotionals my grandfather used to read.

One bit of wisdom that reached out and grabbed me, most likely because I adore the process of food preparation, serving, and especially eating, was the notion of thinking of your life as a dinner party. Imagine a beautiful dinner where you would behave graciously.  When dishes are passed to you, extend your hand and help yourself to a moderate portion.  If a dish should pass you by, enjoy what is already on your plate.  Or, if the dish hasn't been passed to you yet, patiently wait your turn.  There is no need to yearn, envy, or grab. You will get your rightful portion when it is your time.  I'm thinking of approaching life as a banquet today.  Gosh, I'm hungry.

being

This is the true joy in life, 

the being used for a purpose 

recognized by yourself as a mighty one; 

the being a force of nature 

instead of a feverish, selfish little clod 

of ailments and grievances 

complaining that the world 

will not devote itself 

to making you happy. 

George Bernard Shaw

Spring is the perfect season for dusting off that purpose, rediscovering the secret force of nature within yourself, and following your bliss. I'm hauling out my own purpose and giving it a good going over with me mops and me brushes. There's nothing like a thorough spring clean of the spirit to renew true joy.


I read Shaw's excellent quote here Working the Earth. Thanks, Teri, for the inspiration.


Photo: daffies at Willow Manor, April 2011

sean's friend

We woke to the most deliciously cool morning. The first thing I did upon rising, was fling open all the windows, wonderful woolly socks-ish breeze flow through the manor, slowly filling each room with fragrant early fall air. It was the first morning in weeks, we were able to breakfast on the patio, where I relish the bird community.

My favorite plumpish sparrow is dubbed "Joan Plowright" and the more timid of the hummingbirds I call "Sean". Today, Sean's feisty hummer companions, pointy beaks out like sabers, attacked a group of chickadees, chasing them from the area where their feeder hangs. I was amazed at the Nazi-like behavior coming from such innocent looking little guys.

Later, while cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I heard an odd buzzing coming from the dining room. One of those spunky hummingbird friends of Sean, had made his way inside, through the open dutch door at the front of the manor. He worked himself into such a frenzy, determined to force his way through the glass window, that my attempts to shoo him out were useless. The stubborn tiny hummer had to figure it out on his own. Finally, after nearly a half hour of buzzing and crashing his beak into the glass, he discovered the open patio door and flew free.

I like to think birds are often messengers. What was this poor lil' fellah telling me today? Maybe that “stubborn and ardent clinging to one's opinion is the best proof of stupidity”. Michel de Montaigne Yeah, maybe.

Mun-dane: Relating to, characteristic of,

or concerned with commonplaces; ordinary.

~

.

I've noticed lately, the older version of myself appreciates the odd
mundane rituals that comprise our daily lives. My younger version
would rush through a day's routine activities, regarding them as the
tedious crap, in order to get to the real stuff, the things I considered
worthy of my esteem. As children, we were forced to complete our
"chores" first, before moving on to other pursuits. Did we learn, at an
early age, to think of this integral part of life as purely menial?

The fact is, for most of us, a major portion of our lives is made up of
common routines. Why not embrace the beauty of the mundane?
Relish the velvety dish soap and renewing quality of water from the
kitchen tap; or the repetitive rhythm of the iron on a fresh cotton
shirt, savouring the warm scent rising from the steam.

Entering the early autumnal season of life, that "I'm invincible; I will

live forever" feeling is beginning to wane. As an artist, I'm one to

naturally drink in the simple details of life. But, these days, that

sweet smell of freshly folded white towels and the comforting hum of

the dryer are extra nice. So, savour the weekend, my bloggy friends,

and embrace some of those lovely ordinary tasks.

Creativity is piercing the mundane

to find the marvelous.

~

Bill Moyer

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.

PS...Okay, I admit it. I'm experiencing some difficulty in discovering

the marvels of twirling the brush around the toilet bowl.

artwork: by David McCosh, 1930's

Nessun Dorma and wrong numbers

.

I have had the same cell phone number for about five years now and

I still, to this day, get wrong number calls. At least one per day! My

phone must be a magnet for stray numbers. The funny thing is, it's

always a random guy looking for Elaine, Cheryl or Michelle. And that

is the English speaking guys. I get at least one call a week from some

guy overseas saying, "Salamalekum" and he just won't believe that his

uncle is not somewhere lurking in my house. You would think that

after a while, these guys would recognize my voice and realize that I

am not whoever they're looking for. But no! They hear my voice and

still ask if I'm so and so. I need to change my ring tone, but once I do

something on one of my technical gadgets, I can't remember how to

do it again. So, I'm stuck with Pavarotti singing the opening line of

Nessun Dorma at the top of his lungs, God rest his soul. By the way,

I bought a copy of Pavarotti's Greatest Hits, which was released on

CD shortly after his death last year. I had this as an LP album in the

early 80's and listened to it almost every day the summer I was

expecting our daughter, who is now an opera singer. Hmm, wonder

if it had any influence? It's a wonderful two disc set and I'm thrilled

to have rediscovered it. Even if you are not a big fan of opera, you

would appreciate it just because of his magnificent powerhouse voice.

Di quella pira, from Verdi's Il Trovatore gives me goosebumps.

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