starling murmurations over boundary bay

"starling flocks, it turns out, are best described with equations of "critical transitions"
systems that are poised to tip, to be almost instantly and completely transformed, like metals 
becoming magnetized or liquid turning to gas. each starling in a flock is connected to every
other. when a flock turns in unison, it’s a phase transition. . . .

but what physiological mechanisms allow it to happen almost simultaneously in two birds
separated by hundreds of feet and hundreds of other birds? that remains to be discovered" . . .

_ _ _



Quench a thirst ("Interior Deserts" by Juarroz)

medusa syndrome series IX

_ _ _

 Interior deserts,
vague litanies for someone who died
leaving all the doors open.
A gray cloak over another cloak of no color.
Excessive densities. 
Even the wind casts a shadow.
Mockery of the landscape.

Nothing left to call to 
but a flat dark sun
or an endless rain.
Or wipe out the landscape
with the wind and its shadow.

And there is one further resort:
drive the desert mad
until it turns into water
and drinks itself.

It it better to madden the desert
than to live there.

- Roberto Juarroz, Vertical Poetry
tr. by W.S. Merwin

_ _ _

Happy solstice! Welcome Winter 2013!



restless hands forge age
rings upon the face of [h]ours
with each breath I take
the days grow cold - lead-heavy
anchor into gravity



"do souls resist?"

                                                                                    or drift, or rift -


the horse

"those who get in the way of love's path will be kicked by horses" - 


time only magnifies

medusa syndrome series VIII

once upon a time

a family of four lived in this building
in a single room with a french door
and five windows -


blindfolded equilibrium

eyes see what we seek

                                              "whatever it is you're seeking 
                                              won't come in the form you're expecting" 
                                              - Hariku Mirakami



the days are cold here
i wrap myself in “vanitas”
the ultimate Versace that is
lately the fragrance of choice
feels soothing on my current skin
a balm to my tenuous
weary nerves

i shield inside this
ephemeral cloud of scented mist
out of all called vanity

how ironic?

uprooted once
and tossed at sea
how volatile one could be
even returning to my origin
my blood always missing the vein
failing to reach a vital

repeatedly failing a life-
 test in humility

the nights are much colder
even the full moon is frosty distant
[in]different from here

"love is our true destiny. we do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone - 
but find it with another." - Thomas Merton


autumnal branches

the clock -
hands wave at me
drop hours days
ages on my face
through those brittle
autumnal branches


Sisyphus's angel

"memories, / undecided light, / ignores even / what should be / lit" - Jóse Mario Silva


drink a toast

                                                                        to light's nakedness -


[un]covered vista

out of this window
it's not the shards of broken glass i fear
nor the chill of disdain

                                 but boredom eroding the vista
                                 [in]difference blurring the panes
                                 forgiveness misplaced

among shadows of doubt 
and light-minded [half]-truths
a dropped line

                                 on the edge of memory
                                 one broken heart bled dry
                                 then nothingness


the bag

                this bag along with the wooden [suit]cases behind traveled with my grandfather some sixty-five years ago across the Atlantic on his final journey home, returning from Argentina. he was part of the wave of immigrants between the two great wars - went there twice, lived and worked in and around Buenos Aires for some fifteen years. meanwhile grandmother was struggling to meet life's ends, raise and feed the kids - my father and aunt. during World War II all legs of communication were severed - there was no traveling or letters, no financial support whatsoever. no word if one was still alive, or had perished. times were really tough then. people were tough too.

                after the end of the War and by 1948 the world had gradually re-opened - old routes were re-established, goods flowing, news traveling once more. word from my grandfather flew across the ocean. he was alive and thriving - had saved enough to buy a pub. "the wife would cook. son (my father) and i would run the show," he thought. but when asking grandmother to bring the family in the new land, make a life there, she was grappled with fears - new people, strange language, unfamiliar surroundings. "they will be all over me talking gibberish," she has been remembered saying, "i won't be able to understand anything." thus she refused to move, wanted to stay in the village where she was born, had always lived in, among relatives and lifelong neighbors. hesitant at first, but left with no alternatives, grandfather packed up and boarded the last ship home. this bag was carrying a dandy suit he brought with him. grandfather was a fine man - not highly educated, but clever, resourceful, brave. 

                i found the bag full with spools of yarn this time, that mother has been storing inside for years. a few i used to knit my first pair of woolen socks after quite a while (couple of decades).

                i love this bag - it's story so dear to me, the dainty cotton cloth in pastel colors and lush patterns - mesmerizing, the feel on my fingertips - spellbinding. oddly enough, the twist of the knot reminds me of a rosebud - petals pushing to flower. now i (the granddaughter) am bringing it back - once again across the Atlantic some sixty-five years later.  ~

_ _ _


november blooms

"it is at the edge of a petal that love waits" - William Carlos William

_ _ _


beam of light

                                              - beam of love


sticks in the spokes

                                                            - pretending i could halt time

medusa syndrome series VI


knitting again

first pair of woolen socks i have knitted after a couple of decades, re-learning this ancestral mastery.
seeing the joy as my mother was pulling them up, knowing they will warm her feet in the winter
when i leave - priceless. i am grateful and smiling!