A field of dreams
in the Pacific Northwest
where rust never sleeps.
Field of Dreams
Poetry
Moths
Moths chew woolens while we sleep at night,
elusive as vampires who hide from the light.
We lay sticky traps and cedar balls;
they still show up in our dresser drawers.
If you follow their wings of grey or rust,
they leave a trail of sweater dust.
Cashmere or boucle, tartan or tweed,
they puncture your clothes, lay eggs, and breed.
Perhaps these vampires wear a disguise
and deep inside they are butterflies.
Not Alone
The deserted house at the edge of the shore
whispers of lives lived there before.
The bones of the house creak in the wind
empty of families that Time has thinned.
Swaybacked from wind, salted by sea,
the windows are sockets, the clapboards pitch east.
A parade of generations left marks on the house.
To ask who they were, query the mouse.
My feet find a path that winds to a dock
no colorful kayaks, no boats near rocks.
The smell of the Sound meets my nose.
Time stands still.
I am not alone.
Ode to Mark Twain
On the eve of a Halley’s comet —
in the year 1835,
Mark Twain was born in Missouri,
and world truths were given life.
How fitting that the stars aligned
with fanfare for Mark Twain.
His wit and wisdom are universal,
if people tune their brains.
When Twain crossed over —
in the year 1910,
the fanfare did not stop:
as Twain lay on his death bed,
Halley’s comet flared again.
And Sew It Goes
Pincushions strapped on our young wrists.
Kettlecloth fabric, irons that hissed,
Butterick patterns, and dressmakers chalk.
“Cut with the grain,” Miss Kane would squawk.
A deadline to finish my culottes loomed.
The project came home with me; I was doomed.
I would have preferred to write a poem
than take my sewing project home.
Our machine had a bobbin that constantly jammed.
It was ancient and faulty — was my project damned?
I finished the culottes — they did not fit.
No more sewing class; I resoundingly quit.
Winter
Downy flakes brush our cheeks
as we in winter’s beauty ski.
Such stuff as dreams are made of –
our little life rounded with sleep.
Seasons of Play
The 1950’s, before burning raked leaves was banned.
A poem ~
Time slips under leaf piles, foliage crackles.
You roast marshmallows in the raked musk of October decay.
Time slips under frozen lakes and icy ponds.
You cut figure eight’s, sure-footed in white skates.
Time slips under daffodils, birdsong trumpets.
You study a robin feasting on a worm.
Time slips under fish bellies, tangles seaweed.
You loll on a rubber raft in the green waters of a golden day.
Threshold
Within and without —
cross the threshold for new dreams
in the pulsing heart.
I came upon this lone door in a valley outside the town of LaConner, WA during a 2015 bike ride before the pandemic.
It was a treat to stop and ponder a displaced door in a rolling valley near an old cemetery with leaning tombstones.
Surreal.
But not nearly as surreal as 2020. We collectively crossed the threshold into a changed world.
What would be our attitudes? To get riled up by world chaos? Or to find moments throughout each day to be in the present moment? Easier said than done!
I lie on the grass to contemplate the sun filtering through our mountain ash tree. Sun sparkles through its pointed leaflets.
At night, I listen to the wind rustle its branches. Music! Our mountain ash uses two of my five senses: sight and sound. In fall and winter, I am surprised to learn that robins, blue jays, and black-capped chickadees become drunk on its fermented berries.
Must keep eyes open to witness the little winos.
And You? What activities or non-activities bring you joy?
May your one pulsing heart find you safe and happy!
Let’s Dance
I met Blue during a morning walk near a friend’s home on the Oregon Coast. I followed his antics for several days.
Not sure he appreciated the paparazzi following him.
No humans allowed.
A heron dance is sacred.
Please leave my marsh now.
Frog Prince
Ponderous
Frog prince camouflage
Riveting, ponderous gaze
Where is his princess?
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