Archive | August, 2014

the love boat exciting and new come aboard we’re expecting you

31 Aug

perhaps I will never know

what makes me swoon this way –


the droning lawnmower,

while I am

braising my head

in direct sunlight,

baking and falling

so far out of my body

that if I were to open my eyes,

I wonder where I will be.

I seem to be dancing with someone unseen

but felt.

A love is here that leaves me never lonely

but refreshed in the silence of wordless agreement.

How can this be this be this be;

no one do you see?

I’ve fallen.

Without a net,

on my way down

without my checkbook,

skipping out on the rent.

I cannot shape this afternoon,

let alone next year.

Who who who is knocking

on my heart?

When I peer,

right here,

only the stray cat tigger

and the gnats,

but I feel it –

over and over –

knock knock knock,

I am



on fire

without a flame.

Do not douse me now.



court and be courted

22 Aug

Gossip FractalGossip2


(Science 4 All)

So long gone am I, I did not know gossip still went on.

When I came upon it without warning, escape, that was my plan, but none could be had, so I turned and faced it,

recognizing that while I felt anger at the ripping of flesh so near to me, I knew no harm could ever come:

so then love came flooding in.

Speaking involves talking (no shit) on a continuum we all traverse, if we interact at all, and by choosing to engage

– we learn, again and again, to let our hearts lead the way.

Even when we hear what tearing apart with our tongues and smug clucking may seem to do, we all will have it another

way, eventually, as we learn to bless with a caring, clever twist or  silent push away.


What comes to us when we clear away the muck?

What has always been waiting in the spaces opening to our growth?

In comes the subtle play beneath appearances – so easy to miss – as IT begins to play with us, in every teaspoon full of time.

The cashier,

the bank teller,

the department head,

a kid who shouts, “Hey you,”

the book I’m reading,

the song out the window of a car passing by:

many words said to me on the outside reflect thoughts inside my head, events unfolding in my life, or even something coming my way.

What once seemed a steel wall softens, becomes malleable, allowing the membrane that makes inside and outside, then, now and later, connect.

The connections in the world are beaconing with honey – attracting me to drink.

Every moment a courting, from without, and from within, a mysterious wooing from my longing with no end.

I’m talking about an invisible world inside of what we see, from which there is no hiding, never can there be,

for when this something unseen has taken root,

it keeps growing exponentially,

Kudzo vines that flower, growing over maple and the pines – whole blocks of trees,

the old whole terrain now a forest city of green beings whispering math (not smack) into the night.









I’ve got this

18 Aug

Being born into this world, we step  into an enormous round and spinning clock.

We are timeless, yet we agree to play by the minutes and the hours, the days and years, the rising and falling of tides, the spinning sun and the orbiting moon.  We agree to begin and end, to bumble recklessly into birthing and dying.  We are pulled on by the seasons, the gravity, the breaking down of our matter – you can date our bones, after we are gone and tell when we were animated.  We feel the planets constantly pulling tricks on us with cycles of discomfort and harmony.  We agree to marry change.

Living near the coast is still so cool to me; the breathing of the earth is palpable in the rising and falling of her waters.  The tides were so evident when I lived on a boat.  All day long, my living area was rising or falling, except for those few tender moments at the top or the bottom where all was still for about 30 minutes. Some part of me probably still registers this cycle, deep in a seawater womb within.

When arriving at the beach, I must see where the water is meeting the sand; its position is a lucy goose clock, a conversation starter; is it coming in or going out I set to many walking by?  Most shrug; who cares?  I am blatantly ignoring the phone app for tide schedules, here.  I love the unknowing of such things, yet setting out for a stroll requires this information; at high tide, some parts the beach become inaccessible.  This island is always shifting; where once the beach was eroding, now it may be growing.

Lately, I’ve been feeling the pull of a longer cycle, less daily than the tide, but more seasonal…decennial even.

seasons of life

Tick, tock; where am I now?  Is the tide coming in or going out?

In one small moment,  I see the tides have shifted recently here in the cycling of my life.  I am somewhere new – a new section of the clock countdown of my life as marga.  It has been coming; it was marked on the calendar, but the actual playing out of it, this transition, came in a moment no one saw but me.

As a parent, as the tide is shifting toward adulthood, that movement can be difficult to detect.  Chloe not only has the strings to my heart memorized, she also, at times, can play the notes of a song that shifts the responsibility to me for everything from the chores to her happiness to the meaning of life, overall.  When does it, this life,  become fully hers?

Independence is occurring from the minute breath says GO!  Gradually, gradually, until, whoosh.  Where am I?

We were finishing up our meal of take-out Thai a week or so ago when Chloe became determined that I should watch a tv show that she likes.  We watched the first episode of “House of Cards,” until about 1/2 way through,  when I realized that we had not cleaned up our meal.  

I began to go to the kitchen when Chloe put her hand on my back and said, “I’ve got this.  I want you to just watch the show.”  She cleaned up the kitchen herself.

Why did this small gesture feel so big?

I know at 18 many would say, of course she can clean a kitchen by herself, and yes, she can and does, but it was the way she chose to do it, with love and care that marked some sort of shifting, with her focus, her kindness.

I am full of clichés, today. Might as well finish with a few more – Summer hints of fall. A rising tide lifts all boats. To everything there is a season. Maybe a purpose to everything under heaven, but more likely, every every every thing is an excuse to bring out the ukelele, devil cape, and red pumps, I am inclined to say 🙂

the why of cry

10 Aug

It is me, melting.

The trigger of tears is never far

because I have come to live outside my skin

where the spillage from the sun, the changeable weather of you,

the  smoke from the burning pages of my story,

you, just the closeness of you – all of you who let me in –

has me sliding into your flames as I begin to go.

I am a messy ghost,  bubbling up, spilling out,

rising up,

away from black clouds – I swirl

toward light.

There has been time for work,

to put things in order,

to file, to box, to scrub the bottom bin in the fridge,

and there has been time to make linger,

to waste in bed, on chairs, unshowered, undressed, messed.

There is no sense in crying out:

the god king’s fallen into chunks and dust,

the goddess lost herself in unseemly sex,

the fairies are hidden with good reason, and

friends require words for telling.

My tears have not yet learned to speak.

This is what is left:

the calendar

the sunlight

the rain

the roaring in my ears

the devil in the woods.

Can you comprehend this scientific explanation on the phenomenon of tears?

Sprinkle your questions on my cooling embers –

the sizzle and smoke on bone are clear enough;

it’s all I’ve got.



postcard project

8 Aug







In the month of August was full with doodles and poems each day on a postcard, sent to random strangers.  This link was sent to me from a friend.  I am just cataloguing the experience here.  Here are a few of the rough poems and drawings that made their way through the mail to strangers.

Let the wind increase your speed; let it move you right along.  Or sit still in august heat, let the hot air seep in deep.   Stay or go, fast or slow?  Before you even ask a question, the answer lingers there, in the motion of the air, or the still ness of all things.

I left you keys, money in an envelope with your name on it, a grocery list, reminders:  the garbage rolls out on Monday, the doctor will see you on Tuesday  put the laundry in the bin, and please, dear god, will you wipe up the counters when you spill, every time you do anything, actually, like eat, you know?  I bought you a gift card at the self-esteem store, redeem that as needed, otherwise, I think you are grown.

Meet me in a speakeasy bakery, catch me here with full on gluten glow.  I’ve butter as well, and full fat creamed tea, dying sooner than my pumpkin seeded, vegan ex-husband, who might be sucking self-righteous bumperstickers for dinner.  Can it be that taboo tastes enliven in back alley secrecy?  You joining me here, a partner in crimes, tasting, joy in full measure; what else is there to do but savour?

We have not met except for the quick lock of eyes when I was boarding and passed you on the aisle by your seat, though from behind, I am reading your body, for not only have you imprinted words and images from your shoulder to your pinky on only the right side, but also, your thick neck, muscle tension, terse motions, and thin shirt all communicate beyond all silly play at words.  I conform to the rules of this world with my behavior, but I have to sit on my hands so I will not rub your neck, run my hands along the ink lines – this is not lusting like you may think.  I only see you, I know you, I wish to ease your pain.

The gift for reading minds can be painful, especially in airports.  Father, mother, daughter, you each in your own way would be anywhere but here, with anyone but these people, your family.  Rock-star, leather clad man, can you hold it down?  In line, eyes averted, each person leaks into the air a noisy station that I cannot drown out.  My own and almost grown is out ahead of me now, toppling in such heels, shifting from pain to joy – I am tuning into you!



For you, Max, I bought some new pens.  I sat and drew for a good long time.  I put off my work, I fed no one dinner, I fell into another place.  I have met you before, and I see what you can do with tools and time.  You made me want to try “it” on, this pen and paper cloak.  I liked the quiet and the mysterious, non-verbal flow of ink and no one died from hunger.

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