Friday, January 28, 2011

the wooden hill

the paint on the front door
is older than my eyes

pushing against the door's heavy body
i follow
the staircase's cautious winding
and away from the street

edward hopper stairway at 48 rue de lille, paris

moving side-to-side
i can hear the soft giving creak
and feel the curved metal edge
of each stair

my hands curl and
grip the thick softness of the railing
even as my tongue
draws thickly against
cracked dry lips
that crave nothing more
than wine
and sleep

on the landing
the number seven
tilts slightly
on a red door
thick with age

the smells of cooked cabbage
and fish
swim grey and thin
in air long-yellowed
and tarnished
by hope long forgotten

pressing the key
into the lock
the handle turns reluctantly
admitting me through its dark frame

i am home

the frayed signposts
of a well-worn track
toward the window

through which
i see snow
painting the softest pale-grey
light on the rooftops

pressing my lips to the window
i watch my breath
spread outwards like an island
on a glassy sea

gustav caillebotte rooftops with snow

Saturday, January 22, 2011

every window a wall, every wall a window

norman clark from an upstairs window

i am
sent outside
to play

on this dove grey sunday morning
even the sun is cold

behind me my mother
watches from the upstairs window
her sight of me
framed by
cream and butter yellow curtains
filmed with coal soot
and soft with dust


i like to let my sight of the world
be framed
by the garden walls

each moss-coated brick
has stories
of migrations
fairy tales

but even the walls are silent

like me
in the hollowness
of this day


the ground is frost hardened
and tumbling with hummocky grass

if he were still here
it would have flattened
under the weight
of his lawn roller
each blade
would have known the sharp snick of his shears


the sudden flapping of wings
draws my eyes skyward
where tendril branches
grope across the grey expanse
each in search of its opposite

the wind is the music for a sort of dance
and i find my own arms and legs
waving and flailing
self-conscious i stop
and slowing my breathing
pat the dog's head

he looks at me
with orange-brown eyes
as if seeking something

i think that if he could speak
he'd explain so much of all of this


the cold finds its way past my clothes
so i turn and open the door to the shed

the darkness is comforting
a single window leaks light
onto workbenches
furred with shavings

the sweet smells of cedar
and machine oiled metal
weave in orange and blue threads

i sit on the floor
and think of my father
and my grandfather

they worked here

they both dreamed of the inexplicable immensity
of this place

this world of worlds
within and without

bisected by the single thin thread of work

sitting on the floor
of the wooden shed
i sit still and listen
to the sounds
rising from other gardens

Thursday, January 13, 2011

the song

in the bowed strings
of a day

the consonant braids
with the dissonant

the whole
sees its mirror
in the part

and the song
that is the passage of my soul
through this world
with all others

in a place
defined entirely
by silence


"music is the wine that fills the cup of silence. "

visual prompt provided by tess kincaid at magpie tales

Sunday, January 9, 2011


charles sprague pearce solitude

each small puff of dust at footfall
the hovering hush of late-summer grass
all the feather borne spectral threads of birdsong

are like bookmarks
holding the page

containing the revelation

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

small birds

andrew wyeth wind from the sea

small birds
and tiny flowers
etched like frost on the waving silk


pale grey birds and flowered shadows
around her candlelit room


rutted parabolas
mark the route
of his departure
the pale yellow field


her eyes
find the dark corners

Saturday, January 1, 2011

robert fripp live at the world trade centre dec. 4. 2010

music courtesy of wnyc.