I Scream NIMBY

It’s one of those things that comes to mind when you’re really not thinking.  It happened to me yesterday; I had on my backpack blower and was  slowly working my around the house, mechanically blowing leaves ahead of me — fluff the leaves, roll the leaves, swing to the left, swing to the right.  Suddenly it dawned on me that I had a very, very large community of brown-skins residing in MY BACK YARD!!  Why hadn’t I noticed them before? Where’d they come from?  What can I do about them?

I tried to remove them with my blower; but even at full throttle, however, I couldn’t move the majority of them off the spot. They wouldn’t MOVE!!  Entrenched.  I feel helpless.  It’s an invasion. How can I get them out of my backyard?  I put down the blower and picked up the water hose: I’ll blast them out of my backyard with water!  Alas, a water hose is not a water cannon.  I couldn’t budge those brown-skins.  They just dug deeper into the grass of my backyard, refusing to move on out of there.

I backed off, went into the house and popped a top, contemplating my options. I decided to contact the White House, knowing how Mr. Trump feels about the brown-skin invasion from the South.  Maybe he’d create for me a United States Department of Acorn Control and Eradication, or ACE, and send 5,700+ National Guard troops to remove the brown-skins from my backyard, setting up a perimeter and patrolling the border to keep out the brown-skins from my backyard.

After waiting for weeks to hear  back from Mr. Trump, and really needing to get those brown-skins out of my back yard before they could take root, I got a rake and began the tedious task of forcefully removing them myself.

Portals {a story}

exceptional piece! Thanks.

Serpent Box

Remember when your
arms moved with such grace? Remember when he held you like that? He held you like
a guitar constructed for just one song by an old Spanish master-builder who hummed
it over and over as he sat at his workbench in the candlelight, willing the thin
sheet of spruce to absorb that which he held for so long within him and saved, for
just one woman, a woman he never met despite his heart’s insistence she was out
there, perhaps sitting at her own lathe or loom.

He ran his lightly fingers
over your back in long, feathery brushstrokes. He traced your outlines. Your
thighs, when they were vases. Your arms when they were swans. He would paint
you in the mornings when the light that fell through the parlor window was
perfect for only three turns of the glass and then he would pull you through

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Ojos

Essence of aging truth.

Serpent Box

What you see is what you are. The ocean. Two holes worn through the rock. A set of jagged jack-o-lantern eyes cut not by hand but wind and water and time. Lichen-green eyebrows and a nose of stone. But these are not eyes, they’re portholes on the good ship Earth and you’re lazing through the galaxy watching life go by. Clouds and fog and the white slash of breaking waves remind you that everything is in flux, and even if you can’t see it happening the evidence of erosion and decay surrounds you so that you cannot possibly believe that anything is permanent. Yet you forget. All the time.

Compared to the rock formation before you, yours is the lifespan of dragonfly, and your very existence is equally imponderable, terribly fragile, simultaneously ugly and beautiful and sad. You know that it’s precious, all of this. You know that it’s already…

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Becoming Home: The Language of Horses

Wow! Beautiful Photo of an incredible HERD; What a followup story and poem. It’s a wonderful blogsite. Keep blogging, Bev!

The Mystic Horse Chronicle

When I arrived last night, I could see 3 horses on the hill, and 2 in the flat marshy area. Before long, the 3 were no longer visible on the hill. Because!! They were on their way to the barn! I stood watching them with some nervous anticipation, still learning to trust. What would I find? Dollar’s weight, Mariah’s weight, Kaheka’s weight, Amoura’s weight and lameness issues, and Shaman’s hooves.

Here is what I experienced. Shaman with hoof issues over the years, was happily prancing around as the herd edged closer to me across the marshy pasture. He was expressing a happy enthusiasm as the herd merged together. Amoura from afar looked like a photo I had of her in midair that had come to life. She was dancing across the pasture with her head turned toward the barn and a huge smile on her face, her countenance sparkling with…

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Words

And words, and thus we, live and give life! Please keep these wonderful nuggets flowing. Thanks.

Serpent Box

I choke myself on words.

I have always done this.

For as long as I can remember,

I break my teeth on them,

I cut my mouth, and suck,

on their hard, salty tips.

Words are broken shards of bottle-green glass,

I eat them with the reckless abandon of pica children,

I suck on the bones,

I pick out the marrow,

I wear down their edges until they are streamlined,

and smooth and I spit them at you like watermelon seeds.

I cast words like stones,

the sling of my sinewy tongue,

I dissect them,

I pin them to balsam wood and pull off their wings.

Words are my poison,

I eat them to die,

and when I am in the throes of my death,

I seek others in the woods,

in the swamps of stories,

I pull them out by their roots,

to use in my healing,

to spread…

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New Amsterdam

New Amsterdam—still teeming with hungry huddled masses!

Serpent Box

I think of you,

there in my home city,

alone with my old ghost,

where Whitman was,

once,

and Warhol, and Wee-Gee, and Diane Arbus,

walking, perhaps, against the howling cold,

down Broadway wrapped in scarves,

and that sadness you carry, a beautiful tattoo,

tucked below the waistline like the handle of a gun.

It suits you now,

the New York I left, then.

Which they try to cover,

with paint and other veneers.

But you cannot hide murder,

or black despair,

and betrayal still beats in that cold Dutch heart,

hastily buried in the fine alluvial loams,

where the glacier said,

enough,

I’m done with all the shoveling,

and melted.

It is that sadness I am drawn to,

the blood-soaked Manhattan,

the island of open graves,

to the Triangle Garment Factory,

and the burning towers from which

you jumped naked and aflame,

and Ana Mendieta,

coated in the East…

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Nocturnal Kings

Serpent Box

What is it that the desert tells me?

Grow.

Push up.

Split rock.

Endure.

Death is life.

Stones have names.

Shadows can be read like recipes.

The air is thin here, it’s hard for me to breathe,

and it’s in the struggle for breath that I learn

to love my living.

There are patterns in the sand made by wind,

and rainwater.

And they remain until some greater force,

removes them.

Why, when I return to the place where I

once walked, do my footprints remain?

Why is my cup still sitting on the shelf?

They call it physics.

Objects at rest.

But I do not believe it has anything to

do with laws conceived by man.

Objects simply lack volition,

a means of locomotion.

Otherwise my footprints would wander,

and my cup would dance.

The desert moves, slowly.

It rises and falls and shifts.

This stillness is an illusion,

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Sonoma

Another sacred spiritual poem!

Serpent Box

There will be tall whispering grasses, the dry rattle of eucalyptus.

There will be blue gorse and ice plants with sharp crimson tips.

There will be oceans and Oregon mist.

We will wander among cypress trees that house the souls of the dead,

in the silhouettes, on the windswept backs of horses,

riding with our eyes closed,

arms aloft,

fingers splayed,

receiving.

The granite is speckled with lichen.

We fill our pockets with stones.

We meet with live oaks and hobos and old men with dark owl eyes,

in our mourning.

There are fingers of fog on the roads.

There will be silver, and the tailings of wishes.

There will be fence posts, and coils of wire in the weeds,

and we will be running,

again, on the hillsides of amber,

we will seek Missions,

where church bells go green in the cisterns,

where the crumbling adobe is gray.

There…

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