Friday, May 6, 2016


The Gulf Stream is waning, which has showered upon us in the great northwest of the United States a pressure system which seems stuck on HOT. Thanks, climate change. I prefer a planet with reasonable seasons, if The Powers That Be are listening. (And you're not, Republicans.)


What shall become of our pathetic species? Nothing good enough to mention.

In the meantime, I spend most of my time off these days working on my house and garden. Soon: paint. I'm clearing the shrubbery, one twig at a time, as my beleagured hands allow. There's a mounded pile of quince debris in my driveway which screams for my attention. Tomorrow, I tell it, tomorrow.

And of course, tomorrow also involves planting beans and tomatoes and carrots and cucumbers.....

Where do I find a space in my life to write? Hell if I know. Poetry doesn't write itself. (Nor does it publish itself, apparently.)

Meanwhile, our magnificent and flawed planet continues its inexorable spin.....


  1. Our individual sphere of influence is extremely tiny. Working in the garden, painting the house, these are things we - mostly - have control over. Everything else is up for grabs.

    As artists, finding ways to get our work out there is often the most unnatural impulse we have. Why can't someone just recognize my genius and circulate it the world of fine art?

    I've got a pile of tree debris from a recent wind storm. My tendonitis is being cranky, so either Steve will chop it up, or it will sit there. So be it. I really don't care!!