ecology Uncategorized


summers lies struggling
beneath the wait of autumn
murderous season
slicing away sunlight from her limbs
bleeding color onto orphaned trees

literature ornithology writing

autumn in birdsong

trickling river notes

drip through robin redbreast

autumn in bird song

art books childhood ecology education Jazz Music nature poetry Short Stories sociology Urban Legends writing

life is but a dream


Well, I guess we were due another one of these, so here goes: I had another dream about you last night. The third in the five years we have known each other. The first was your grandfather on the porch, the second was about coming to see you teach with a drum kit in the lecture hall, and now this one. I don’t often dream about people who exist in my real world, nor are they typically as vivid as this dream was. I don’t often recall my dreams, so when I have one still ringing a bell this loudly when I wake, I take heed. This week has been so absurd, I haven’t been paying much attention to my radar regarding anything, as lately it seems the world has gone mad.

I’m writing to you about it, because I want to get it on paper, but also due to the fact that each time I have had a dream regarding you, I’ve been left with this feeling like I’m supposed to tell you about it. I don’t subscribe to any supernatural beliefs, but I do know that I’m a bit more tapped into the whims of the universe than most, so take from it what you will.

You came to visit me at my home on a crisp, sunny autumn morning. In the dream, my house was sitting on the woodsy plot of land where my childhood home was in Clermont County, beside a gently flowing stream. The exterior of the house was a grand Victorian with a beautiful filigreed front porch. I had Indian corn hanging on the dark carved front door and pumpkins lining the steps leading up to it. The interior of the house was identical to the modern suburban behemoth I currently occupy on the edge of Landen. The only difference was the amount of lamps. There were lamps of all sorts sitting everywhere. Lamps where lamps shouldn’t be, and if you spotted one that wasn’t turned on as I gave you a tour of the house, you took the liberty of turning it on for me. Tiffany lamps, research lamps, magnifying lamps, and the green glass domed sort you once saw in law offices and libraries. All of them were turned on. It was magnificent. The dream was clearly trying to illuminate something.

I asked you if I could hang up this handsome brown leather waist coat you were wearing, but you didn’t want to trouble me, so you hung it over the back of your chair, then sat down. I offered you coffee as I took the chair beside you, and you accepted. We then heard coffee beans grinding in the kitchen, then the coffee appeared before us in tea cups and saucers on the small round antique table between the two chairs.

We seemed to be in a celebratory mode. We had news to share. We had both just had new books published, which we exchanged signed copies of happily. You asked me to put Dave Brubeck on my Victrola and you used the word “Victrola.” I smiled in agreement, and the record immediately began to play without my getting up. The strains of Le Souk filled the room as we proceeded to laugh and engage in catching each other up on recent events in our lives.

After we were done with coffee you asked to view my book collection. We ran up the steps together the way small children do, as if they’ve been informed magic awaits them if they are but willing to go find it. We poured through the shelves together. You were mesmerized by the size of the collection, but also by how similar my library was to your own. We pulled our favorites down and stacked them, sitting on the floor together to look over them like two children playing with Hot Wheels or army men. I showed you all the rarities, antiquities, things you had never seen in my old embalming texts which blew your fucking mind. We shelved everything back as it was when we had our fill.

As we came back down the steps, one of my ex-husbands was sitting at the dining room table drunk and ranting. We ran him off and you told me I should better secure my doggy door so unwanted vermin could not get inside the house. You put the coat back on over the blue button-down shirt and tie you were wearing and I showed you outside. It was at that moment you complimented me on the red cowgirl boots I was wearing with my 1950’s era dress. You said I reminded you of Sylvia Plath if she had gone on living happily. We walked over to the creek to have a look at the water. We then made our way back to the driveway where your car was parked beside mine. You were driving a pale yellow Chevy Citation in mint condition. We laughed at our old cars and our unwillingness to part with anything that had been so loyal. We hugged and said our goodbyes. I turned my head for a moment toward the late afternoon sky, and when I looked back down, you and your car had vanished silently. I walked back up onto the porch.

The next moment I was awake. I brewed my Sunday morning coffee, slid Brubeck into my shelf system cd player, and began to type you this letter.

With Love,


Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

dirge autumnal

i no longer gauge the way
the sunlight hits
our circle of stones

the equinox
what glaciers wanted of the earth
and the empire’s chosen calendar
have long since ceased to matter

it is an act of self preservation

only the innocent bite on my breast
that became a blood blister scar

but you
you sentimental fool
how you love your black anniversaries
taking comfort in maudlin ritual

thank you for leaving food outside the door
as an offering to the dead

then going away

your dirge autumnal

you know how i hate funeral flowers

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

two bedroom purgatory with a view of the bowling alley

he keeps me scattered
about the room
lacking a right angle

denied a proper burial
beside the ghost of a cherry tree

lost amidst
dusty poems
broken drums
unread books
ink sketches
and clementine crates

he never liked letting me go
not even from the bed
but his embrace
made for a happy cloister

i recall a breathable autumn day
a few months before we died

before i bled fuchsia nail polish
into the bathroom tile
horrifying the shower curtain fish

walking past the oil lamp specters of guernica silently
wearing my his place robe
hair wrapped in a terry cloth turban

he spoke softly into his black coffee
when he felt me moving toward him

“i decidedly like calling into the next room for you more”

in that moment we loved each other perfectly

poetry Short Stories Uncategorized

the wisdom of last night’s lipstick

i walk along the street
with widow’s ankles

beneath an umbrella of spider webs
and butterfly wings

the wisdom of last night’s lipstick

passed unadorned doorways

watching the
ornamental cherry lanterns
hanging from trees
drip autumn rain


leaves who have lost their desire
to retain chlorophyll

exposing bloody red motives
cast to a barrel for burning

our love affair boarded up in the summer house

the light is giving way to tones of decline
a soft funereal glow

i kiss the lamp posts to ignite their fire

a sapphire ring upon my finger
tucked into a pocket of london fog

this is the time of year
memory holds court

as we mourn the never wills
and the never was

poetry Short Stories Uncategorized

full moon over cincinnati

September 29, 2012

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized

tuesday night & the music

there was a fortuitous parking space

in an alley near 7th & race

which was right outside my

tuesday night & the music


a homeless man sat on a concrete bench

beneath a too perfect tree in the adjoining

corporate sponsored park


he smiled at me

as he hummed

the way we were

then looked away


my cross walk became irrelevant

glass door with a silver handle grateful


into the rosemary clooney room

welcomed by a doorman bantering into a smile

and a newly relocated owner gleeful about overflowing tables


entering sparkling

full glide

through a crowded cocktail vigil of cool kids and cast offs

mingling acquaintances and aficionados

comparing scars

sharing polite war stories


so flawed and beautiful

explaining how they know the band

before the late show


the table chosen was in the second row

straight out from the bench of the steinway & sons piano

behind the reserved seats


black cloth immaculate

fred hersch trio playbill

candle no longer lit

my first request of the waiter

is for a match to relight it

as i would not be able to hear the jazz

without the fire burning


my second request was for a manhattan


kitchen clamor and invading garlic and lemon aromas

fade to less

when the show begins


i deprive myself of nothing

as the notes fall from the maestro’s fingers

wind dancing with

the autumn leaves of garfield place


i gaze at the rigging above the stage

beyond the rim

of my just arrived martini glass


a french quarter deep purple dream

the light fixtures

are red velvet wedding cakes

hung upside down

their red inner glow

covered with an off white cream


hovering above

jerome kern, miles davis, and thelonious monk standards

ah, but it was an original piece that turned the world on


entitled sad poet


brought to our feet by a drummer who knows secrets


a bassist making love with his fingers to her supple curves

covered in strings


and a pale humble man

bent in majesty

over a piano


i resist the urge to journalize

leaving notebook and pen in my purse

let it happen for god’s sake let it happen




the man seated to the right of me

needs this night in the worst way

double johnnie walkers on the rocks

as he anguishes to the delicious sound


the man seated to my left

hopes i am in the mood

for angels to fall


the set includes



the song is you

and i fall in love too easily
to name a few


a standing ovation coupled with lingering applause

before the room

was left stunned by th gentle encore


the man began to conjure


with the black and white keys


as the people who were truly seeing the music

bowed their heads


and closed their eyes


i complied


this is when

he touched the back of my hand