Monthly Archives: January 2015

Lovers on Aran by Seamus Heaney

How can one not be completely beguiled by the art of Seamus Heaney:

Lovers on Aran

The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas

To posess Aran. Or did Aran rush
to throw wide arms of rock around a tide
That yielded with an ebb, with a soft crash?

Did sea define the land or land the sea?
Each drew new meaning from the waves’ collision.
Sea broke on land to full identity.

Willapa Bay Oyster Farm

If I never went back
it would be too soon.

Walking the mud flats at low tide
picking oysters out of the muck.

They say the mold board plough sounded like
ripping canvas as it bit through the prairie.

Compared to the sound of pulling rubber boots
out of the oyster beds,

who is to say which one
would mark you deeper?


a red tide running
up the beach at night

stomping exploding light waves
into the watery sand

flying fish
over dark water

a camelia above the ear
of a raven haired salsa dancer

the things that put
their arms around you

when your own
won’t quite reach

aren’t what
you’d expect

Navajo Medicine Man

He was tall, maybe six foot four, and rail thin. Speaking to a mostly white audience at the Presbyterian church and with young Navajo body guards on either side, he spoke of having to put away the sacred bundles for a year because his people were not worthy of them and had fallen off the true path.

At times he became so anguished and frustrated at putting his thoughts into
english that he switched to Navajo to vent his frustration and perhaps ask the Creator for help.

He noticed the great wooden beams in the church where he spoke and said many “old ones” were used here and should be acknowledged.

After his talk he folded himself into the back of a black Chevy Suburban with darkened windows. His young body guards got in after him and he left.


Suddenly, a great circle of light and shadow,
a laminar, infinite window over still water.

Where does the world begin?

Silence. Then small riffles,
sounds standing up on spindly legs.

Where do I begin?

Give it a moment.

Looking For Feathers

A soup tureen is an arabic form of food poetry ※ Knickerbockers are boxer shorts for horses ※ Catacombs are often found in the personal care aisle next to caterpillars ※ Hair plugs are advertisements you can’t get rid of ※ Platypus is the sound a cat makes when it didn’t rotate fast enough after falling off the roof ※ Druthers are what you’d rather have than dreese ※ If hope is the thing with feathers, doubt is the house cat ※ To carom off something sounds better than bouncing off it ※ You take the cake — if its older than three days ※ General Patton wore knickerbockers when no one was looking ※ If I could do it all over again I would keep the soap dispenser a little cleaner ※ A room on Bleeker street would make anyone write a song about it ※ Winter seems to be expecting something different from us this year ※ Happenstance is a place where circumstance gets a bus transfer and then loses it ※ A credible alibi is when you get caught in a hotel bed with a colleague from work when you were supposed to be helping them rob the safe in the front office ※

Be Yourself

“Be yourself; everyone else is taken.”

–Oscar Wilde