Stain-glass Eyes

Spring uncovers my natural curiosity. Small buds on trees, new birds in the neighborhood, rainbows….and flowers. From tiny violets to luscious magnolias. I walk and observe. The wind moves what I’m seeing. Sun and clouds create different angles to make me look closer. Neither video or still-shot can replicate my observations.They only show a narrow view whether I do a handstand to get the shot or not. Curiosity for nature got me thinking about people. I have spent a lifetime dissecting who people are. When I was a child toys were scarce so my wind-up toy became watching people. It was readily available and I didn’t have to share or have it taken away from me. When I couldn’t see I listened behind closed doors and corners. I tried to piece together what I saw and heard. People are tangled, intricate structures in 3-D. Different directions of wind blows and different angles appear. Myriads of forms shrink or expand us. We alter, transform, sometimes disappear from sight. It’s impossible ...

I have treated myself kindly the last couple of weeks, I’ve started to come out of the effects of a virus that nabbed me. The cough is the beast that lingers. So, I’ve re-camped myself on my comfortable couch. I sit up rather than to lay down so I’m able sleep....for now.   Last night I was dead to the world (including earplugs to extra-deaden the world) Helicopters woke me up. Not only did I hear them but I could feel them.   I hear Medivac helicopters once in awhile when they come and go from the University Hospital here. These weren’t the same, there were several of them and it sounded like they were circling the area. Almost immediately I heard explosions! My mind started to race (my body is still half asleep so fortunately I didn’t jump up right away) The story in my head spun a fear-come-to-life. “This is what it feels like to be in Ukraine! (that’s what I was spinning) I need to take what I can and it probably won’t be my guitar.” Yes, I actually had that thought. ...

The Laughing Boy -Frans Hals (Art Museum Mauritshuis) I took pic in The Hague, Netherlands with Holden I hold a little blue box With joy. A locket of hair. Its browns and golds sparkle In the light. When you were three You asked your mom to cut your hair. It floored her you know. A show of your independence. A show of her act of love. For your mom to snip your curls.   Like flecks of gold Cut away from a Byzantine Art piece. When you get to be 8 or 9 years old I’ll ask you,   “ Do you want to see a treasure?” “Of course, Nanna, show me! ” I’ll have you follow me. You’ll watch expectantly as I pull out a small blue box. Before I open it, I’ll pause. For your full attention. “This is so precious.”     I’ll say as I hug it to my heart. My eyes will make sure they reach yours. I’ll reverently open the box. “It’s hair!”  You'll most likely say with disgust. “It’s your three-year-old self’s curl,”   I’ll reply with a smile. “Your Mom let me keep one.” “Aw, Nanna,...

I saw the moon, Mom. Outside my cold kitchen window, at five a.m. No need to turn the light on. First I heard the damn thing, not a gentle owl-sound in the dark. It roared through the icy stillness. Sliced through razor-sharp. Cut deep to the heart of things beneath the frozen ground. “Look at me when I’m talking at you!” My fingertips burned, my toes near numb. My whole body shivered, so I closed my arms tightly around my chest. Not to warm myself, Mom. But to keep the simple truth from thawing. ‘You miss her!” Our obnoxious moon bellowed. Its voice bounded through the snowdrifts.   Through my cold window pane, to my icy obstructed heart. Our mammoth moon thawed my frozen, stubborn tears. The warmth from them wasn’t as scary as I’d imagined. The full moon lingered, so I slowly turned away from my window, to start my day,   A whisper stopped me, Covered my whole being with a blanket so soft and warm.......   .   “I miss you, too, Marg.” St. Ignace Moran Bay in Winter...