Launching : Peggy Doll Paper Cutouts


Tune # 1.

No one was watching except for me . I saw them , those two little rascals , those two little girls , the one born in her sac , the other with a spark of silver brightening her chocolate eyes . A flavor of salted caramel , both .


” Owa , look ! ”


” Now what , Sequoia ? Was that Peter Pan ” ?


” Oooooooooo ! ”


” Let’s not tell , O . K . .? ”

Many years go by ….

Tune # 2 .


” Did you ever tell mom about seeing Peter Pan ? ”


” Yes , but no one else “.

” I told her too ” .

” What did she say ” ?

” She said she once saw him too AND that he lives upstairs ” !



Starring : grand daughters , Sequoia and Owa  … daughters , Denise and Jacqueline

Credits : Denise Thomasin Photography and Photos of Christopher Senn

Moons Wandering


Have we forgotten … a boy appears , a boy with the stain of love marked with pale ink blue on his forehead , the aftermark of a Jerusalem Prince , a boy from the mountain that clasps the sky , a boy with magnetism bringing forth creatures from underground tunnels of hibernation . . . an invisable , natural force exerted onto Cemetary Road with no dead-end where he too travels with the ” anima-mundi” , the world soul connecting all living organisms on the planet . This boy of pure love abides close with Jack . The fourth peregrine falcon leaves the roof of Jack’s home to follow this boy until his return on the day when Francis completes the last page , intentialy left blank , of her third novel .


He has not only been here , always still like the surface of the deep sea , since that profound day Jack picked up the hand of Francis telling her how beautiful he found it , but a very long time before… before Jack read “Old Yeller” , before hiding whiskey bottles in dog food bags , before passing people sitting on porches in folding chairs , riding fast his motorcycle in the dark , before listening to guitars speaking to him in human voices , before smiling at the older woman with long grey hair as she passes him at the Bliss Festival , a look shared in her eyes he never forgets , a foreshadowing of “focus half asleep ” for a future dream . And he exists here and there , there he is a shining Mars above as the moon follows the sun down . Francis can sense him , this boy , this skygod , as if he were the star at a theatre where the spirits of actors from the past hang out looking for bodies to speak through , his scent earthy , passing as if turning in his sleep , untitled like a thousand butterflies . Does wisdom have a scent , a field of musk overturned from a stone rolled away ? Three years previous , before loving Jack , Francis saw a fluttering from the corner of her eye when Jack entered the door of the shop she worked in to hang his delicate glass wind-chimes in the window , the roughness of his hands an anomaly . A large hand , wide , with a deformed finger , a reminder of an ugly scar on a beautiful girls face , that same allure of beauty within sadness she knew so well . And now , on this day in March , when the solar eclipse and the spring equinox are falling together , listening to love songs all day with a blush on her cheeks , she walks along the dirt road where once again the mink comes from beneath the wooded earth , outgrowing his crowded family of the long winter where the scene is black and white . Jack should be coming home soon from Traverse City . She ponders , looking for the dust cloud from his truck .


A strong man is naked and honest , unafraid to be desperate , his heart torn out but still beating . This is Jack , fearless , with hands taking the intensity inside of him to create sunbeams in the wood , the tumbled glass , the hand carved boxes , the jars of syrup from the tapping of maple trees , an amber gold of silk threads woven into a Kings robe . The sun will soon be attacked by some mythological creature , perhaps the Jaquar or the Lynx , with a roar roaming even after complete darkness when the moon will completely block out all the Suns light for two astounding minutes in the Faroe Islands of the Danish Kingdom . Who is this skygod , this creator , sustainer , illuminator ? What exactly happened on the Mount of Beatitudes when the people of Israel asked Issa (Jesus) how to pray to the Solar God ?

” Oh Creator  (Abwoon) , the one who wills life to be . Who fills all the worlds with Sacred illumination . May your Holy Light illumine us . Let us be liberated from that which keeps us from our true destiny . For yours is the will to be , the Power to live . It is your Celestial song that beautifies all that renews itself from age to age . Amen ”  ( the original tone is a mantra call spoken in Sanskrit , the language was Aramaic , the language Jesus spoke )


” You have the most beautiful hands ” , Jack calls out playfully rolling down his window .

” Can I call you my boyfriend now ?” , Francis responds with amusement .

” Quik , get in , we’ll go for a ride down the back roads to Empire Beach before the sun sets “.

The ghost that first travelled with them from Heartache Avenue has disappeared … the beautiful boy with a kiss on his forehead is there instead , the scent of birth and death , the scent of incense and myrrh , a Holy cloud surrounding as the little Hawaiin figurine on the dashboard dances on and on …


Note : photos by Denise Thomasin Photography


The Angel Olivia


The father is watching , peeking through the narrow door slat in the old Citadel Building of Benton Harbor . The walls seem like paper , the light thin , the patina dusty … yet with golden sheens they pirouette after the last poem of winter passes . Olivia dances , the Dance of Spring , the others watching as she creates her own gravity .image image image

For you dear one , Olivia … and your daddy xxx


Music by my fellow blogging friend ,Ewian Christensen ,  a talented young artist muscician

Cave by the Sea


A piano , white playing in the pavilion

You take me luminous

A dance of digging abduction

into the cave

tunneled window of complexion

a chateau under Cemetary Roads

embroidered dress of loves cremation .


Burning , no goodbye in your eyes atmospheric

You lift me , a doves flight

a wind entangled frock , ecclesiastical

into the cave

with limbs and mouth ethereal

holy legends identical

flying thru the sky of Immanuel .


Boats to build a shrine my prince

floating on River Hermitage

from the void my first time

tender keys of ivory

I haven’t left your bed since . . .


Credits : Light photo by Laura Sielaff … White Flower by Leanne Cole Photography … White wing from PhotoAllegory of Sarolta Ban … ( I apologize for not knowing the artist who took the beautiful opening photo )

for you Dan . . .

White Spots of a Fawn


It already exists … Jack and Francis walk out the door into the white clouds of lakes covering the new earth of a Febuary winter as the third falcon leaves the rooftop behind them . The peregrine , more than eight million years old , his ancestor once in Athens listening to an apostle give his speech on the steps of the Areopagus : ” And he has made from one blood every nation of men to dwell on all the face of the earth and has determined their pre appointed times and the boundaries of their dwellings , so that they should seek the Lord , in the hope that they might grope for Him and find him , though He is not far from each of us “. With the rapture circling above in the path of a wind’s mandala , Jack introduces Francis to the silent land of his home , his barn , the deer tracks , the squirrel nests , the Maple City sky , introducing her as if she were the rarest thing that lived . He shows her the tree with a skirt on , growing out of a stump . What is happening ? Francis thinks she should at least kneel down for in Michigan , the trees talk and the mighty Hemlock , soaring to great heights , only drops its needles to the floor of blue shade every three years where in rich humerus a doe might give birth to its fawn . And if the tree dies , it keeps healing as a host of reishi mushroom lives on the dead wood , life abounding death . There are hidden passages venturing into new lands , lands that have been together for millennia , even the streams have underground paths deep below flowing into the Great Lakes . In the silence , the voice of an Indian warrior’s horse can sometimes be heard , a legendary voice carried by the wind , ” I am from the void where Answer lives , ride on my back and know the power of entering darkness and finding the light “.


Francis , remaining still in the sun , stares at the movement of animal tracks while Jack walks on with his saw to cut down a tree for their wood stove . She is caught by a mirage , an atmospheric refraction of green light from last nights sunset , a flash that sparks thoughts of Bulgaria , where one year ago , just after Jack so unexpectedly had given her a wrapped gift for Christmas as they left the restaurant with friends , she found herself in a foreign country . Could she remember her total journey ? Can anyone ? Francis remains in the quiet , not moving . She feels on the divide of knowing , of knowing a destiny with unusual dimensions , layers of mystery yet uncharted about to see the map . Finding herself suddenly in the memory of her friend Hariod’s questioning voice , ” Did the ” fleeing horse ” find her inner light after arriving in Bulgaria ?” , she knew the answer to be , “yes” , the world a mystic realm with landscapes of beforehand . Now she answers Hariod’s , “What Happened “? , with a soliloquy … ” I hear pieces come hesitantly forward , a foreshadowing , every once in a while . Writing it holds many clues that in a strange way , makes truth and melody out of my life , human and spiritual , past and future . The land of Bulgaria , the earth , brought me a gift of some kind I know not how to explain … I wandered alone for five months , walking the farms , the valleys and hills and was transformed as if I were a creature , one with nature and animals , a soul with a body that could see wind and all of life breathing … and love , well , love was everywhere .”


The dirt road was her Mandela , the one in the Baltic village and the one too , in Glen Arbor when she first saw Jack as she walked , barefoot , in a summer dress and he leaned forward in the passenger seat of her friends stopped car . A circle of eternity and infinity , a circle around a pentagram , a circle touching all five points , spirit , earth , air , water and fire , all connected and a single point upwards where the falcon soars . Behold , a scene of freedom , of nomadic spirit , a driving force that thrives and carries us in life with an emotional ability to go on in life , a sense of life , of knowing a deep truth , a life where exists lands of enchantment , instinctive and tamed , erotic and endearing . A life where your face is my face . Here lies Cemetary Road , where all of life leads her , colored bottles and trinkets in the distance shining from a branch above the grave of a young boy hit by a car . Do Jack and Francis exist with hearts beating like a drum , keeping time with everthing ? And look , once more , down the road as the black horse in the pasture becomes Pegasus or the unicorn in the twinkling of an eye . ” Behold , I make all things new “. Life is listening , listening … always listening .


Francis still in a trance in a world of snow, hears life answer , forming a list of her days mixed together in orbit , clearly a carton of eggs broken .

1. Childhood fright : afraid to leave her mother , clutching her young mother’s skirt edge . Thunder storms , sweating under the blankets with open windows . Nightmares of underwater creatures .

2. Loneliness : Leaving school early and walking in a red mini-dress across the city , being followed by 2 men who yell obscenities and try to grab her .

3. Smell of sour milk : A husband violates her because of a religions teaching a duty of submission .

4. Threats : Family to commit her if she divorces and take away her children .

5 . Humiliation : She watches her mother in matching hat , shoes and jewelry , visit her brother in prison and pretending to others that everything is ” just fine ” .

6. Destruction : The barn studio on fire that she might have caused , a secret so horrible . ( the flames that warm winter day seen miles away , the only thing found in the ashes , old copies of magazine pages floating in the sky like burnt feathers all over the county ).

7. Death : Her beloved husband of 8 years dying in their bed .

8. Suicide : Her step-son hangs himself on an open pipe in his NYC studio , his dog whimpering for days .

9. Betrayal : Friend who cons and steals the land that was her son’s inheritance.

10: Violence : Man she knows , cuts her with a razor blade in his mouth while forcing himself on her .

11. Obsession : Knife held to her throat after being beaten , threatening to kill her if she leaves him .

12 . Heartbreak : Death of her parents and loss of daughter-in-law who leaves family for another man .

Francis sees Jack coming back to her . Her mind letting it all go as she touches her skin under the heavy jacket and sweater , soft , her soft skin as if it were the belly of a fawn . . She hears the blue glass wind-chime of that Christmas gift … ” I was a hidden treasure and loved to be known . Therefore I created the Creation that I might be known “. ( Sufi)  “The former things are passed away ” … Tomorrow is the first day of March 2015 . In ancient times March was the beginning of the new year and the glaciers that formed the Great Lakes were covered in snow a mile deep . And now she hears comments , yes , your comments , voices that welcome her out of the background , out of the room full of blues and the photograph of her grandmother at age 18 sits next to Jack’s pile of cowboy hats and his small bags of wildflower seeds … Freedom , freedom unfolding in the moment of “now ” . She leans back gently , gently against the tree , Jack is finished with his work , the falcon nowhere in sight and the fox sleeping . The epiphany swells and Francis with heavenly forms beating red her heart knows she is finished writing – a strange story that already exists …a screenplay living on planet earth , earth , a place of children who have asked to be born … trees , trees of awe their cradles , our wellsprings , our dawn .


Personal note : I am so grateful and blessed by all of you who comment and I want you to know that in hearing you , I heal and am encouraged on my journey and know we are connected thru a glorious golden thread . .. Thankyou : Janet , Denise , Dan , Hariod , Michael , Chris , Cyan , Mark , Meredith , Julie , Vanessa , Christine , Chrissy , John ,  Aquileana , Diana , Dina , Tony , Tia , Marga , Sue , Mino , Laurent , Christy , Jo , Zula , Shimon , Sean , Nina , Leyla , Lorrie , Raj , Semra , Sonmi, Ellen , Ax , Norm , Annedaria , Amy ,Don , Ewian , Leanne , Sister Madly , and all that I haven’t mentioned who follow …

note: girl standing by Aela Labbe Photographie