The Book of 1000 Beginnings : Sylvies Paragraph


Her name should have been Francie ( my mamas name ) . I made a huge mistake and gave my only daughter the wrong name . I don’t want my memory to fail me now , not now , not when my middle sister Juliet is so terribly broken with grief , afraid of everything that could be . Death always scared her , words like ” heaven ” do too . There are three of us , three daughters first and then my brothers . My mother knew how I expected her to one day live with me . She understood the culture of South America especially after seeing the movie , ” Like Water for Chocolate ” and becoming aware of the Spanish tradition dictating the youngest daughter care for her mother in old age . Her favorite scene was when the youngest sisters heat and passion transfers to her older sister , who overcome with lust , takes a shower outside only to be carried off naked by a revolutionary soldier on horseback . My older sisters were tough competition and we fought for how long she would stay with each of us and just how many movies she could watch . But I’m the smart one ( buying her a one way ticket so she would stay longer ) yes , me the so called smart sister despite the fact that I took ayahuasca in the deep forest with the shaman along a strange river in Columbia where Gabriel Garcia Marquez lived ( my mamas favorite writer ) . I told her that story again and again , embellishing it more and more whenever she asked , which was often . I earned a masters degree in neuroscience , with a career in the research department of a university  and my mama always delighted that by looking at me , one would never know these puzzling facts . So how did I make that mistake with my daughters name ? I forgot the visions in forgetting the romance of my mothers life . I forgot that her brain heard whispers from her soul and that the imprint of her cell was the same as mine . ” Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again , though lovers be lost love shall not , and death shall have no dominion   ” ( Dylan Thomas ). I won’t forget again , not now , not with the black eyes of my daughter looking at me with my mothers emotion , eyes , the artifacts of her grandmothers mystery .


For my youngest daughter

The Book of One Thousand Beginnings : Dana : Final Paragraph


I took a photograph of her , her mouth wide open when a bird hit the window , a messenger from across the species divide . It lies on the grass before me and my dead mother . A flying creature , knowing things I do not , a divine emissary . Do I share kinship with this one who mimics my speech , my sobs ? Just who is guided by this passerine bird to this room of death , this pale room of my mothers end . And what will they do with her remains , the Christ-like stillness of her body , a body of delicate white bones , a body dead with skin like that fish I once saw aglow , not yet cold , blue moving with fog across waters of the Great Lake . Flowers are everywhere in this place , messages , repeated words on cards , ribbons caught in the air of a musky smell from life’s underbelly . I remember my brother once shooting a songbird out of its nest with his Daisy B-B gun and wonder when will he be here . I want to embalm my misunderstood mother and this raven together and watch them be mummified in beeswax and honey . But I know it will not be allowed . In what corner of my mind are my dead mothers poems hidden ? I cannot capture everything or anything with words any more …


Personal note : I have been lost in my story , words and more words , editing and cutting until only the ending above remains . I can’t find the plot anymore . Writing has become the long , long dance with music that refuses to end , even without any lyrics … but alas , I’m rather tired of searching for that plot . . .

Thank you , each of my friends for following and for always encouraging with your kind comments and inspiring hearts …it matters so very much …

Loves Imprint – Copper Harbor



we traveled behind rain

you wanting

to find the way

nightwards when

sleep fluttered milkweed

upon my lashes

and where

the north panther

lay down again

its thunder



we traveled behind daisies

hiding tormented

tree stumps

unfathomable .

down wrong turns

me wanting

to roll in the hills

the tremble of

birthing winds

bouquet .



we traveled behind lake

your veins

like pine tree roots

the meadows

of your hands

abduct my flesh


to stretch sun

into storm .



we traveled  behind rooms

you wounding

the ghost

riding corridors of

your world .

me seeing

a nightingale naked

eclipsed upon

your lips

where petals stain


over a Two Hearted River

this is the strangest

garishly  glorious

life I’ve ever known .


You Don’t See Me


the witness point

on eyes of a bark less tree

residing in the gypsy globe

take notice

of her beloveds worn shirt

the buff cream

of Charolais cattle

sedate , too damaged

for this wilderness land

of dangerous freedom .


she is a runner

like antelope

always alone

with her solar smile

silent , so hungry

biting her lip

take notice

a zephyr lily

looking for the

promised land .


he is a rare sighting

a god

disquised as a man

spreading nightmare

to her standing there

with no movement


weary of this

peaceful slavery


someone else

holds the surveyors transit .


does he not see

her climbing out

from the hole in his eye


there at the

witness point .