Silent Night ( when the violin prayed )


On my way home

he was standing there

at the edge of the room

of vision lore

a great mysterious appearing door

not known to exist before .

I shut my eyes tight

the sun struck the sepia shore

life held so safely

by curtains of doves

fluttering above

like echoes ” this is all for you ” more .


Her feet he held

bared on the quiet site

upon placed winged slippers of white

she was paralyzed, no sound

God , are you watching what we do ?

the graveyard appeared by a stream

the dragonfly skimming blue wings

ripples moved the shocked world

in weavings calm

and her feet left the ground

He was standing there

at the edge of the room

on my way home.


The light was naked , neon

the taste  , blood pudding

the smell of sugarcane and mud

the dilemma of drums

a forest filled with sleeping bugs .

He stood there

at the edge of the room

on my way home .



The ” see far-away ” open window where she now writes from inside on Cemetery Road , northern Michigan ….her adventure beginning two years ago on a dirt path in the village Gita , Bulgaria , thinking she had everything to do with it while at the same moment ,  knowing she had nothing to do with it at all .

Two ( too , twice , double , pair , duet ) strangely wonder – filled curious years of gratitude with WordPress and so many rare , loving , astonishing and inspiring  friends . ” Such a beautiful ( her most used word ) crazy , glorious and confounding world ” Michael exclaimed , embracing forever .




Photos above and below from my personal album




Photo of two ducks by Cassandra Hartley

photo pair of ” Ted and Aisha in the alley ” by Jessica Wade

For my friends …two thousand ” thank you so deeply ” with love always , megxxx

p.s. ” the heart is an organ of fire ” ( ” The English Patient ” )



Writing found in my mothers Suitcase


Near The River of Wonder I walked , traveling all this way without shoes. A porcupine tree branch tapping , tapping on the window , flashing in the sun , these are the first voices heard , a sound like people talking in whispers , a  sound stunning its way around in my mind too strange to believe . Only night and day , one night , one day , becoming my entire life as the moving sculptures of Christs apostles on the astronomical clock in Praque click cryptic with dials and mechanisms into a world so sublime where a skeleton , the figure of death , waits slowly , so slowly , to strike the hour . Is my friend La Vagabonde near ? ” Night and Day ” could be the title of a poem by Chris Nelson  or William Blake , or a sign over a cafe in Paris , a bookstore on Orcas Island , a collaboration unbolted by Tony and Tati , a song by Ewian or Pink Floyd , or even the name of a tango dance applauded by the spectators in the square of Puerto Vallarta . But it is for me the name of a most curious decor , the velvet decor of my own life , a blue decor of an endless sky held open by a curtain of tassel trims sewn with threads silken of nostalgia under which peacocks nest where I am touched in a womb like the heavens touch a single star . It is a spinning , puzzling , absurd decor , mysterious where all makes sense .

The hour of motherhood , only one soft sweet peculiar moment , a moment in the snap of a camera , images ( every time I can , I stare at them ) covered in glass , delicate and shimmering , spilling their hearts into my mouth , my breath joining the budding branch where a dove is cooing , where linens sing flapping on the clothesline sending off-beat melodies towards the yurts on Mount Bohemia , connecting with the hum of the electric station not far from that rusty windmill laying broken on its side still able to plink like a xylophone and even further on  the beat is giving rise to the howl of the tall Egyptian pharaoh dogs with wide apart eyes gleaming on their foreheads from the rays over the pyramids epicenter . It is a loud ornate place where ” all boundaries are conventions waiting to be transcended “, a world that rhymes with me , rhyming into almost insanity. This is the way it is . Why are birthdays so important when every single second is one ? When day breaks and night departs , I know I’ve been here a long , long , long time . . .

photography by Denise Thomasin