THE RED JOURNAL -Late Thanksgiving Night

I am waiting for the sweet quiet moments of candlelight the lit tree fire blazing carols on the stereo I am waiting for the spark of light against cold a shooting star of hope to ignite dying embers of a fierce late summer blaze that warmed us through the heady winesap of autumn. Glory be I am yearning to sit before the round white host ablaze in its gold holder a silent communion eyes shut the solace of soul quiet admidst the bustling of curiosity. Read more →


Manana's Garden

Manana's Garden exists in flashes of her mind: it blooms in the bite of peach warmed by Sicilian sun furry skin against her palate juices drip onto translucent flesh of her hand caught in the thin circle of gold wedding band too large now for her hand. We read like tea leaves the remains of her cup: did she drink all the tea this morning then she must feel better we prognosticate finding forget-me-knots in the melody of bees that catch her eye, getting drunk on lusty grape pollen admist the arbor vines Her mind peeled away like the layers... Read more →


My memories ride the brush into the pot of paint and are dipped in alizarin crimson or pthallo green. Scenes, words, faces, and emotion emerge from the pot plump and juicy, like a well-stewed pear, rich and redolent, and carrying the perfume of artistry. The brush strokes are sweeping and wide, or tiny and delicate. The canvas is primed. Like a body waiting for a lover's caress, the canvas seems to quiver and arch up to meet the brush. I am telling the stories that float through my memory like the organza sheers blowing in the summer breeze at my... Read more →