Watch or Listen, and Make Glad the Heart ~

From The Blue Room

The live cinecast of A Prairie Home Companion will be shown Feb. 4th and again in an encore performance, Feb. 9th at a theater near you ~ or someone you know. Hope you can catch it.

Or, you can join me listening to the radio airing, or any time from the archives online.

Ahhh, lovely.

moody repose this december night

From The Blue Room

The Woman in Red (The Rose Tunic)
by Tamara de Lempicka

Arms And Legs Akimbo

I lay outstretched and dripping

moisture from within, pressed to the surface

my skin trickling downward to pool

and cool at my back this heat

slips past thought

a sweeping

touch of airport-light passed

mounds and hollow and blade of fan

cool my tired want again

these arms and legs akimbo

A Comment In Passing

Writing and loving the beauty of a fragile tale
this old story of love in precarious balance
Imagine the scarlet lichen mist drenched rock and bare
the hunger of un-lived afternoons
made clean by touch
the wind and holy shiver
a shade of anticipation
when appreciation merges with surge
tidal upwelling salty and raw



Images by Micah Bochart 8/09 from a morning's hike above our valley home

The Traveler

I knew somehow you'd finally see me.

I've been singing from this open location for thirty-five years knowing that my song was not quite the right combination of notes, not quite the proper cadence to catch your ear.

But I've studied closely.
I've listened each season when you and your musically inclined flock pass through our forest echoing from treetop to highest bough.
Our children would fall asleep late summer evenings counting your spiraled melody and tale. Or, I'd be out very early, in the garden's cold mountain dawn. First one song, then another would peak above the river's spill, telling me of Joy.

When we actually met, I was close enough to hold our presence within, as though breath shared between us. And you didn't fly off, anxiously busy to be away, more as though you would have enjoyed staying longer and said, with a glance, that perhaps we'd find each other again.

Maybe some wet rainy day in the fall when being close would provide needed warmth.

I'll keep singing until then. And watching; listening.

While Waiting; A Little Song

Dawn begins where I've laid nights before
thinly pressing roof lines for sky beyond
night door wide open to cool, rug, mat, floor
Fair youth, call gently your memory's fond

Folded street silent, a distant train clangs
chorus of cricket metered divine
note of your presence within me still hangs
light tempered touching silvered dry mind

bone frame extending moist lift from the air
fresh hunger stirs traveling, east at my feet
coiled at base line unwrapped tangled hair
exploring toward sunset my corn-silk blue sheet

Dove stills our yard, buff tailed, alone
collared spot-feathers, your pink-eyes shone