“Because it’s a long way home back to the place where we started.”

I am a bird now

Because it’s a long way home back to the place where we started.

Perhaps where it begins and ends should be as a meal

Perhaps the world is simply a meal punctuated by other events

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

Joy Harjo, Perhaps the World Ends Here

Perhaps Poetry is as much the soul’s nourishment as Experience


The Lif of this World

The lif of this world
Is ruled with wind,
weepinge, drede,
And steryinge:
With wind we blowen,
With wind we lassen,

With weepinge we comen,
With weepinge we passen;
With drede we dwellen,
With drede we wenden.

via The Lif of this World.

Briseis to Achilles



The letter which you read comes from stolen Briseis,
Written with difficulty in Greek by her barbarian hand.
Whatever blots you see, her tears have made–
But tears, nevertheless, have the strength of a voice.

via Ovid’s Heroides.

The Poems of Sappho, Part I

Ilya Zomb, The Moons Maid, ©1987, 32x32in / 80x80cm Oil on canvas

Ilya Zomb, The Moon's Maid, ©1987, 32x32in / 80x80cm Oil on canvas

Then in my bosom my heart wildly flutters,
And, when on thee I gaze never so little,
Bereft am I of all power of utterance,
My tongue is useless.

The Poems of Sappho, Part I.

2nd Coming + Flickr Mosaic


The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

— William Butler Yeats

How to make a Flickr Mosaic


The white stones were mountains, then they went traveling.
The pink stones also were part of a mountain before
the glacier’s tongue gathered them up.
Now they lie resting under the waves.
The green stones are lovelier than the blue stones, I thought for a little while,
then I changed my mind.
Stones born of the sediments tell what ooze floated down the outwash once.
Stones born of the fire have red stars inside their bodies, and seams of white quartz.
Also I admire the heft, and the circularities
as they lie without wrist or ankles just under the water.
Also I imagine how they lie quietly all night
under the moon and whatever passes overhead–say, the floating lily of the night-heron.
It is apparent also how they lie relaxed under the sun’s golden ladders.
Each one is a slow-wheeler.
Each one is a tiny church, locked up tight.
Each one is perfect–but none of them is ready quite yet
to come to the garden, to raise corn
or the bulb of the iris.
If I lived inland I would want to take one or two home with me
just to look at in that long life of dust and grass,
but I hope I wouldn’t.
I hope I wouldn’t take even one like a see from the sunflower’s face,
like and ant’s white egg from the warm nursery under the hill.
I hope I would leave them, in the perfect balance of things,
in the clear body of the sea.
— Mary Oliver

Steam Punk Space Exploration

But first something new

Space exploration was Hazardous during the steam punk eraSpace exploration was Hazardous during the steam punk era

Space exploration was Hazardous during the steam punk era

Landscape With The Fall of Icarus

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling

the edge of the sea
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings’ wax

off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

William Carlos Williams