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Stream of Consciousness (Oct 9)

Working, always working, even on the weekend. Spreadsheets are impatient

And insensitive to our whims.  A+B= C regardless of the outcome you desire.

So check the formula, get it right. Make the numbers tell the story.

But the sun is warm on my shoulders and I am too tired to analyze

numbers, too distracted to wrestle with logic. Home beckons, not my home

but my home, where walls, scents, and arms hug me, where coffee waits,

where candles burn, where photographs breathe.

So I will drive 40 miles today, park my car where my copper

Dodge once sat, covered in tree sap, faded ugly paint that would never shine

no matter how hard I tried to polish out the white haze ghosting

its hood.  Still, it was mine, and I was proud to have it until I traded it to

my brother for his little red hatchback. I remember blushing

when I cleaned it up and saw blond hair all over the backseat.

And I remember wanting my car back.  He ran it into the ground his ex-girlfriend told me.

Into the ground. What does that mean ?  Did it burst into flames, did it fall apart

piece by piece , or is it still parked in a driveway, broken beyond repair

but bringing comfort to an owner who at least still has it? It was a classic, after all.

Check the date. I should have held on to it, I regret letting it go

for a shinier, newer car that I eventually grew tired of and sold

for next to nothing.  But what does a child know about these things?

Into the ground. What does that mean? It sounds so final, demands an explanation.

And where is the blue Maverick? I loved that night we drove around town,

all of us together, and they played guitar and sang Dust in the Wind

on the steps of the high school, an impromptu concert given by a choir of fools

Suddenly there were old people peeking through curtains,

phone in hand ready to call the police, like we were some demons released

into their buttoned-up neighborhood upon the witching hour.

Between gasps of laughter I said check the time

and we all laughed until we cried when we realized it was 2AM. And so we left—

knowing, of course we would come back another day. We never did.

He parked his blue Maverick next to the bridal veil bush, behind the copper car

which sparkled now–thanks to the gentle, but insistent glow

of the streetlight  and he asked will you and I said yes and he kissed me

and my heart skipped a beat, and Dust in the Wind

became my favorite song, and October 9th my favorite day,  and that night

I dreamt acoustic.

How the heart tries to get its way. Rudely dismisses logic, befriends regret.

Stay home, stay close. Be safe. It is the season of haunting,

of wailing, of gnashing of teeth and dressed up corpses mimicking life;

of pennies dropped from prostrate pockets,  of apologies

littering gravestones like November leaves—brittle, dead,

useless. Strike a match. Watch them burn.   This is the season

of dust in the wind, and ghosts in bushes peering through bridal veil,

blooms long since cut and discarded or fallen away,

driven into the ground by life that has passed them by.

fall (in love) forever

Damn that night I drowned in blue

My heart is caged October

Winter freeze has never come

And spring no more,   no more.


Repost…in remembrance.


To ashes

we pour our tears,

sculpt familiar faces with frantic

hands, paint them with bleeding hearts.

Color has drained from this world, this gray canvas reflecting our hope,

our futility.

We must be artists now, and we carry on, creating frescoes from the ground,

from metal

feather dust. …  to dust remaining

devoted, even now

as we breathe

and it scatters

to the


close to my heart


your hand is sliced

(did you miscalculate

the length of the blade?)

and you are bleeding as it dangles

from your wrist

you would not shrink back from your hand

or hold it away from your chest,

afraid of getting dirty

or possibly staining the sleeve

of your new white shirt

you would not condemn your hand

for its past or present deficiencies

or dark age spots

or inability to grasp

modern inventions

you would hold your hand

over your heart,

wrap it tight

(perhaps wince in pain)

and try to stop the bleeding,

try to keep it whole–without hesitation

because Heaven knows

you need to, without delay

even if it hurts

Their tears are your tears, and they are my tears, and the tears of our children. One world. Our hand is bleeding. Please help. Even if it hurts.



The house is empty

and the wine bottle all but dry.

Flames tease candlesticks with a final kiss goodnight

as heirloom sand-papered linens blush beneath in polka-dotted

iridescent splatters of wax, glisten with remnants of broken bread

left clinging to fibers of conversations woven, broken, pieced, interrupted


I hear Laughter

as she peeks from her hiding place behind the curtains

then disappears into the folds, spent and content

Smug vagabond, tonight she will stay

I dust the crumbs into my hand

in a tango with my shadow

The house is quiet

and the wine bottle holds one more pour.




Thanks Jaymie, you inspired me :)

Happy New Year

Happy New Year

Happy New Year


Happy New Year to all of you, my new friends made in 2009 and cherished for a lifetime. May you all be showered in blessings in 2010 and beyond.



Falc’s Reader is bare…yikes!!!

so I tried to come up with a new post to give it something to chew on. Alas, no right brain action tonight. So instead, I’m going to do some shameless self-promotion….(well, I’m promoting another website, so it’s not THAT shameless, is it??? ;) )

Thank you Annmarie! My grandmother is smiling, I’m sure. She always loved attention :)

Hope you are all having a great week!

Cheers, D

(un)mistaken identity






A thousand miles away, he changes a letter,  

and writes my name.


It speaks softly on the page. I catch my breath

and repeat it, noticing how it ends in ah

like a sweet sigh of release–not tongue pressed against closed teeth,

but an open sigh of relief, as if just remembering the first words

to a long forgotten lullaby–yes-the lullaby sung by my grandmother,

whose name coyly whispered ah, love knows, love knows in the ancient temples, 

and by her mother, whose name messaged wisdom to generations

she would never know, delivering knowledge in seeds of wheat

and ripe plum tomatoes until it was swallowed by the sigh of the tide

and bitter winds off the shores of Ellis Island.

Ah, yes..the sighing sound of the chime’s echo escaping the church bell in Frasso Telisino,

where I shall walk tonight in my dreams, guitar slung on my back  

pressing gently upon my shoulder like my grandfather’s guiding hand,

where I will no longer be known as a stranger in a strange land

when I leave my sandals on the stoop and walk barefoot collecting pebbles..

Where I will finally find myself, reflected in rivers on the faces of elders

as they cup my face in their hands and greet me by name,  

saying Ah…Daniella, you are home,

You are home.


Thank you, Dhyan, for the inspiration. Whether intentional or not, it warms my heart. Blessings.

The Clearing (Villanelle)


It isn’t the dark of the woods I am fearing–

My eyes are accustomed to this tangled plight–

It’s what I might find in the clearing.


With each step, black velvet is disappearing

And moss sputters and dies under siege from gold blight

No, it isn’t the dark of the woods I am fearing…


See-the Devil sits there! And he’s taunting and sneering

Just waiting for me to come into the light

Oh, it’s what I might find in the clearing!


And yet… I keep walking, as though something is steering

Me forward, away from my worn path, despite

It isn’t the dark of the woods I am fearing.


But I’ve never been one for such pioneering!

Feet, I demand you stay tucked in the slipper of night!

Who knows what we’ll find in the clearing?


Oh, but the sun is aglow on my face as I’m nearing

The edge of the woods, where wildflowers ignite

No, this isn’t the dark of the woods I’ve been fearing…


I blow a dandelion wish in the clearing.

Silent Treatment





No more, silence

Trembles beneath the shear

Knowing dull, rusty blades cut, bleed