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Neen and Grampa, Love You Always

Neen and Grampa, Love You Always



Angel Robin

Angel Robin
MANY of these photos are courtesy of my SoulMate, my Beloved Eternal, Robin Taylor.

We Meet Again...

We Meet Again...







Cathy's Babies

Cathy's Babies

Saturday, October 29, 2011

October Mirrors: Varied Views

October Mirrors: varied views

(for Robin, always)
my Heart warms anew; I sense your body near.
Thru hurricanes of pain, you kiss my tears.
our Souls no longer sleep apart
in deep- mired, greedy sinking Dark;
My enemies can never wake
my horrid, icey, heart-hewn hate. 
 You slay my demons, your sword guards our bed;
and in my miserable tired head
Your eyes Light our Mirror! My Love, my Joy!
for we are one, my "blue-sonic boy"  *
* "blue-sonic boy" : these three Words are from a song by the group, "All About Eve,"
although my use of the nickname is quite contrary to the Song*

Friday, October 28, 2011

more October mirror views: Dances

2010 & 2011

NightTime Tain -ride Writing,,,, October 2010

Mirrors in mirrors swirl tides in your dancing eyes.
Ethereal, Sky-hued Poetry Lights Your Eyes
I'm fully aLive;
your Mind strokes my deepest Soul
A dance alights inside your eyes
Your animation hypnotizes
I am thoroughly happy inside your eyes. *

* last line: Combo: 
NightTime Tain-ride Writing, October 2010 
NughtTimeMindEye Dreams, October 2011 

SunSet Fantasy

You've moved me, wholely; my cheeks flush;  two tears, 
in dirge, yearn for unspoken broken Truths;
My eyes wind West, down 'pon your beauty's wings
 You spoke deep music, hushed tones, softly tuned...

you disappear - like a train; you vanish;
my eyes, mesmerized,  cannot leave your path;
my Soul holds an aching mural for Ever:
A lithe black man awash in Golden Rose

Thursday, October 27, 2011


October  2011

Ivy-crowned Prince,
I've yearned to meet you
in the smile that is our night;
Sonnets, cantos, Words unite us here 
in a Library replete with ev'ry precious Jeweled Word ever inscribed upon "sacred space"


Winter Library Scene 2010

Two young policeman searched for many Days in muddy Snow.
Their flashlights pricked, bored snarly pinpoint eyes:
 daggers glared, dug mucky car-quashed abyss

My Momentary angel flew out, around me;
I stood still, watching, swathed in her fluttery warm winged Air

She tapped a policeman on his frozen crimson nose
"Do you seek the bones, kind Sirs, the fractured finger bones?"

"We want to find the Fingers whole."

"Why out here, on holy Library Land?"

"We think here may be where they fell 
when they came to know about the Books."
so very sad, the angel looks
she hadn't known the fate of Books...
I sigh inside her old embrace

so weepy am I; cry my shattered Dreams
(final two stanzas added October 29, 2011)

after NightMares regarding broken bones,
I comprehend my flying, tripping Heart...
I understood why the fingers mattered ...
Tears burn, fall to blur your exquisite prose...

(I did, of course, see the Sunset.
a backdrop beam-ed Sky of rose and gold.
Speaking with the World's Master-Writer, surrounded by that idyllic Sky)

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

other photos from the Court Jester series: Dreams of His Demise

2 Versions of the same Story...

Your Byzantine kohled black eyes
scald Sky-painted glass, 
scream melted embers all over my 
My Lord, your old Stars mutate!
I am awake.


Ferociously,  I twirl your world 
beneath my nimble fingertips;
Your dervish laughter, legend once,
swirls clownishly, in emptiness

My unEarthly diamond prisms flash,
show your rage's futile sovereignty
for all fae maidens, tiny hands clasped
to see with glee; within, they laugh

I refuse to be reBorn as a fragment of your world


Your every effort to recommence
a long, slick, sticky self-monument,
to hold nubile captives, fossilized
while you assume a new disguise -
Your every absurd undulation fails
falls heavy, plods, stomps toward your demise...

I refuse to be reBorn as a fragment of your world

The Goddesses know the vile Court Jester
was ne'er my Lover, but my consequence,
for playing the Game of Open Door, The Open Door, The Open Door..

rough draft...version 1 

Your serpentine, Byzantine eyes
scald melted mounts,  black embers,
all over my Dreams

but now:

Ferociously I twirl your world beneath my nimble fingertips
As your dervish laughter swirls to concrete ground
unEarthly diamond prisms flash.

I hear your rage;
your grief fills the Sky;
Ironic bellows crash on high...

Your every effort to commence
a long, slick sticky Monument
to hold new captives fossilized,
while you assume a new disguise...

I think, "Time's arrived; waylay your dream!"
insipid monster on ancient screens-
Reach, grab, yet all you do is lose
One finger at a time...


Ferociously I twirl your world
beneath my nimble new fingertips

I shriek! Foreign Lightening brightens me!
To think:
I sail beneath dark Seas,
& all I dreamed seemed out of reach...

I refuse to be reBorn as a fragment of your world

The Goddesses know the vile Court Jester
was ne'er my Lover, but my consequence,
for playing the Game of Open Door, The Open Door, The Open Door..

Please click below to 
read other installments in The Court Jester Series

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Brownies and Bananas

Brownies and Bananas

Dear Banana Lady, (local supermarket shopper, who queued to pay for your purchases in front of my son and me),

     I am sorry my energetic, impatient, bored little boy's right index finger touched your three green bananas, (which, by the way, you had precariously placed, in your grocery cart's top/side area, where one of them hung, provocatively, peering at any-sized prankster, a dare-me grin upon his tender new upper peel), resulting  in their graceless, yet shockingly non-bruising tumble to the besmirth-ed supermarket floor. Did you see? My son immediately retrieved your fruit, placed it more securely than you had, back into your cart, & hung his head ever-so-slightly; the Words, "I'm sorry," passed through his sweet little mouth & into your ears, I am certain you heard. He has practiced, incessantly, the articulation of these Words (although, I am proud to say, he has no more regular need to say them than any seven-year-old boy).

     Thank you for being so kind. I spoke sincerely when I offered to: a) return your stalwart, verdant threesome to Produce & to switch them for a virgin, never-met-floor threesome,  b) pay for your original unripened green team, (you insisted these were the exact length and plumply-formed fruit of your desire), c) purchase for you that Mars bar, your score! (your entire Day's persistent fantasy?) You opted to retain the original happy little threesome, & you were as gracious as could be... ?  

   Madame, I pose a question. Perhaps you could clarify for me. When you smiled in such a manner which seemed to pain you, bobbing your self-righteous, super-coiffed, AquaNetted helmet in certain comprehension of the situation; when your gentle Heart spoke...  and you stated: "It's so difficult for him," had the thought occurred to you that my son had acted as any little child might, in the same situation? I believe the assumption which sounded in your head lacked any brain-stress. "It's so difficult for him."  Did you mean: "A little boy who looks as if he might have Down Syndrome should not be expected to behave appropriately? A child who looks ~different neither should nor (indeed!) cannot be held to the same standards as another child, when the theme is: “We do not touch other people's property?"

     Madame shopper, Lady of the gentlest of Hearts, whilst you and I were engaged in our brief, insightful conversation, did you see my son heft a huge container of mineral water from my cart and place it upon the conveyer belt? I missed the sight, but the pretty ladies behind us reddened and giggled; one female exclaimed, “What a strong little boy, and what a flirt he is!”  (She looked rosey, glossy, directly stepped from the cover of the Autumn Vogue magazine which begged a buy, while witness to the fun.)   Earlier in the shopping adventure,  I wish you had been nearby as we perused the bakery section. I told Leo, moving swiftly, miserably, away from the bakery, "I've been craving a brownie for weeks."  Leo doesn't really like brownies, or anything chocolate, very much. He did, however, walk over to the bakery shelf, where sumptuous treats of every manner fill approximately twenty crowded shelves, and never cease to baffle my brain, utterly stumping my decision-making process, each time I allow my chocoholic's eyes to linger in that haven...He walked directly over to that heavenly section (I had averted my eyes, truth to tell). His little hands quickly picked up a medium-sized, round pan, while he simultaneously indicated a second pan, this one small and square. I, his own mother, actually thought, "Since Leo doesn't like chocolate, and he has likely never eaten a brownie, I am in zero danger of Leo finding my chocolate fantasy today."
His left hand cradled a pan which read "Brownies;" these appeared to be a conglomerate of low-calorie, non-fat, dull, tasteless, baked brown fake things, bland-looking enough as to nearly remove my urge. The little foil pan at his right hand offered me a decadent, four-piece selection of 300 calorie-a-piece, walnut-smothered, still oven-warm, fudge brownies. Oh, my boy! I love your Heart! I crouched to transfer love into his eyes.        

     Sister-supermarket shopper: I do not think you are a villain. I only ask you to imagine, to stretch your mind's boundaries a bit. Please be not offended by my request, as I bear you no ill will;  I understand your...well...your ignorance. I have been (I am!) ignorant about a great many subjects in my Life. I try to learn from every experience, although certain grooves inside our brains are so well-worn as to be slippery, so we stick steadfastly to their old familiar curves, fearing an avalanche if we are to detour...Thank you again, Madame. I pray your bananas bring you enormous enjoyment. Please consider my intelligent little son as you bite into that perfect, miraculously-formed fruit. Even if you discover a tiny bruise, you might still consider that Natural wonder a piece of perfection...

   Oh, and I appreciate the way you jogged my memory, Ma'am: I craved a tiny botanical review, after meeting you...Did you know?...Bananas don't grow on trees!