these were my blue flea market finds from a week ago.  the table cloth is oblong, a medium sized cloth hand-embroidered in shades of blue with yellow centers for the flowers.  it´s lovely and someone spent a lot of time on it.  it reminded me of a story by mary wilkins called the lost ghost, or the gentle ghost, can´t remember now, but in the story, before the ghosty part begins, two women are talking and one of them is crocheting.  she says she is making the afghan for a church sale.  the other woman asks her how much the last donated afghan earned for the church.  she says, slightly disgusted, twenty-five cents.  at the end of the conversation on this subject she says, “You would have thought the Lord was worth more than 25 cents!”

i paid one euro for this table cloth and it came from the tables, where everything is one euro. sometimes i find something spectacular and the seller wants two euro instead of the promised one euro.  i never argue.  only i would like to know the person who made the table cloth.  it´s perfectly white and without stain which is rare.  normally anything hand-embroidered has a rip or stain somewhere.  like life, like my life this morning, ripped and stained it is.  and so i go.  nevertheless, i paid 50 cents for the little teabag holder and love the pattern on it, and am planning to put the lovely table cloth over a radiator this summer when its heat is no longer necessary.  i love thinking about spring, then summer.  but it has been a beautiful winter, very cold, but with many blue sky days which is rare for us.  i feel safe and sound, like a bruised tulip that wants to lay down but finds a nice green leaf to fall into for support.  i´m not sure how people get on without Jesus, i only know i don´t get on without Jesus.  i no longer try to.  leaning on Jesus is my pattern but i can take no credit for it, He is the maker of all things.  especially love.



this flower is very small and i enjoyed making it.  i just fixed left over pizza and a bowl of soup for his breakfast, but i had half a sandwich that was in the fridge.  our eccentricities have been exacerbated by circumstances that only those past the age of 55 can imagine.  or, anyway, most would have to have reached that venerable decade to understand how eccentricities can be exacerbated by circumstances ultimately beyond one´s control.  i looked at cameras.  he wants me to buy one, thinks i have earned one, a really good one.  but i cannot quite convince myself that the old one is finished.  it took the above picture from across the room, however the sun was shining and that helped.  i want a life without obsession.  big sewing projects drive me, spur me on, and it´s the same with photography.  it isn´t only taking pictures and handing them over to the drugstore to send away.  it´s time spent working over every photograph.  the above picture had to be sized, the color heightened, contrasted, color reduced, sharpened.  and saved.  then retrieved for this page.  easier than scanning a print, needless to say, but at my age i am beginning to break it all down into choice.  i enjoyed the needle, the thread, the wool, all the wool at my wooly age, which is not so wooly.  when i refer to myself as old it makes people laugh, but i do sometimes feel ancient.  ah well, so are my thoughts this morning.  and though i did spend the time to re-find the camera i would buy if i bought one, i won´t buy one.  the money spent would be a little tyrant forcing me to get my worth out of the new machine whereas the price of the old one was long ago absorbed.  he, husband, will look disappointed when i tell him.  he does so want me to buy something extraordinary for our anniversary, but he is the extraordinary element in this anniversary, so very very extraordinary.  when i see all these young women running around parading their feminism i can only pity them and wish that those feminists who have managed both successful career and long, happy marriage would tell the truth, which is that they have simply been blessed with a very beautiful man.


i know there are

letters that should be written

telling how you are,

and how i am

in the aftermath,

but silence is so effective

in these circumstances,

and lyric wants its place;

its sound and i

wait for

the old reality

to be restored.

solitary one

My solitary one
Is there another –
Your cool fingers
On my scalded face
When I sleep
On my new pillow –
No, there is no other.
Vision like vinegar
Stings my eyes,
Or is that my fear
Enclosing –
You socialite rejected,
Spurned and turning
Into light –
Happy birthday, reason –
My treason changes
In earth´s deep garden,
Sprinkles lily pollen
With laughter
Wet with dew
As my roots


Giving in to gravity
I become heavy,
Noticing the void
I begin to decorate;
But have two eyes ever lied
Than mine?
Buttons for a pocket watch,
Cheap fabric for the priest?
What must I do
To become
Empty enough to know
That gravity
Is transient,
That transcendence
Is not only in the mind?
A modern day Neanderthal
I look for just a little
To paint my face
To ward off all these
Of false gaiety,
Too bright colors,
And pen in hand that must
Every space
With votive word
Or thought.

what is stolen

An old woman was in
the dream –
Her leathery skin brown
And yellow,
her dark eyes
Matching the black muslin
Frock she wore.
She looked like she was
Supposed to look:
A seer,
One who knows
Not all the answers
But only this one:
That the thief
Was a girl
From a nice family.
All that was missing
Was the box
Of cancelled stamps,
Torn from envelopes,
I glimpsed them
Before they were gone,
A gift from the grandmother
Who despised me:
Sometimes what is stolen
Stays with you too long.