In The Meantime…

I’ve been MIA for a while, having traveled to Vermont to spend some time with the folks, and since, have decided to stay another couple weeks…so, I thought I’d share a little quirky quickie so you don’t COMPLETELY forget me  :wink:

A husband went to the police station to file a “missing person” report for his missing wife:

Husband : I lost my wife, she went shopping & hasn’t come back yet.

Inspector : What is her height?

Husband  : I never checked.

Inspector : Slim or healthy?

Husband  : Not slim, can be healthy.

Inspector : Color of eyes?

Husband  : Never noticed.

Inspector : Color of hair?

Husband  : Changes according to the season.

Inspector : What was she wearing?

Husband : Not sure whether it was a dress or a suit.

Inspector : Was she driving?

Husband : Yes.

Inspector : Tell me the number, name & color of the car?

Husband : Black Audi A8 with supercharged 3.0 litre V6 engine generating 333 horse power, teamed with an eight-speed tiptronic automatic transmission with manual mode.  And it has full LED headlights, which use light emitting diodes for all light functions and has a very thin scratch on the front left door.

(And then the husband started crying…)

Inspector: Don’t worry sirWe will find your car.



Hope you are all doin’ fine!

She Waits

She waits, as she always does, on the south side of the room
The same chair, straight, hard

The only softness is the faded paisley upon the seat
But that comfort is not for her
The oak warms in the sun

But remains cold and hard against her black skin
As she hangs on its back, waiting
For her special someone
To notice

The beams streaming through the door beside her
Unseen but felt
Tickling her, bathing her, tempting her

With promise

The promise of adventure
Oh how she wishes she had the wings of a bird

Like the one she paints
In the dark

From memory
She’d fly through that door
Out there

The sun, the clouds
Fire and rain
She misses them


She almost remembers
Diluted, like watercolor

She draws the lily as she remembers it

She can see it

A light spot in the dark
Of her memory’s eye

The myrtle that should be blooming by now
Longing to set her gaze on the ordinary
That she may set her sights to the extraordinary

This Is what she was born to do
Nothing else

But she has no control
Not over when, not over where
Hers is not to ask why
Hers is but to seek the truth when it is asked of her
Truth in beauty and the beauty in truth

This…is what she remembers…

This…is what she’s missing…

So she waits
As long as she is here
In the same room, on the same chair

She is blind
So she begs
“Uncover my face. Raise me up so that I may whisper in your ear
Be my wings so I can soar over field and stream
Capture the beauty of now
To keep with me for then
Our adventure is out there”

“Let me teach you to see the beautiful in the ugly” she pleads

“Let me show you the extraordinary ordinary” she whispers

She feels
Familiar hands, comforting hands
She’s flying, lifted and carried outside

It begins…today is the day
Eye open wide, taking it in

Capturing life as it happens
Not perfect…
Not posed…
Just life…

Nothing is too small

Tomorrow, she’ll wait again
But today…she flies
Today she is…


The Eye of the Human Storm

Today’s forecast
Pain with a chance of happiness
It hurts
Our first breath
Born in and out of
Our last breath
Born in and out of the fear of
Beginning to end
The human struggle to keep moving
Beyond the current pain so we may
Endure the next
To begin again
The circle, the cycle
Of life, of pain
To reach our destination
What is the point?
When one ends where one begins?
What is the point?
The middle
Is the point
To feel the heart beat
Of a lover
To hear the laughter
Of a child
To know the touch of another
The touch that completes
Our circle
Ones who will rejoice with us
And for us
And those who will mourn us
But more
That we were here
That we mattered
That we made the difference
That we closed a part of their own circle
And that they too
Closed a part of ours
To gather
At the end of the day
To hear the sounds of silence
The human sounds
We make without knowing
The sounds of love
And life
The middle
Those sounds our ears miss, dismiss
Or cannot decipher
But that our hearts hear
These are the sounds of silence
So loud we are compelled to
Struggle to keep moving
From one pain to another
For in the end
It is not the pain
We Remember
It is
Our circles have no true beginning
They meld
With our ending
We only have what is in
The middle
Today’s forecast
Pain with a chance of happiness
Take an umbrella if you must
Wear your raincoat
And wear your galoshes if you have to
Prepare more for getting swept
Into the middle
‘Cause that’s where life happens
In the middle
Never be afraid to get wet
Because we come into the world wet
And we leave the world wet
Put the fear aside
Go beyond the tropical storm of prologue
Fear not the hurricane of the epilogue
Walk into the wind
Get pummeled by the rain
Get to the eye
The middle
Where the calm allows us to hear
The human sounds of silence

The sounds of Love

For My Father

My First Love ~ My Only Hero


The Cup Runneth Over


As I anxiously await the next matches of the quarter finals, sending my silent plea to the footie gods for Kompany to kick ass and Messi to go home (he soooo good!), van Persie’s persistence outplaying Acosta, I can’t help wondering if I’m the norm when it comes to World Cup fans or if hanging in and routing teams NOT my own, is a rarity.

Of course I would have liked the USA to have kicked that same Belgian arse (1 minute of overage time? really?)
But we didn’t, so no use crying over spilt beer!

(Though HUGE props to Tim for an astounding performance in the cage!)

I like to think tournaments like the World Cup attract fans that hang in to the end…much like the Olympics…regardless of where their own countries finish. I think the host country’s fans have been a shining example of cheering the game for the game’s sake. Though the fact their team is still in it may have something to do with it, I do think they’ve been excellent hosts.

And as for me, I also feel this has been one of the best World Cups I’ve ever seen, with the caveat that the officiating has been rubbish!.
Even so, The Cup runneth over with surprise advances and superior substitutions

(not to mention ‘minutes and minutes’ of theatrical drama played out for our viewing pleasure ;)


So…for any of you still hanging in and routing on…enjoy the rest of the tourney.
If things continue as they have…it promises to be as good a final as there ever was.



David and Golliath – Thoughts on Independence

As we approach our nation’s day of independence, I had a thought or two that I’d like to share. In honor of all who fought, died, survived, and still fight so we may enjoy…our country’s ultimate day of freedom…Happy July 4th America
seventeen hundred and seventy six
this day in that year our fate we did fix

we rallied and warred and we bled the fields red
all for the right to our freedom instead

of the yolk from an empire determined we bow
to king and to country, the collective high brow

we started ignorant, starving, and poor
equipped with nothing but freedom’s allure

one hundred times two add to that thirty-eight
the years then to now, the days fate to fate

our beginnings were humble, and not always sainted
to think what we’ve done to the darker and painted

all we can strive for is continu-ed learning
to treat all as equals, we all have that yearning

for the freedoms hard fought and hard won from oppressors
it’s not up to us to now be the aggressors

but when those who still fight for the simplest of freedoms
can’t live and can’t love and can’t grow their own kingdoms

I will not say war is always the answer
but fight we should still against any agenda

that takes away rights to live free and live true
a war worth waging, battles must ensue

to live in a world that allows you to be
everything imagined, the power of we

I hate that our country is still fighting wars
but hate more would I if we sat on the shores

of our own piece of heaven, at the same time deny
the same to others who’d enjoy it but by

the happenstance of geography
but for that they’d be me

but for where I was born
I could easily live in a country that’s torn

should I feel guilty? should I feel blessed?
to one I’ll say no, to the other I’ll say yes

I won’t lay claim to guilt not my doing
but nor condone I, those who hope our ungluing

a believer am I of “get what you pay” for
but not when one has and the other is dirt poor

if you cannot fight for the basic of rights
then why should we feel bad for fighting their fight?

goliaths are bullies, and davids are smaller
but bigger’s just bigger, not better, just taller

the true winner wins when the heart is the weapon
big losers lose when they continually lessen

the right of the people, equality all
pride goeth ‘fore the mightiest fall

in honor of our freedom, in honor of our fight
a prayer I’ll say ‘fore this morning is night

may all who seek peace and all who seek freedom
know you’re not alone as long as we are one

nation of davids, scrappers are we
a nation of davids, who’ll fight ’til you’re free
Let Freedom Ring

One of those times…

Often times, with(out) rhyme or reason
I cook up a poem and sprinkle it with season

My words, just like the food that I cook
Can appear as one thing upon first look

Simple, country, amateur dishes
Like green eggs and ham or chips and fishes

But should you be willing to read ‘tween the lines
Or take the next bite, I hope you’ll find

Layers of meaning like layers of flavor
Words that surprise and tastes to savor

The nuance of herbs and hints of spice
The question I leave you with “naughty or nice?”

And, if you care to, witness you will
The care that I use to practice this skill

Whether gliding the pen ‘cross the paper’s bow
Or fondling keys, like I’m doing now

Salting or peppering, kneading or rolling
For grilling or frying, baking or boiling

My use of the pen or the knife does not matter
The result is the same whether poem or batter

I want you to love it and then ask for more
Not for the praise, not to keep score

I want to feed both, the mind and the belly
A creamy word-spread to go with hot jelly

It’s said all a good cook needs in the kitchen
Is to express love through food (and to feed dem dats bitchin’)

So what does it take to make a good poet?
A mind a bit quirky and not afraid to show it

Let’s cook


History Beats the Heat

Want a better way to

get off the street?

beat the heat?

spare the feet meat?

Do you like




Are you turned on by




Can you relate to



Romans and Africans?

Are you into

modern art?

classical art?

primitive art?

Do you want



or maybe prehistorical?

There is a way

to spend the day

with those that walked before us

That is to say

if you head that way

you just might spot a ‘saurus

Whatever you dig

or if digs are the fig

inside your personal ‘newton’

Then take a trip

aboard the ship

of the old masters, monsters, and Teutons

And as is my way

to share the day

maybe too my duty

To showcase one spot

that you’d otherwise not

experience the beauty

VMFA view

Of reeds so red

rising from the bed

with nary a thing shielding

In the Reeds

While waters dance

and winds advance

the fragile stand unyielding

Red Reeds and propellers

*Chihuly’s Glass Red Reeds at the Virginia Museum of Fine Art