winter woo

bourbon summer
scotch au fall
winter woo
from spring enthrall

season tempered
wonder's quell
scent apricot
taste caramel
on which we dwell
inspire swell (another shot?)
not posit tremor fell

what of words
exchange of tales
stories shared
of life travails?

ideas paired
like cheese and drink
with whiskey company
to sync encourage kosher
dialogue distinct
imbibe platonic think
and more?

where back and forth we two
in perfect measure drew
a universe of answers
neither knew before nor
could eschew once drunk
with notion’s roux
and your adore

what of wry
enlightened pour
of palate opened
mind implored?

clink imbued
with winter due
conference stirred
and chaser queued?

may toddy now ensue?

seabird dream

Waves pound gently steady at my door; they too are powerless charmed crash beat against the shore.

Lapping steady steady minding moon as all we are and moved to rhythm known or deeper far inherently intoned.

Powerless, yes, to steady heartbeat lapping moon beat tempering all to seabird dream — she knowing too what always we forget: all wisdom in the string.

And finally cool air follows too to bring the drifting breeze at last and newness settles silent all my worries, stirs, and coos.

Cool air indeed rides mentor wave reprieve to brave wherever arc should carry crave or heed them tandem to my door, they whisper minder silent save for whoosh or woo.

They tell us lapping rhythm score rapport is more than worries can implore. The world is safe tonight all safe is safe restore for seabird string l’amour.

bits from provincetown summer

David Eddy:
Seabird with String

Each year I wander my favorite galleries and artists, breathing in people and paintings I know and I don’t and it is one of my favorite things to do. The learning hardly sticks but I like it anyway learning for the moment who is who and who I like and why and who might make it home with me one day. History is rich here with painters and painting and writers and stories; so much depth always moves me is why I come year after year upon year.

Browsing who’s where and who’s n’er, a name jumps out — Ellen Sinel — of Ellen and Norman whom I sat for in high school; then hip, young couple I liked and admired. She an artist, he a lawyer; Josh was four and Natasha just born; I remember their kindness to me in a difficult time. Remarkable universe cycling around, just three weeks before they had written themselves into a story — the story of What I Remember. More of note, she is showing at Wohlfarth Galleries just right across from my wharf and cottage, so I make point and intention to saunter in see if indeed it is she who I knew some forty years ago. It is. Serendipity smiles as I talk with the owner of time and acquaintance and yes she (Lavinia) knows Ellen and Norman and also from DC where she has another gallery. Scanning quickly I find no Wohlfarths in memory or past. I am crouched with Ellen’s book looking reading her listings her notices over years and with pride and Please sit and be comfortable, Lavinia nods me to a nearby chair. She sits smiling across as we talk of DC and the past and of Ellen and Norman she offers to pass on a note if I like which I do. She thinks Ellen will be pleased to hear from me but I know all is not always so simple. I learn they still live in DC and summer in Truro for 8 or 9 years she thinks. The memories come gently and firmer a smile on my face, firmer a knowing of poignancy firmly in the world. Learn too that Lavinia owns also the house across next to my wharf, so yet another connection may be made. Later I hear she's called Vinnie.

Still smiling I stop by Julie Heller East next to Angel Foods check the new gallery what’s new and to talk with Katrina who’s fun and I like though she does not remember me. Remind her of the Peter Cameron still life I bought which I love and how Julie helped me learn what I love and why. She is excited now showing me Peter Cameron lot and takes my contact to send pics which she does. We also talk of David Eddy who I just saw at Gosnold Street — just learned of walked in on the show. We talk of his story 25 years a roofer till his diamond was spotted now several years a painter followed and enjoyed. I tell her I already enjoy and which painting I may consider. She jots notes to send pictures of Eddy as well which she does. Is called Seabird with String and I know I will go back to look more and consider what the seabird has to say.

hope folded small

what to give that will not clutter will not mar inspire utter scorn or tarnish glean in spaces emptied now and clean?

what to offer that sustains yet not too long or stains too strong prolongs the pain of holding tight too much the past you cannot bear or everlast the sight?

maybe bits of moments torn like paper fit to size and worn could be enough not fluff but stuff we made together then in fairer weather maybe can suffice as christmas wishes twice as nice.

maybe hope all folded small in scraps will give the dawn recall another hue like light or wonder new not jaded blue that even christmas cannot woo.

in case it’s true i offer you these bits to hold unfold or lose reuse like moments crumpled in the wash but smoothed when dry with caution wry and eased by rhyme by kindness breath and time.

if words could soothe

If words could soothe the thing that stings that throat that totes that ache that takes you out of sorts distorts the heaven mostly you exhort, I’d find remark exact embark to mark your path to wellness fell your dark in turn return your spark.

But lo we know it’s not canto what pours restores implores rigour delightful soar of yours.

We know is nature’s course of course not fond discourse nor force nor self-enhanced remorse will revivify your sigh (magnificent oh-my) your tender smart decry on which I deferentially rely.

But.

Were words a salve for ailments slight or cold, I’d poem bold expound cajole a litany untold of paragraphs paroled to mollify whatever sniffle cough or ache could likely be extolled by impudence unfold.

Were comfort doled by nouns’ foretold, I’d steep tremendous pot of steaming exposition told, pile syntax uncontrolled, shore utterance and comment by your door, and ever-pray for cure, rapport, and more.

tempering demons

Sometimes I can't remember who I am. Sometimes morning places strange unfamiliar floor beneath — cool wood teasing groggy feet with tales and secrets I no longer understand. Planks in language I once knew but have now forgotten. The lists in front of me mock my hope with hidden meanings — lines between the lines — making work to sort the simple one thing then the next. Demons dance in folly sunbeams needing extra blink to persevere their giggling from my ears.

Thank goodness for birds.

news from the sofa

I could get used to this life of leisure. If I am fortunate enough to sustain myself without compromising the sense of well-being that is beginning to be restored to me, I will certainly die happy whenever is my time. I know it's not possible that the air is actually fresher than any fall in recent memory, but my nose is interpreting it as such, smelling joy in the crisp dampness as if it were her first autumn. Morning drive sans rush hour traffic is a new experience, delivering me to my first destination sans stress, in full retaining of the hopefulness the first air introduced. A small miracle. Noon came much more quickly than I'm used to (helped largely by my later rising no doubt) so lunch came sooner as well; how interesting. Available parking in Harvard Square chose the neighborhood; promise of warm tea and egg drop soup chose the venue. What a luscious treat to move in the world without deadlines. Reading took me to more reading; browsing at the Coop offered me Ideas as a perfect dessert (Surprisingly better than chocolate today.) Ideas such reliable breeders and seeking like kind take me to the beautiful Cambridge Public Library where cousin Inspiration likes to hang out. Hanging with double-I's found me books to add to my reading list, and DVDs to bring home:

• Chet Baker Live in Belgium 1964 & Norway 1979
• Sarah Vaughan Live in Sweden 1958 & 1964
• My Voyage to Italy - Martin Scorsese's documentary on the influence of Italian cinema on his life/work
• The L Word - complete 4th season (not that I've seen any of the other seasons....)

Happy Tuesday.