a friendly creative spirit up in the eaves

A joke you told fell on
friendly ears, all
creative types who get your crazy free
spirit.
Up they soar, away with you.
In the end, I'd so much rather have a goofy artist husband
than some genius, hunkered like a paranoid owl, up in the dark
eaves.

Ashland in photos

We ran off to Ashland last year during spring break, and couldn't think of a good reason not to go back this year.  The flowering trees and milder climate are a relief from the wintry mix of Bend in March.  Here are a few of our favorite things...  I'll publish more when I figure out how to download photos from my phone!

Dinner at Gogi's in Jacksonville.  That's a local wine, and a beet and herbed chevre salad with a tasty fried basil leaf.

Flowers. everywhere!

The sign says, "Ashland Home for the Easily Amused".

Whew!  Glorious sky, and budding trees!

The next few were just fun for our eyeballs...

a romantic spectrum

I'm startled by how these 'vertical sentences' can evoke so much imagery.  Perhaps there's just enough structure to free me up.  Today sentences are album and song titles, taken in order from my electronic music library.

In that liminal moment, you stared at me
the heart of our relationship suddenly broken,
glass at our feet and in our fingers.
All I cared for had fallen away,
my carefully hung curtains hiding
doors I didn't know existed.
Any last thoughts of staying vanished, suddenly
given wings to fly.  Which
day is it, and how did we come to this?

****

Where we met, along the river,
the mud is thick.  Even the
internet can't penetrate.  Between our toes, the mud
cools us, we amble
downstream as the wind blows up.
Futuradio will see this walk as a
sweet throwback.

****

Say you'll bring me that strange green flower!
Hey - I bet the florist knows what it is.
I won't accept roses, or convention.  It's
got to be just us - a
love unlike any other, no bridesmaids, color-themed weddings, reception halls
for our wedding.  I knew that's what I wanted when I cast my lot with
you.

Home dreaming...

On our drive home from Portland, I took the Tumalo exit to our prospective new house, and pulled in the driveway as if we owned it.  Felt good to end our drive in a place with trees and sky, mountains in the distance - I could see it being a lovely place to arrive home.

The good to the last drop feeling.

That's what they tell me
the
good doesn't last, you must get used
to rolling with the tide, don't fight
the undertow. If I'm lucky, the
last thing I'll see is the sun sliding under with me, just a bright
drop in a vast ocean of
feeling.

I can't stick to treating my clients like meat.

I hate writing poetically about myself, I
can't abide my being on the page. I'd like to
stick my pen in my literary eye
to blind myself to myself, and restrict my
treatments to my
clients, the homeless junkies, anything exterior -
like the birds outside, little flying bits of
meat.

Go hungry so you will want to eat.

Go on now and touch the sacred stone.
Hungry for insight, or meaning
so depleted by everyone else,
you
will be filled again,
want for less, sit down
to
eat.

I'd been slapping massage treatments like Band-Aids onto clients...