Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Saturday, December 31, 2011

To the Studio

To the studio I make my way,
To write on shards, some poetry.
What is art but stopping time?
My heart's in bottles, plates and rhyme.

Friday, December 30, 2011

Mars and Venus

Impetuous Mars fought with Iron,
A love of Venus that would not tire.
Venus drank from her copper bowl,
The blood from Mars' Warrior Soul.

Thursday, December 29, 2011


One strategy for a monumental poem.
Might edit out the sentiment.
Strategy two, write what is known,
Does truth say what you meant?
Strategy three, are these words free?
If not, don't bother with strategies.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011


Saturn showered works of Man
     on Mercury's five-petaled Flower,
Venus healed the wounds of Christ,
     with Psalms to Jupiter's Tower.
Mars aspired to join Islam,
  a minaret might take him higher.
The Sun gave away one Lunar day,
    And made it rain in Fire.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Across the Dark

     Across the darkness two black coals
     Sent sparks out to avoid the world.
     Each glow made bright both sky and earth,
     Like love they nurtured, darkness first.

Sunday, December 25, 2011


Storms might dark the earth,
Rains might soak the sea,
Some might even doubt their worth,
And ask, Why now? Why me?

Friday, December 16, 2011

Eye and Ear

  Enough of this rhyming poetry,
  I'm tired of the rhymes I hear.
  Time instead I wrote for my eye,
  And not composed for my ear.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Faraway Pond

On the top of a faraway mountain
There's a drop to a faraway pond.
Some say it's a magic fountain,
That flows like a phantasm of God.
I've hiked to this spring many times,
Swum in its waters cold.
I wonder now if the water or the climb,
Could keep one from getting old.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Shingle Shanty

I floated the Shingle Shanty, a river through my mind,
I never thought of landing, though the banks were soft and kind.
I just laid back and drifted, and let the water carry me through,
In a lake my stream did end, so my paddling started new.

Tube for Sasquatch

I gave a tube of Shoepatch to a Sasquatch that I knew,
It wasn't for any rubber shoes, I knew he had none to glue.
He put it on his inner tube, that he used for floating through,
The wild Wasatch waters, with their foamy rapids blue.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Higgs Boson II

Out in Magnetic Space-Time, in a Field of bumpy Molts,
The Mother of All Matter got whacked, by Trillions of Electron Volts.
With two such model Bosons, could Space-Time possibly be flawed?
Two magnitudes a Proton, she comes and goes a God.

Higgs Bosun I

Lady V Part III

Irritator and Afrovenator, (who both by now are fossils)
Accompanied a lovely Velociraptress, to distant faraway Russia.
Lady V escaped to Eqypt, where she eloped with Isisaurus.
There got hitched by Elopteryx, who always had worshipped Horus.

When Doctor T-Rex offerred Lady V, an Isisaurian head,
That's probably why her baby Theropoda, ended up so dead.
Our widow Velociraptress devoted final years to arts,
She met her end with two Brontosauri - they died while lighting farts.

You'll be overjoyed and elated, this poem ends in mirth,
Shortly later an asteroid, collided with Planet Earth!


The Riojasaur Club

Meet the scaly Drinkers at the Riojasaur Club,
Where all the healthy Spinosaurs, enjoy full-scale body rubs
Here Mami Stegosaur levies Dino-era rates,
Charging clients extra, to take off spiny plates.

Lovely Lady Velociraptress, gives away free lap-dances,
To three naked Erectopi, who're taking big life chances.
Big Triceratops was a rocker, who could out-rock a Magnosaurus,
His Dongbeititan rocked the crop of them, the club broke out in chorus.

Iguanodon was screaming, at Triceratops' granite block,
The Riojasaurs sang a rhyme for them, a Priconodonian rock!
"Get dressed!" Iquanodon demanded of her horny lover,
I'm worried that Poposaurus might actually come on over!

Poposaurus brought Afrovenator who had a lot of muscle,
Like Irritator and Achillobator . . . they all by now are fossils.


Triceratops was a horned lizard,
A tri-horned lizard was he.
His illustrious cock got made of rock,
And is adored in Tennessee.
Musicologists know he played banjo,
And also strummed the fiddle.
His partner's tail was found stuck in shale,
With his bow done up her middle.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Triceratops and Iquanodon

"Epanterias are dubious, shall we keep your Epanterias on?
 So asked bony Triceratops of tiny Iquanodon.
"My stoner will be bigger if you leave Epanterias on,
"But a Triceratops is hornier, once Epanterias come down!"
 Thus old Triceratops got Iquanodon's Epanterias off.
 Even though Iquanodon preferred her Epanterias on.

The Door

Reason lights up rafters high,
Instinct sounds the floor,
Poetry's a key that opens wide,
The door to Metaphor.

Outside Us

  Which of the piles of ice and snow,
  That shine in the dark outside us,
  Will set afire and put aglow,
  The divine spark that lies inside us.


The common male bedbug,
Has a prick as sharp as a knife,
Since the female has no vulva,
What's it's like to be a bedbug wife? 1.

NOTE 1: Traumatic Insemination is the technical term,
                For describing the insertion of bedbug sperm. 
                Before foreplay gets made, she asks him coyly,
                "I really do miss your blade, I really need it sorely!"]

Image courtesy: Adam Cuerden

Garter Snakes

A sexy little garter snake,
With skin as soft as felt,
Broke the thing off her garter mate,
To keep as a chastity belt. 1.

[ NOTE 1: The velvety little Garter Snake actually carries a poisonous bite,
                Yet fails to deliver much venom, her fangs are stuck way inside.
                Her cousin the Red-Sided Garter, engages in ritual orgy,
                Men all come to try their pens, and take chances writing poetry.
                This poem does mention the particular convention, of a species that has two pricks. 
                One is a spare, to put somewhere, the other is for mortar and bricks.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

The Praying Mantis

As a Praying Mantis man, I keep a Fantasy,
I plan to grab your Mantis tail, then to sleep with Thee.
Yet as a Mantis male, I know reality,
I'd lose my Mantis head for good, if ever I bedded Thee.

Now my Mantis Wife, once she promised Me,
I'd lose my Mantis head for life, if instead I lie with Thee.
For me her Mantis Spouse, no good comes for Free,
I gave my Wife a Louse for food, but kept my head for Me.

So my Wife's Mantis clan, drew up plans for me,
They saw me as her Mantis fan, to pray and fawn for free,
I'd lose my Mantis head in bed, for infidelity,
I'd live and die then go to Hell, all for loving Thee.

To my Mantis Lord I prayed, "Fulfill my dying Wish:
"Rather than be Mantis-gored,  I'll take your burning Bush."
Then my Mantis Lord, spoke back to me, this is what He said:
"Just sit back and enjoy your life, as you sacrifice your Head."

So my Mantis Lad, inside my Mantis Soul,
Keeps me really Mantis-bad, outside my Praying Door.
By such Mantis acts I'm spared, my Mantis Head for Life,
I live for prayer and die for Thee, my Praying Mantis Wife.

[Note: The Praying Mantis, is a large carnivorous insect with a reputation for ferocity and strength. 
The female Mantis normally eats the male's head, moments after he copulates. Some males manage to escape - most do not.]

Thursday, December 1, 2011

For Natalia

I scramble a verse for young Natalia,
Who comes from a place in faraway Russia,
She serves at a joint called Camaraderie,
Orange Juice and Egg Yolks Benedict,
to the folks of Long Island City.
This Natalia is tall and slim,
A classic face, with hair that's thin,
Broad shoulders and fine blonde tresses,
Shall I serve wine to Natalia on soft mattresses?

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

I'm Just the One

I’m the one you called,
Please do drop that aire.
You’ve been around me buzzing,
I see you everywhere.

I see through you always,
Through me you go to her this way.
So remember when you're calling,
You reach through me . . . from Here to There.

What Leads?

What leads, changes and whispers,
sacrifices she reckons I'll autograph.
Inscribe a figure, encrypt a cipher.
You wonder what on earth's the code.
Keep wondering, earthly beings will never know,
How this universe can be shown,
Which figures to engrave, what ciphers to compute.
You may inscribe a figure, encrypt an epithet,
In your grave you write your ode,
before she takes faith my word,
matter will be interred.
Before her language is fully calculated,
your curiosity will be more than sated.
Don't waste a second,
The puzzles of dreams, must all be reckoned.

You Sit to Write

You keep books, know permanence,
good grammar, logic, common sense.
As a broker gather chips,
and from the pieces, build your ships.

And one day you sat to write,
You saw what backed those eyes.
It went through you, right then right there.
Got caught off guard, by the saddest stare.

She gives you peace?
Dances like Michael, paints?
Cooks, writes poetry, sometimes faints.
Maybe you just aren't through,
Could she have a hold on you?

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Duck Pate

 In Marseilles I met Perrine,
 Who made a lunch of fresh terrine.
 The pate seemed a trifle crude,
"Do tell Perrine, about good French food.

 "Our masculine cuisine does love that stench.
 "Are English men so different than French?
"Yes the English take their pheasant rotten,
 "While the French eat birds, just freshly gotten."

Thanksgiving 2011


Mediterranean Olives, Various Colors and Flavors in their own oil

Potato and Pea Samosas with Tamarind

Le Plats Principal:

Brine Roasted American Turkey with Sea Salt, Celery, Apple, Turkish Dried-Apple Tea, Fennel, Juniper Berries

Les Legumes:

Tangy Cranberry Sauce with Orange Peel
Cranberry Sauce with Chipotle
Cranberry Sauce with Jalapeño
Wild Rice with Chestnuts and Dates
Sautéed Broccoli Rabe with Olives
Parsnip Puree with Hazelnuts
Roasted Sweet Potatoes with Cinnamon
Crisp Roasted Golden Potatoes with Native Sage
Garden Zucchini-rice Casserole with Parmesan
Roasted Portobello Mushrooms with Oak Forest Truffles
Bobbies sweet and sour Chutney

Le Salad:

Watercress and Pear Salad with Honey-Glazed Walnuts


Dorrie's holiday Bundt cake w/Pumpkin, Apples Cranberries and Pecans
Bobbie's Chocolate-Maple Pecan Pie
Bobbie's Pear-Apple Mystery Creation
Beinecke Carrot Cake with Indigestion
Georgia Pecan Pie with Ice Cream

Les Vins:

from les caves of J.W.P.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Dancing Girl

On a bench in a dancing hall,
I met a girl, from Montréal.
She could sing, but could not dance,
So she sang of Paris, France.
Duck pate, she said was rude,
But most French food, is generally good.


Rue Frontenac, in Montreal,
I bought a snack of chanterelles.
J'ai vu une fille, she looked a Queen,
I invited her for coffee, son nom, Ondine.

Arrêt à Frontenac, Sud Montréal,
Ate liver pâté, avec fresh girolles.
J'ai cherche ma Reine, au rez-de-chaussée,
Après, j'ai pris, un petit café.

Nous avons rencontré, une fois de Québec City,
Au Château Frontenac, qui inspire cette ditty.
Elle m'a offert la plus audace Terrine,
Et elle me dit alors,  "Mon nom est Justine."

Chez du Maison Frontenac, à Montréal,
J'ai mange un plat, avec mushrooms alors,
Je cherche ma Reine, à côté du ground floor,
Et après, j'ai pris, un café, dehors.

Encore une fois, nous avons mis à Québec,
L'inspiration pour cette chanson, Chateau Frontenac.
Plus audacieuse, elle m'a donné plus de terrine,
Alas, then she told me, her name was Perrine.

Return via Frontenac, Rue Ontario,
Again I ate plates, of fresh chanterelles.
J'ai trouvé Ondine, sur le terrain-sol,
On a bu deux cafés, après ces girolles.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

What do we Mean?

Wind swirls coals 'round my fire,
Lashes hold, a loosened pupil,
Burning embers, a red snake eye.
In the center, a cyclone flies,

Red flames lick a water torrent.
Deep frozen, savage, turbulent.
From the bottom source of pain,
Rayant, stars, are emanating.

What do we say when we say a thing?
Do we not exercise, a means of praying?

The Print Empire

What genius from the Greek PM,
Threatens geeks with a referendum.
Papandreou’s politics cannot lose,
The populace got the one they choose.

A body's just ash, words can't compute.
   Items for cash, are less to transmute,
Silver can be faked, but tarnishes more,
  Gold remains sacred, an immoveable door.

My chosen destination’s Galaxy forty-four fourteen!
    But I'll have to be frozen, it's parsecs nineteen.
A long way to travel, to seek fortune and fate,
    Traveling at light speed, a sixty-million year wait!

What democratic tool makes for Republican fun,
Targets those ghouls with a memory-lapse gun?
Whose blind spot will likely be next?
Blast at Mitt Romney, he's finally hexed.

Old Mitt Romney fell in the mud,
Our American family all knew he would.

"Was it a Bush, if so which one?
Who got us in Libya, or Afghanistan."
McCain's got a bug and can't remember,
Who did what, since last November.

Swallow burdock as media medicine.
Follow Murdoch, then barf to jettison!

Emperor Silvio dreads a high rate bond.
His Fates reveal a dead Euro, conned.

The bears are coming to Italy,
To gore Berlusconi finally.

What print empire can fuss and strut,
conspire, sin, say 'sorry' in smut.
What karma's in prying private lives,
And comes to haunt even Murdoch's lies.

Commons is to Murdoch as blank is to bored.
Amens are encouraged since he won't be made Lord.

You thought it funny, who threw that foam pie?
Follow the money, and ask yourself, "For whom?" and "Why?'

Mind is craved by Soul, as water likes a bowl.
Soul gives thoughts to Mind, as coal gives watts to Light.

Bad karma keeps on stacking - the PM met NewsCorp on hacking,
26 appointments w/ Murdoch execs, Money does wonders, but can't get respect.

If Jabba the Hut was really King Tut, and Rupert was not a vulture,
The case would be shut, the PM's a slut, and smut, is really just culture!

Raj or Empire, matters not which.
With claws and fire, the Other's a witch!

Sorting socks by color's easy, folding bras will make me queasy.
A panty in hand will make me stand, but bluejeans keep me needy!

On a grey ocean, I was struck by the notion,
   to look for the almighty One.
Way overhead, dark clouds of Lead,
   made space for the blighted Sun.

As I do my yoga, I invoke my symmetry,
I'm read to by my Ogre, in lines of poetry.

Once a father-earner, I did my passive duty,
Now I'm a Nevada-burner, all for sin and booty!

I awake to the stink of avarice,
That shakes at the brink of a precipice.

If it meows or gives milk, it might be a cat,
But if it's a cow or makes silk, it might be a rat.

None of these creatures are found in a park,
One of their features is they glow in the dark!

Lee and Katia so yearn to compete,
Two grizzly bears at the edge of a creek.

Lee the old male, is slow moving and lean,
Katia the lassie is faster, but mean.

What's shows on stage are often just tears,
Thus flows the wage, of softened fears.

When Mother Nature disappoints,
   break out liquor, lite up joints!
Then if Irene is truly fierce,
   grab a Suzy, whoever's nearest!

Noble warriors with beards of grey,
Gave sober memories of that day.

Anders Breivik believed 'Braverie's Kind',
Murderous anagrams dream 'Riverbanks Die'?

If right-wing politics was what he meant,
What terrifying sickness, killing innocents.

When I feel I’m love deprived,
Like a bad trip when on acid.
It'll gets me high to think of your thighs,
And suddenly all gets placid.

A mightier risk than a terrorist bomb,
Is the threat to society from triple A bonds.

Let's chalk up what's going on,
BSkyB talked with Cameron . . .
It's absurd! Did he use his desk?
To help the Murdochs, buy the rest?

Time for medicine, we should all swallow burdock,
It may even work, if we throw up on Murdoch!

What indeed does Murdoch fear?
He turned eighty, could play King Lear.
James the son, his ego's host,
Made a run with his father's ghost.

The audacity of money,
   wherever it roams,
Publicity can be shaving cream,
   from a foam-pie thrown.

This planet's getting so damm hot,
If someone fanned, it would help a lot.

What a gorgeous gift the Sun.
Seduces women,  . . . gets their clothes undone.

The Met chief falls upon his sword,
Should we take the PM at his word?

If not business, what was talked,
In back-door meets and Chequers' walks?

Every fight every scandal has a teflon Don,
So we all light a candle for PM Cameron.

One's a cream, that comes with meringue,
   the other's the dream of the Tea Party gang.

Millions in severance, not fingering her bosses,
Brooks booked by the Met, to control their own losses.

Should the PM pay the price,
   getting infected by these lice?
If NewsCorp's disbanded, or ultimately sold,
 . . . maybe the PM will one day get old!

Dig under Fleet Street, dig up the Yard!
There's a stink from 10 Downing,  . . . they need to get tarred.

A mockery of smut degrades what it touches,
Makes democracy a slut to whatever she hushes.

It's time to awake to a gale of corruption,
The NewsCorp scandal is a full scale eruption!

What prime assets does NewsCorp own?
Scotland Yard helped hack Brit phones,
PM Cameron, Blair and Bush.
Victim's solicitors, paid to hush.

Has NewsCorp paid for its hacking caper?
Sacking execs and closing a paper?

Who hacked the phones of the 9/11 victims?
That's the worry of our legal system.
Did the FBI currie its books,
After the sacking of Rebekah Brooks.

Afula Tikva Arad Acre,
Haifa Givem Baqa
Jat Beta Tel Aviv of Karmiel
Reprieve Jerusalem and Gaza.

NASA's a pawn in the budget muddle,
Magic gone, no more space shuttle.
Astride her boosters white with light,
Atlantis took her final flight.

Victim phones by News Corp hacked,
Sittin' clones of Murdoch sacked.
Cops bribed, funded prime ministers,
Until it stops, decidedly sinister.

Is Facebook by Google doomed?
Two social networks in one room?

How those News Corp hacks abound,
What goes around, backs Cameron.

We tried, 'twas never quite dark enough,
Oh to make love, inside of a parking lot.

Liars of the World will close their paper,
No buyers of news for a phone-hacking caper.

What allegations come from Fox
On July 4th our President mocked,
Not an error, if you know that station,
Not from hacking, or automation.

I drove out west,
And crossed the Mississippi.
On a westward quest,
The effect was kind of Trimpey.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Bedecked with Diamonds

A sutra inquires of my Queen of Hearts,
 . . . Whose mudra inspires my writing arts?

A mudra made for my Queen of Light,
 . . . to dance with Rudra, her King, all night.

What cries and claws, but doesn't hurt,
A fuzzy lover, who makes you work.

A message sent a fire stoking,
What is meant, by all this poking?

I had friends who learned to fly, but when they talked, began to die,
They muttered aloud then heard a call, fluttered about, and began to fall.

When you're painted red as wrath,
Be sainted by my tea-water bath.

She never loved, though I thought she might,
A string of fights all day all night.
She kept my pearls, said not a word.
I lost my girl, my memory blurred.
I shook with fright but never winced.
She's not replied from that day since.

Baked Alaska's cold 'n hot,
What late candidate's bold but not?

One's is cream, that comes with meringue,
The other's the dream of the Tea Party gang.

The road to the Presidency attracts our very best,
Hairpiece from the East, brains from scary West.

Love that Buddha, worship that hawk!
The dove he's true to makes me gawk.

That jade gremlin? I'm not tremblin!
He's got no belly, it's made of jelly.

It's not about Raptors or what fate might be real,
Is about rupture of ties, with the State of Israel.

Water brings pain, from a tyrant above,
He's not stopped the rain, and seems tired of love.

Take all you've assumed, and all you hold dear,
Assume it's all doomed by your innermost fear.

Break out your shovels, take out some seed,
Plant a line of sweet clover, and stand by to weed.

Bedecked with diamonds, collared by pearls,
I'm just rhyming, because I like them curls!

Bernd and I we like the crow, Bert and I's from Down East though.
Birds in Brooklyn? - there are lots! Sparrows, Falcons, Triceratops.

In the air, on the ground,
A hawk will stalk, without a sound!

A Pharaoh with a Harem and a scarab ring,
Dreads the power of the net and the Arab spring.

Ces cerveaux ne sont pas faibles,
On veut manger de ce pain sur table!

Des grandes penses, ils sont mieux,
Je veux dancer avec les deux!

When I talk to her, she's sweet to me,
When she balks at words, eat a Parle G!

If the Higgs Boson, had the inclination to think,
One might read of quantums, written in Higgins ink.

Chartreuse eggs? I like the color.
The question begs: 'Who's the mother?'

I glazed and loaded ninety-nine bowls,
In two weeks time the kiln will be cold,
Then all of these bowls will want tea,  . . . to be souled.

You're messin' with me, and I'm missin' you.
Let's wait patiently, till our moment comes through.

What adds but cannot think, then ferments a lot to a hearty drink.
Inspires a notion of a force unseen, sits between me and what you're seeing?

On motion'd feet I carry all Speech, For when you eat, I cannot Speak.
An Ocean tide, I sally forth. All your Life, and when you Goeth.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Tea-bowl for Nicale, #13, "The Inflammation Cup"

    "Cousin Nicale learned knees are fickle,
     Since early man, became bipedal.
     Here's my prescription, my five cents,
     To cure that knee's torn ligaments -
     Find a worn buffalo nickel,
     and tape it to the knee that's fickle.
     Feel that cold metal edge,

     Boldly heal your cartilage.
     As that noble nickel chief,
     Begins to offer some relief,
     What breaks a leg to make it bend,
     yet seems to wake before it mends?
     Think of bison, just as tough,
     How cures are feeble without light or love.
     In Japan you'll find fine healing teas,
     Cool green medicine, to calm misery.
     A chieftain meditates, in bright majesty,
     He imagines light, . . .  passing thru that knee."

My wife's knee was ailing the on the 13th day of my 36 tea-bowl project. She slowed down a bit. She rested, meditated, and did the exercises the doctor prescribed. Her knee has recovered.

However no-one answered the appeal to claim this tea-bowl. I wrote a quatrain and a blog piece for it, about inflammation, and fire:

     "Her knee's inflamed, she lies in bed,
      Some tears of pain, it's turned bright red,
      Where tantra acts the night is clear,
      Reflects back what light is near."

Like this bowl, inflames.

Fire is a universal mythological symbol of transformation. Dreams of fire foretell changes in the psyche, usually for the positive.

Fire purifies.

Fire heals dead forests. Our Department of the Interior is crazily biased against forest fires. Fire-fighting policies have been carried out for so many years, that many of our national forests are just festering accumulations of natural resins waiting to burst into flames.

Naturalists will tell you that conifer and desert thorn forests require fire to seed, and replenish the nutrients in their sandy soils. Putting such fires off intensifies the heat when they finally do occur. Essentially the soil becomes exhausted, all the nutrients having turned to resinous exudes of the branches and leaves. Fire restores the nutrients to the forest floor.

Why does nature work this way in sand or gravel rich soils? Simple. To keep nutrients at the soil surface where they may be available for new growth and to lock natural fertilizers in a form unlikely to wash away when it rains. 

When fires do spark in places where fires have been put off, such as in Arizona earlier this summer, they burn way too hot, and out of control, at much higher temperatures. Trees instead of being singed, die. Healthy fires will just singe the bark, and actually help long dormant seeds to germinate. Certain species of pine cannot even drop their cones unless a fire burns at the base of the trunk. The fire enriches the soil with a mineral wealth contained in ash. The same minerals that bring color to my pots also sustain life. Interfering with natural fires interferes with the natural recycling of soil nutrients.

Fire-repression policies are not likely to stop. Western mythology is conditioned to cast natural forces as evil.  We fight fire and flood with biblical determination, wasting billions on levees, and and aircraft that drop hazardous chemicals. Yet fires and floods cannot be prevented, and by now we should have learned that when they do occur, they are more fierce.

The forces of nature are only controlled through encouragement. Our greatest mistake, and one which we are all paying for dearly, has been the cutting of trees across the continent. This caused our soil layers to erode by as much as 90% in vast areas of the once fertile west and midwest. The soil absorbs moisture, and holds it, preventing a rapid runoff. This is the true cause of flooding.

Loosened soils play into the hand of dust storms. Bare soil heats up and brings on tornados.

Perhaps we ourselves are the truly damaging fire, the great flood. The human scourge.

Are we not waiting for our species to take a page of wisdom from the natural world that created us?

A great irony is that forest fires bring landfall profits to timber companies which invade national forest preserves to remove dead timber, which is still salable as lower grade lumber products. A policy that pretends to care about the great forests, makes sure that first-growth giants may still be cut and sold, even at reduced value.

That was months ago. . . and now, we've received word that my cousin Nicale Wunderlich, has seriously injured his knee at a soccer match in Japan. My wife's knee has since recovered, so we've decided to give this bowl to Nicale. 


Most medicine combats imbalance by applying the opposite. Cool a fever, stay warm with a cold.

Sometimes the other approach is called for. Homeopathy for instance indicates irritants to cure an irritation, an inflammatory to combat inflammation.

My approach is to use image, visual or poetic, to guide light within an individual. By calling this cup, "The Inflammation Cup" I'm essentially saying, 'the inflammation is here', not in your knee.

'Drink the blood of your enemies' would be a negative application of this principle, but the positive is be to drink a symbol of the thing that bothers. Drink your inflammation, as tea. Drink the number 13 as the bitter medicine that life holds store for all of us,  since some deals in life we must accept. Acceptance is the first part of healing.

Suggestion is the second part. Without the light of what is possible, nothing is possible. The runner imagines himself running. He imagines himself accelerating up that hill. Without the light of imagination nothing would go anywhere. Light precedes all change, all growth.

Nicale's father is a professional healer who is doing all he can to help his son. He sent out a very real prayer to everyone in the family, asking for contributions of love. Here's mine.

Healing requires light, to guide its power. No healing efforts made solely by hospitals, or doctors or pills, can work without light or love, since these guide all energy, all growth and regrowth.

So as a cousin I say to Nicale, "Think like a buffalo. Imagine a native of those Great Plains, bounding to the back of his horse in one leap. Think strong like the native prairie bluestem grass that grows seven feet tall. Think like the majesty of our great earth, and your knee will be restored to you.

It is worth noting the similarity between Nicale's name and the word 'nickel'. Paradoxically the reverse face of the Indian Head Nickel, or Buffalo Nickel, underwent several iterations:

"A well-known variety in the series is the 1937–D "three-legged" nickel, on which one of the buffalo's legs is missing. Breen relates that this variety was caused by a pressman, Mr. Young, who in seeking to remove marks from a reverse die (caused by the dies making contact with each other), accidentally removed or greatly weakened one of the animal's legs." [Wikipedia]

Healing follows light. Light follows image, and image follows sound.

So all prayers are healing, and all prayers, guide light. Remember your last name Nicale - use your light to heal.

Remember the strength of your uncle, who lost his leg, but saved a soul from drowning just months after his accident.

We'll have a cup of tea at Brandreth, when you return.


  123,  4,  5,  6

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

I Set Across

I set across the sky one night,
Carried darkness in my bag,
To set it free, I searched for light,
Bearing fire, bearing slag.

Out in that cursed dark,
I opened up my wounded heart.
And sat, waiting for rhymes to start,
Hoping in time, my slag might drop.

When it chimed, hurts went away.
But time stayed on, it was here to stay.
I got up, moved on, but forgot that bag,
Where in darkness lies that slag.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Occam's Razor and Little Green Men

To build the transmitter Andrea needed two lasers and a pair of small diamonds. I imagined she wanted me to fund construction, better yet, take her to Tiffany's.

But no, she did not ask me to fund research. This was a project she was working on slowly. The diamonds she needed were inexpensive, even the smallest industrial diamonds would do.

That evening Andrea told me she had been abducted by aliens, as a child, and taken to a planet near Alpha Centauri somewhere, in a dusty corner of our galaxy. She met the inhabitants, and lived with them for two years. She needed the diamonds to build a device to signal home.

Andrea was really out there. I decided to suspend disbelief, and went along.

She told me details of her life there. The food, the 'people', the beings, the way they moved about on their planet's surface. How we were being studied by them. Ownership, leadership, the kind of society, how many digits did the greys have?

"Three fingers and a thumb."

Aliens have studied us for thousands of years she said.

Andrea spoke like a scientist.

"All natural phenomena are defined by knowledge, and once knowledge becomes a frequency we can dial into the mind of the knower at any time. Just as we live off cycles of moon, sun and earth, something else lives off the modulations within us."

"Like anthropologists studying primates in Africa, there are other species that study us."

They brought her back to Earth. She was ten years old. But according to Andrea her Earth parents denied she was their daughter. She spent a year shuttled about family service agencies, then was adopted by an elder couple from New Jersey. Andrea wondered why they had bothered. Her work here on Earth was finished. She wanted to be picked up by her Alpha Centurion family, and taken home.

They were different from Earthlings, a good bit smaller in stature, more intelligent, less emotional. Andrea's people were green. They lived on a planet which she called X. The 'people' on a neighboring planet, which she called Y, were grey. Andrea said that the aliens that visited New Mexico so many times in the past were grey.

The greens had emotions, but their emotionality was a multidimensional event and difficult to describe to an earthling. The greys were plain nasty, according to Andrea - they frightened her.

"They don't have feelings in the manner of most people."

I had responded to Andrea's ad for an artist's model. She laid naked as an extra-terrestrial on a bed of white paper while I made drawings of her in dark ink. She was simply built, and possessed a head of brilliant dyed blond hair. Andrea is in her late twenties. She has Oriental features, and from a distance resembles Deborah Harry.

I wondered to myself, could Andrea's story be a fiction, unconsciously invented to assuage the pain of loneliness while growing up? An Asian girl adopted into a Caucasian New Jersey family might have issues, particularly if the adopted parents were particularly insensitive.

I asked her about the first time she had seen these people. She had been awakened at night, and carried onto the alien ship. "Huge," she said, "but it never really landed. It just hovered." There were some things she couldn't remember. I was fascinated by the rich detail of Andrea's descriptions. I could probe in any direction, and she would answer, in depth.

What about the transmitter?

"The laser pulses light simultaneously through two diamonds, and the signal is divided. It goes everywhere in the universe, and they have the means to pick it up."

I asked her about the electronic circuitry that modulated the laser pulses. One was a constant frequency, she even told me how many hertz the carrier signal was. The other beam was modulated by her own body, by passing some of the alternating current from one hand to the other, through her heart and chest. A very small current, it nevertheless picked up her body rhythms and altered the output enough for her friends abroad to recognize the signal from her.

It was a lovely concept. Two forlorn tiny diamonds pulsing out the message of her heart.

Andrea's incessant talking about subjects alien would have been off putting to most people so I took it as a challenge, to understand what she really meant. Was this a myth disguising a much larger truth, about her life? Or, could it even be true?

"Human beings must be limited in their perceptions of the universe. After all, if we weren't limited, we would be as Gods, and to not be even slightly limited, we would need a godly perspective. We'd know all things, all places.

Andrea had this way of talking.

"We also know that our perception of reality changes constantly, therefor if it is indeed forever changing, any particular model of reality is necessarily false or incomplete.

"William of Ockham stated that the most plausible of any argument was the one requiring the fewest assumptions."

From the lips of this lonely soul poured forth a scientific vision that was lovely, total, without hostility and rancor. She seemed isolated by her beliefs, and took comfort in my willingness to listen, and hear what she had to say.

Yet from my perspective this was a beautiful vision, created by someone so alienated, that life had turned into an wait for release from earthly bonds.

The limits to Andrea's desires were to be found in two straight beams of light, two lasers, and two diamonds. Diamonds were her mythic crystals, ingredients linking her to an inner freedom, by sending a message to the self.

I took her out for a late coffee. We ate a desert and took out one of the chessboards at the little Brooklyn cafe and started a game. I'm pleased to say she beat me rapidly twice before losing interest.

We wandered back towards my place, and on the way passed Greenwood Cemetery. It was a fairly bright night, the moon was out, and so were the stars. Streetlights shined mysteriously into the dark reserve of graves.

On an impulse, we climbed over the fence and were inside in a split second. We wandered about the lanky shadows of limestone monuments and mossy sculptures of shady death. She took my hand, and I thought, 'How is a girl who has more friends in a distant galaxy than she does here on Earth, so easily able to reach out and grab a near stranger's hand, at night, in a cemetery?'

Where does she find this trust? Her life story seemed a journal of mistrust transformed into unconscious dreaming, and myth.

We sat at the foot of an old New York family monument for an hour, as deep night fell over the city.

She talked about her obsessions, as I listened with rapt attention, and tried to understand her mythology, and come to an understanding of how it had arisen. Myths, in the absence of facts, serve as accepted truths. 

She entertained me for two hours with her command of the mathematics of light and lasers, and I must say she had a very good grasp of the same physics that I had studied in school. Einstein, Planck, Heisenberg, she knew it all by heart.. But in the same breath her little green men were in the grass next to us, sharing reminiscences as she talked, since they never were far from her mind.

Andrea's words 'tied-in' to accepted knowledge. She deconstructed the Arab oil embargo, the Bush invasion of Iraq and Vietnam war in terms of alien manipulation. I tried finding a weak spot where reason could insert a wedge. But though I had inclination to disbelieve her, I lacked the experience to disprove a thing she said. I kept my skepticism under wraps, and the effect was one of acting, I became a believer by method, since she offered nothing in way of proof.

I thought, with her hair and lovely Asian complexion she would look so beautiful in green. With green skin.

Where did we come up with this term 'little green men'? Here was someone who was saying that little green men actually existed. She knew them by name. She told me of her X father and mother. She described the ruler over there on her alien planet X. He was a tyrant, but the people there were in the process of revolting. How did she know? She had many ways of getting news from X, reading words on the margins of newspapers, and picking up discarded tickets at the racetrack.

The most profound delusions must have details to become real.

And now I was sitting on the cold slab of an Earthling's tomb, in a dark cemetery, on Earth, listening to another Homo sapiens talk about people in faraway galaxies.

It became a story. My bedtime story. I was captivated. Andrea had childhood alien friends.

She did her best to describe them to me. So I abandoned my critical adult self, normally anxious to divide fact from fiction. I relaxed, became a child, her child, and let her woo me with waves of memory. She almost lulled me to sleep. I believed everything. She won me over. She told me of a revolution brewing on planet X. She spoke about the economy there, and what was driving the Y's intergalactic exploration and colonization.

I wish I had been taking notes. She had names for the places they came from and the places she had visited. But I was too busy feeling the essence of her mind, to be bothered with spellings.

We laid back in the grass and looked up at the stars.

No longer was the Milky Way a bright disk of depopulated stars. It held creatures, all sizes and shapes, with names, and rulers, and economies with crises on their planets just as on Earth.

She spoke of captains running transport past Earth, and how gold was used in their space ships, and how they left lists and agendas for earth's leaders of tasks they wanted done by the time they got back.

I wanted to kiss her simply to put an end to her rattling on about transmitters and hitching a ride across the galaxy. I wanted to do anything to stop her anxiety, and enjoy the present. The here. The now. The night.

The cool grass with dark shadows all around us.

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