Not The Rockefellers

He was there again. Waiting in the car, just like always. She guessed that was where he felt most comfortable. He looked like anybody's sleepy grandpa, with his grey tousled hair, his green wool sweater and navy twill pants. Some people took care of stray cats and runaways. She took care of dead poets. He liked turning up while she was running errands. He said he missed songs sung during ordinary time and the joy of everyday rituals. The first time she heard that she laughed sarcastically ensuring him that by hanging around with her, he was going to be up to his neck in joy. They all missed that, every one that visited her from the great beyond. They all missed the most mundane things: inkwells, soap, candles, wool socks, utensils, flannel shirts, twine, keys, ants. Wine. God yes. Wine. And the smell of just about everything. Were there no scents in the afterlife? Oddly,there was never any desire for anything sexual. She often wondered, why her? She was under-educated

She tended to worry a lot... for a kid. She'd lay awake at night afraid to listen  to the sound  of her heart beating, worried that it might stop. She'd once read the Time-Life Encyclopedia on The Universe and became obsessed with the woman from Alabama who was singled out, by a rock from a very far place,  in her sleep. So, she'd lay in her bed looking up at that place in the ceiling where her meteorite would inevitably fall through, and beg the Universe," Please not tonight, I have art class tomorrow." As she got older  and wiser every book,  movie,  or newspaper article, told the story of someone, roughly her own age, dying young. And so  she became convinced that every stomach pain, headache or leg cramp was the onset of her own unhappy ending. She hated that she worried so much yet found herself drawn to the very things that caused her to worry. Freak accidents, natural disasters, incurable illnesses, third rails, chain letter

I am always there, as if I am called to duty. There's really no task to accomplish or purpose for it, other than to just be still for a little while and to bask in that delicious, sacred silence. Sssshhh! And no Fox News on blast either! I stand every morning at the same place, at roughly the same time, my eyes focused to the east. I do this not out of routine, habit or religious observance or practice. It's just that for this, I always happen to show up on time. I am an early riser, always have been. That does not mean that I am a chipper, perky, sing-songy,*"After I do a load of laundry I'm making pancakes for everyone as soon as I get back from my 3K !"* kinda gal at the crack of dawn, I'm actually quite the opposite. I want to be alone! And at this time of the day I relish being unapologetically selfish. *No offense to anyone who actually does all of those things in the morning, that's wonderful! And if we were on Survivor I would sooo form an

A little brain clearing fun: Sittin’ Doin’  Nuthin’ When I should be Writin’  sumthin’ About  Junk And  stuff And blowy Poetry Fluff Should be  Writin’ What I’m  knowin’ But none of them Words is  Flowin’ So I hit Up the  Facebook Thought I'd Give it a good look Folks on Farmville Doing chores Or caught up in Mafia Wars Not me I don’t play I can barely manage My own  Day So I get Back to  Writin’ But going Outside’s More excitin’ Oh Lord Help me I got’s the Writin’ ADD My lack of Focus Is astounding The keyboard  I should  Be pounding I give myself A little scare Maybe  It’s Just not there "What if It’s gone? And  I’m done?" Finished Before I begun? That talk is  Crazy I need to Quit Relax Chill out Just a bit Cut the crap And just write Or I’m Gonna be Up All night... Peace Out Suckas~Rene 2010

Please take a moment to read Jeff's blog The destruction in Haiti is unimaginable, far worse than what is shown on television. We are spared hearing the constant moans and cries of those trapped underneath the rubble, the stench of the dead lining the streets, we can see but we cannot feel the anguish of a mother who has just identified the bodies of her four children. All we can do is pray. We have been taking up a collection for Haitian Relief at school. The students have been encouraged to bring in a donation, however small, to help out with the effort. I was touched when one of my little students brought in her piggybank. Without fanfare, and rather privately ( which is odd for a five year old ) she deposited the entire contents of it into the fund jar. It was one of those moments that just made me smile inside and out. Unfortunately she dropped her piggybank onto the floor and it broke into a million pieces. There was no way to save it. As I was cleaning it up I ki

photo credit Roger Allen Baut come  dagger finger  beckoning piercing  blue silver stare bear trap smile raw, s craping granite kiss my blood doesn't run tears well, but do not fall she cares not a whit i inhale,  suffocating shoulders stiff, brittle back quite a lovely picture of serenity is she breathtaking how i long for her out loud when she is away   how my memory does fail me how often have i begged  for release  from her thousand needle caress song of death on her breath tongues of honey promises turned to sand i sense the days growing longer her time getting shorter tho’ she is still robust her defeat marches steadily on without mercy without escape with my blessing ~ Rene

"I love this right now!" - Alex, age 5 - on being outside during a squall of snow flurries that dropped by during recess. I admit it. I am a snow grinch. I'd rather huddle inside and watch the snow fall from my picture window than romp around in it. I rank Frosty the Snowman up there with Freddy Krueger and Michael Myers ( from Halloween) To me, Winter Wonderland is an oxymoron. But I want you to know that I'm really trying! Trying to find the silver lining hidden inside all of those grey snow clouds. But separating the silver from the grey? How do I even go about doing that? "Easy", as any five year old will tell me, "You just look for the sparkly" Today was served cold, raw and in the style of New England Winter. Two choices of entrees Stay home and ignore it. or Bundle up, trudge through and deal with it. As school was in session,and I have bills to pay, I had to choose from column B. I allowed myself time to gripe and hiss a

I'm standing at the front door watching my neighbor shovel his driveway down to the black. By the time he is finished there will not be a more pristine, blacker driveway in the neighborhood. That is until the plow comes by again. Schadenfreude. I'm clutching a cup of hot coffee close to my chest hoping the heat will radiate out and melt all of this winter wonderland nonsense. The warmth rising out of my cup does a steamy tango with the cold air and fogs up the storm door. Out of sight, out of mind. I close my eyes trying to recall when it was that I actually loved this stuff, lived for its arrival and mourned its passing. We were lucky enough to grow up across the street from a playground with a sledding hill. I think my parents were sold on the house before setting foot into it, based on that fact alone. We spent a lot time covering every square inch of that playground, and I assure you, there isn't a blade of grass in there that we don't know about. The firs