I’ll Take Good Care Of Your Heart

I will take such good care
of your heart
you won’t recognize it.

Pumping strong,it will sing like
the ringing of a glass

as you circle the rim-

your index finger
dipped in Merlot.

Between each beat,
it will rest safely,
before it reanimates-

unfolding with the energy
I will bleed into it.

Shining like a golden
clam holding a secret pearl,

the luster will flicker,
spreading outward,
and you will feel warmth-

like the glow from embers on a coal
as I hold it ever so deftly in my palm.


Go Ahead And Light Up The Town, And Baby Do Everything Your Heart Desires.

Here’s a fact: I don’t believe that time is on my side.

Time is tangible, but it’s also visceral. You feel it deep down in your bones, You watch your child grow from cartoons to drivers license to falling so deeply in love that you know it’s the real thing. images (1)

You watch as your parents go from larger than life to needing your help to resting their eyes before sunset.

Then you start to rest your eyes.

You understand that it’s real,this clock you have on the wall, and not some circle that will come around again every day. Each roll over of the minute on your digital is one less for your heart to beat, laughter to roar, and tears to dry.

There is no need to fear this time, if you treat it as a friend and not an enemy. With a friend you are compassionate , you listen to them, you respect them, and you never take them for granted. Never.

These are good things to know. If they resonate deep down, you will use your time well, and rejoice in every tick of the dial, instead of fearing the end the movement.

With that, I do not feel that you can waste time if you are doing what you really love.  What ever you’re doing, if it raises your mind, and heart in a way that gives you joy and adds to your quality, you are not wasting anything. I know gamers who love what they play. I don’t look at them as engaging in any form of dissipation  When I see the pure excitement on their faces, I know they are not casting a minute aside, but rather embracing something that makes them feel resonate and whole.

It’s what we use for avoidance that is the enemy. The things we do to deflect our time. I recently set a goal for myself to finish a short story I was writing and submit it for publication. I didn’t meet the deadline. I used my work schedule as the culprit, until I looked at all the time I was wasting on things like social media, surfing the news, and looking at memes of laughable quotes and political aberrations.

I missed the opportunity to feel resonate and whole. Time was not on my side.

So I have taken a hiatus from media to take what precious time I have to concentrate on what is important to me. It was about a year ago I started to write again, and I mustn’t lose track of what I have become because of it.

Do what you love and you won’t waste time.

Do what you love and time is on your side.

My Favorite Of A Favorite: Hallelujah

I’ve been up all night, smoking cigarettes and drinking gin from a jelly jar.

No, but I always thought that’s what writers should do. It’s so Fitzgerald and Hemingway.

I actually have a cold, and can barely take in a breath without coughing. Smoking would be lethal.

However gin from a jelly jar? Do-able.

We all house images in our mind of how things should take place. Romantic images of  the places we want to be, or the people we would like to become. My dear friend Karen was always amazed at my vegetable garden. She and the family would come up from the big city to my country home, and she would stand at the edge of it, looking at the ripening tomatoes and trellises of peas and beans. Then, every time, she would begin to wax poetic about how if she had a garden she would go out everyday with her long apron tied around her waist and gather the bounty; placing  it in the scoop of it as she held the ends up, making a vegetable hammock.

I blame this:

Image from tv.com

Image from tv.com

The images we have in our mind are powerful. They paint over reality in a spectrum of water colored haze. They make the mundane beautiful and the beautiful ecstasy.

That brings me to Leonard Cohen.

I know, you’re thinking she’s going to hang herself this time folks. How the hell can she get from Laura Ingalls to Leonard Cohen. 

Let’s find out.

There is nothing that can compete with Leonard’s version of Hallelujah. Nothing. No one can compete. Hands down. Fin!!

But there in lies the challenge. If Cohen’s interpretation  of his own classic is my favorite of a favorite without challenge: then I must challenge it.

That’s what Laura would have done. She was feisty and spunky.

I can do better.

So I’ve gone on my quest.

So many covers of this song. The most recent/popular choice is probably Rufus Wainwright’s version from Shrek. Sadly, now a generation refers to this song as “The Shrek Song.” Not exactly what Cohen had in mind when he penned it. It’s a lovely rendition  but that alone is enough to take it off my list. Sorry Rufus.

The second problem is that so many people tend to over sing it. They don’t understand that the power is in the words, and clutching their chest and crouching in pain isn’t necessary. Jon Bon Jovi, another fine singer in my estimation, really went, as I use to say in college, all Broadway on our ass. Singing on stage, and singing in front of a microphone are two separate interpretations Jon starts out over the top. Within the first few bars he’s wincing in pain.  Stop it. We get it. You’ve been there. You’ve felt the pain of each word. Move on.

The trick is to make us hear the pain, not see it.

That leads me to kd lang. She has a flawless voice that can make you feel every emotion by the way she hits a note. Her inflection and intonation are so subtle you may not even notice it, but you will feel it.  She will take you on a journey of heart rendering love.Don’t get me wrong, she uses her entire arsenal, putting herself in and out of the song, working the audience in subtle ways.  When she hits the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift you not only hear the technical ability of her talent, but like Cohen, you also feel it being portrayed.

kd lang is able to water-color the images of this song in a performance that I’m sure Leonard must have thought worthy of his masterpiece.

Love, pain, and redemption; all generations have faced this. It’s the one thing all classes, cultures, and sexes share, as far back as Laura Ingalls Wilder.

OK, that sucked. They all can’t be gems.

Too much cold medication.

Here’s kd

River Leaves

As the mist from the river
rises half way up the
oak, he cups
his right hand and skims it
across the top,
fingers propelling through
leaves frozen on the surface.
Fighting the ice crystals as they form,
small sheets of puzzle
pieces on his fingers, he
remembers the trip made with
friends in his youth,
paddling canoes,
wine bottles passed from side to side, and
smoke thick with the pungent smell of
yesterday’s music and future conquests.

Young men craving the knowledge
their fathers owned from the war.
Now he’s the wisdom of the boys,
holding in his chest a passion
too soon gone, but still inside.

He curves his hand once more to
the water’s edge, then fanning his fingers
apart he sets free decades of touch,
the smell of rose-water,
and the quiet of his loves, and they
scatter like the remnants of fall.

Image from Chopra.com

Image from Chopra.com

Just Another Day

JFK, MLK, and Bobby.
Jimi, Janis, and Jim.
My Lai,Kent State, and Watergate,
Jim Jones, John Lennon, and Ronald Reagan
Desert Storm
September 11
Wellstone’s Plane

My generation is tired of playing the game. Well, I’m tired of playing the game. You know, the one where you sit around with a cocktail and someone says “Where were you when you found out about…….”

I can’t wax nostalgic for loss and sadness anymore.

Let’s hope we only remember today as being just another day.

One filled with lunches, and jokes, and stubbing your toe.  A day where you burned your tongue on your coffee, and hugged a friend.

It’s all I’ve got for the moment.

images (2)

Leon’s Eyes

I saw him in 1977. My friends and I scored great seats. We were three rows back from the stage in the center. I was a bundle of anticipation. I loved his stuff with Cocker and Delaney and Bonnie. His power as a piano player and rocker was forceful and earthy. When he hit the stage he tore the joint up. I was not disappointed.

All the songs we had hoped to soak in were right in front of us, but then he brought it down, and started to play the love songs. The light hit him, and he was alone on stage, just Leon and his piano. He looked into the audience and started to sing A Song For You.

He’s looking at me. Oh god oh god oh god, he’s  looking at me. 

No, he’s not looking at me. Why would he be looking at me.


Stop it now. He can’t be looking at me. He can’t even see me.

oh god oh god oh god he’s looking at me. 

NO!!!!! This is just crazy. 

Then my roommate leaned over. ” Oh my god, he’s looking at you.”

Maybe he was; maybe he wasn’t. I’ll never know. But I remember the eyes piercing through me; ocean blue like waves. It’s fortunate I was a small town girl unsure of herself, because if I’d had any confidence at all I would have taken up the life of a groupie right then and there.

A groupie for Leon Russell.

Thirty-six years later, I can still recall the excitement of that night. Not just because I MAY (though doubtful) have had a moment with Leon, but because it left a musical footprint on my soul. I think all great concerts do that for a person. Truly remarkable musical performances elevate us to a different plane, and for many of us, are as spiritual as church and the gospel. No higher praise to the being upstairs can be given but to lift our voices in song.

Besides, I’m a sucker for the blue eyes.




From 1971, A Song For You.

And It Fairly Makes Your Heart Ache.

It’s an intangible something.

You can feel it all around you; it smells, it tastes, it even seems to sing. You don’t know what it is. It can put an ache in your joints and your head. It’s not sexual, but it is sensual and provocative. Your hands feel light and your heart fairly itches.

You seek the sun like a dog. Seeing pools of light in the middle of the floor, you want to lie down in them, curling your body like fresh garden peas poking from the soil. You smell the earth as it frees the frost line, it’s pungent and slightly irritating.

It’s not a joyful scent. It’s not a joyful feeling.

It’s a craving that makes you weak. It’s a tinge that hiccups through your veins. It’s a longing that makes you young, for a moment, then escapes out the car window as you open it for air.

You think to yourself, “I’m too damn old to feel like this.”

The puddle in the street looks overtly inviting, asking you to go to war within its boundaries. You look down at your shoes, and the thought crosses your mind for a moment, but you don’t. Even though the splash up your calf would feel remarkable-you still don’t.

You breath deep, reminding yourself that years of getting up and walking the world day after day have taught you to surround yourself with loftier expectations of how you should be seen. Each year, after your 20’s, you looked more and more at your face, hands, shoes, hair, and pants, and suddenly it dawns on you that you’ve forgotten to primp in front of your inner mirror. The one that still sees you at all ages, and all stages. The one that forgives your hair growing thin and gray, and your hands and skin drying and resembling burlap. The reflector that doesn’t care if your pants don’t match your socks. The mirror that gives you permission to laugh too loud at a friend’s joke, even when no one else makes a sound.

You want to be everywhere, and no where. You want to run with your arms flailing, and you want to kneel quietly among the budding pine.

It’s spiritual and it’s naughty.

It’s Christ-like and it’s pagan.

Humanity races towards the season like a hell-bent fireball from another planet, and you are in the way.

It’s spring.


Awwww Frank

I’ve written before that I’m a sucker for romance, and Francis Albert singing one of my ALL TIME FAVORITE Bossa Nova songs WITH the song writer Antonio Carlos Jobim accompanying him on guitar; well it melts my heart. I hate that I love romance.  (see previous article if interested) That’s all I have to say. Find your loved one, settle in, and listen. Have a great night.

This is the funniest damn thing I’ve read today. If you don’t follow Ned, you’re missing out.

Ned's Blog

Cow Patty bingo As you probably know, national “Be Kind to Animals Week” is almost here. And just when Florida was beginning to re-gain a small measure of respectability by working hard to draw absolutely no attention to itself, it is once again in the national spotlight.

I’m talking, of course, about the controversy surrounding Cow-Patty Bingo.

For those who might not be familiar with this activity for reasons of sanity, we’ll just take a moment to cover the basics.

First, you need a cow.

Second, you need a REALLY BIG bingo card.

OK, not really. But you really do need a cow, preferably one that has just eaten a lot of fiber — like, say, a 55-gallon drum of granola. Next, you need a large field or yard (such as a neighbor’s) that can be divided into numbered grids. Once you have the cow and the grid, it’s time to start selling…

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How Many Extension Cords Does A Person Need?

The answer is seven.

Image from Harborfreight.com

Image from Harborfreight.com

I’ve been packing up the last vestiges of things from my business. I made the decision a few weeks back to close her up, and now the last tubs are sitting in the back of my car. There are dishes, books, shelves, pictures, furniture, and bits and scraps of four years of work. I loved that business, but it’s gone now.

Except for the extension cords. No one wants them. I know for a fact, if you wanted to shave, you could go from one end of a city block to the other, plugging each cord end to end, and you could remove unwanted hair without a quandary.

There’s a visual for you.

A legacy of electricity that will safely keep my radio from 1980 powered outside by the lawn chair all summer.

So in celebration of my extension cords, and my new  found freedom and extension of life, here is a tribute to electricity from one of my all time favorite Saturday morning series from the 1970’s.

School House Rock. Three minutes of knowledge and song sandwiched between Warner Brothers and Hanna Barbera.

Might As Well Swing

Monday Nights 6 to 10 pm on KBEK 95.5 FM or live stream on KBEK.co

Name-Brand Ketchup.

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