The ablest navigators

 poetry, philosophy, found photos, vintage images, my own snaps, music, the human condition and grace. Yep - that about covers it.

“F-A-B-L-E” she calls out to the woman at the counter working the crossword puzzle,
Never missing a spot with her big rag mop
Cleaning the floor after the farmers have left behind mud and
Coffee cups, tiny jelly packets and heavy china smeared with syrup and egg yolk.

“Is a hen a ‘biddy’ or ‘bitty’?”
Asks Crossword Lady as she walks
Behind the counter to fill her own coffee cup
(And then proceeds to fill all of our cups without asking)
“‘Biddy’ with 2 d’s!” calls out the woman with the
Sleeve of retro tattoos as she cracks eggs
On the big hooded griddle.

Conversation covers mushroom hunting, red beans and rice,
Celebrating Mother’s Day when your mom is a bitch,
and
Just what was the name of that
big rooster in the cartoons?
(Foghorn Leghorn)

(South side Cafe; photos mine; iPhone 4S)

long ago photos

you look out from years ago (7)
beautiful (4)
(paths yet to intersect (6)
yet waiting) (3)
…
I know I was meant for you (7)
and you for me (4)
(if you believe in that (6)
sort of thing.) (3)

In The Arc Of Your Mallet Don’t go anywhere without me. Let nothing happen in the sky apart from me, or on the ground, in this world or that world, without my being in its happening. Vision, see nothing I don’t see. Language, say nothing. The way the night knows itself with the moon, be that with me. Be the rose nearest to the thorn that I am. I want to feel myself in you when you taste food, in the arc of your mallet when you work, when you visit friends, when you go up on the roof by yourself at night. There’s nothing worse than to walk out along the street without you. I don’t know where I’m going. You’re the road, and the knower of roads, more than maps, more than love. (Rumi) (graffiti on rural bridge; photo mine; iphone 4s)

In The Arc Of Your Mallet

Don’t go anywhere without me.
Let nothing happen in the sky apart from me,
or on the ground, in this world or that world,
without my being in its happening.
Vision, see nothing I don’t see.
Language, say nothing.
The way the night knows itself with the moon,
be that with me. Be the rose
nearest to the thorn that I am.

I want to feel myself in you when you taste food,
in the arc of your mallet when you work,
when you visit friends, when you go
up on the roof by yourself at night.

There’s nothing worse than to walk out along the street
without you. I don’t know where I’m going.
You’re the road, and the knower of roads,
more than maps, more than love. (Rumi)

(graffiti on rural bridge; photo mine; iphone 4s)

“Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is richness of self.” ― May Sarton (Enjoying the solitude of an evening drive after heavy rains; photo mine; iphone 4s)

“Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is richness of self.”
― May Sarton

(Enjoying the solitude of an evening drive after heavy rains; photo mine; iphone 4s)

The strawberries finally taste like … well … strawberries. Rather like when, in full summer, you finally taste a real, ripe, freshtomato. Today, as I bit into a strawberry, and the flavor flooded my tongue and the scent filled my nose, I was reminded of this poem by Julia Maria Morrison: Amazed by how they’re being pushed By the crisp white roadside markets While the air smells yet of smoked snow We are quick to taste. They’ve travelled Certainly far but what our senses tell Has no regard for this. Then as we drive farther into spring The berries travel less and, lacking Satiety, we drive and buy, drive And eating find the berries tasting More and more like themselves ——— (Julia Maria Morrison) (strawberries on the counter; photo mine; iphone 4s)

The strawberries finally taste like … well … strawberries. Rather like when, in full summer, you finally taste a real, ripe, freshtomato. Today, as I bit into a strawberry, and the flavor flooded my tongue and the scent filled my nose, I was reminded of this poem by Julia Maria Morrison:

Amazed by how they’re being pushed
By the crisp white roadside markets
While the air smells yet of smoked snow
We are quick to taste. They’ve travelled
Certainly far but what our senses tell
Has no regard for this.
Then as we drive farther into spring
The berries travel less and, lacking
Satiety, we drive and buy, drive
And eating find the berries tasting
More and more like themselves ———
(Julia Maria Morrison)

(strawberries on the counter; photo mine; iphone 4s)

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (Thru blown glass; photo mine; iPhone 4S)

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

(Thru blown glass; photo mine; iPhone 4S)