Archive for August, 2014

Around the house, while the query letters fly, out and away.

Pacing while the internets whirl.

It probably isn’t a good thing that the turkeys let me get this close.
They should flee what I might be.

Willed turkeys.

Two hens and a half-pint.

One hot bush, from the little chilies on the bottom to the thirty jalapenos above.
Wait, that’s two bushes in one cage.

Where it all begins.


Be happy that you’re happy.

Just doing what the bulb said.

Everybody must get glad.

A sucking bee
just like a spelling bee, except stickier.

Not a slut.

Just being available.

The dense wood in the middle was the base of a butterfly bush that stood eight feet tall.
Last year.
This year, the final frost killed it all, except two tiny sprigs.

Remember that last hard frost?

Just a flutter by bush, this year.

After awhile, you don’t see this,
because it would be too weird, if you had to explain.

Got to happen, right here.

It is something, really.

 We’ll die, we will, but it won’t be this pretty.

Looks so natural.

Death be proud.

They come, to astound, and then to die.

Iamb a moth.

Hear me roar.

 Yes, the super moon, two weeks ago.
The camera didn’t know how big it was.

Supposed to be.

Supper moon?

Any bigger and it would be falling,
a spiral exploding death by gravity.

148,000 words, no, you’ve got to be kidding?

Please, ma’am, Ghost Walk is a story that long,
really, it is.
I have already eschewed surplussage.

They all promise to reply,
unless they don’t.

That’s a “no.”

So say “no” to death,
to go back into the human mind again.

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The last segment of edits — so many births, a book has.


Ghost Walk

third book in the series

of the Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mysteries

Well. The last improper comma is gone, the last proper but absent comma is inserted.
Of a thousand proposed edits, all but a few score taken.


The big question now: do I trigger some dozens of rejections
from a flurry of query letters to my list of literary agents
in hopes of a single positive reply?

Or just upload to Amazon, like the first two,
for a few minutes of being the newest mystery in the world?

Well, not tonight.
The edit heave is hove.
Bed beckons.

Book Three.


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Temporary beauty and old growth.

All over the bush, on every branch, hundreds of these.

Walk on me.

Sharon’s rose.

Worker bee on a sticky shaft.

There suck I.

Bootstraps of a bee.

Exquisite workmanship at every bloom. She outdoes herself.

Know what I mean?

The thrust of it.

The blooms of dill are lovely in life,
are changed but, in death, undiminished.

Proud death.

Dill and gone.

Smile at the sun smiling,
and filter every ugly thing.

Smile and say, "ah!"

Life star terrestrial.

Pure love, immutable, golden.

Not Texas, just taxes.

Yellow rose represents.

Tabled motion in the parliament of flowers.

Vase of transcience.

Beauty arranged.

Above the orchard about a hundred yards, history barks a lesson.
The big trunk was a chestnut brought down by blight.
The little trunk was second growth, brought low by blight’s grandson.
Blight too shall pass.

Brave try.

Chestnut, not spreading.

Nothing beside remains.
Hunks of trunk at the root.
All the branches have become brush
after a hundred seasons of blossom and fruit.


Alas, poor York!

A little sadness for the loss of shade and loss of keeper apples,
and loss of the bird staging arena of limbs and twigs.

But a hundred-year reign is a fruit-tree jubilee.

 Blessed be.

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Duration, variable: rock for the ages, spore for a day.

We wondered, when we first walked the trails here below the Little Sandy Bald,
if the blocks of quartz we saw every three or four steps,
pebble size to boulder size, clear and rosy and cloudy,
held rubies or emeralds inside,
or sapphires, the fancy forms of quartz.

Walking on jewels; we still are.

In nature, square corners.

Quartz with veins.

Most fungal entities are brief,
pop through the soil for a week
then begin immediately to decay.

Sun shock.

Lichen shelf.

But some harden and settle in for the long term.
And become habitats themselves.

New to me.

New variety.

90º around the trunk,
slipped sidewards in time
comes a fresh beginning.

We all did.

Ooze of birth.

The Jain swish the path before their steps
to insure they don’t crush a bug.
I’m less moved by bugs, but hate to find I’ve crushed one of these.

Thrust their buried spores.

Just looks phallic.

Or a family of these.

Read my mind.

Loam cardinals.

Or even one of these.

Holding a little rain.

Just one.

Not this.

Almost all the way around.

Member of extended family.

Not these.

Puff the magic.

Spore bomb.

Or this one.

Citrus are us.

Just one of these, a hole to breathe or blow.

The parent organisms live underground,
safe from my steps,
busy being the synapses between tree roots
powering the internet of trees.
Really: this is fresh-made science.

Be thankful God does not spend all his time deciding softball games
and litigating kidney stones.

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How much would a wood pecker? A musing.

This is a file picture because our Hairy won’t hold still for an at-work shot.
He’s a very guilty bird and explodes away at any human sight or sound.
But, I can’t imagine how he hears or sees at all when he’s hammering at the hemlock.

Arkive: hairy-woodpecker-male-on-tree-stump, Wild Nature Pictures.

Eating at our house.

The core of the house was a hundred years old when we moved in, 1976.
It’s not finished yet, but by the end of 1978 Dan carved a declaration.
The main inside layout, at least, was done.

We're dating.


We have all the woodpeckers on call: the little Downy, the huge Pileated.
Any of them might peck a little, one time or another, grooming our sheathing.

Peckers scaled.

Hairy is Robin sized.

Wood-boring bees, carpenter bees, bumble bees — drill nests.
Perfect augured circles go square in, then turn at the bottom.
Larvae of next year’s bees are deposited just past the crook.

Hairy is on a mission.
Just as many perfect 13/16 inch borer borings as we have,
that many will he get to the bottom of.
He is not as neat a worker as the bees.

That's how  much.


Not quite through the hemlock rafter, two inches literal, but more than halfway.
There probably isn’t any chance of structure-threatening injury to the house.
But we’d begun to think the apple tree
already old and damaged when we landed here
that it could stand forever.

Almost a hundred years.

Sergeant York.

Until one mid-October morning, last year, it fell.
The props too light, the crop too heavy, too much rain.
This spring it made some leaves and blossoms, taking a few more months to die.

The rest is brush.

Site of new tree, as yet undermined.

Last week, the chainsaw finally fixed, it’s all gone to the brush pile
(0ne of a hundred of brush piles).

Time for a new tree, the birds are insistent, and the porch needs shade.

Unless the whole blended lesson is that we’ve had our season.
The big wheel has been turned enough by all the little wheels
and our time’s up.

Last call for drinks.

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