tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193119542024-03-06T21:03:32.337-08:00Meander Knot PressPoet and photographer with ideas and opinions about art, about life, about food.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.comBlogger215125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-61474897449571412842016-04-25T13:33:00.000-07:002016-04-25T13:40:21.267-07:00Occasional<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEO0QELJC2UcCEFetEQGFhJwqmi0F7jyDgGCwJ_LND8cO2qNX9fvk_RYyVutpNeS0M2zBXjp58OOw05y5r07f0LGgnIiRHtd-v6POUQXA7Arr3zKBlBv7wZJ0asgxiWymtUCN/s1600/nexti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEO0QELJC2UcCEFetEQGFhJwqmi0F7jyDgGCwJ_LND8cO2qNX9fvk_RYyVutpNeS0M2zBXjp58OOw05y5r07f0LGgnIiRHtd-v6POUQXA7Arr3zKBlBv7wZJ0asgxiWymtUCN/s320/nexti.jpg" /></a></div>I recently read <i>City of Thorns</i> by Ben Rawlence and it made a huge impression on me. I have thought about it in some way each day for weeks.<br />
<br />
Last night I listened to the first part of The Ted Radio Hour show about Tolerance and how we need diversity. Acceptance of the other isn’t just a thing people do to be thought of as good or kind or open-minded. It is something we do to survive. <br />
<br />
Unless our needs aren’t getting met and then we get all tribal. <br />
<br />
I submitted a new poem to a contest today. This is the first time I have submitted anything anywhere since Andrew died. It is an occasional poem.<br />
<br />
They are so challenging to write because basically you are writing for a group of people who are uncomfortable with poetry. The eventual audience for the winner wants the work to be funny and poignant and approachable and understandable. <br />
<br />
Billy Collins or Mary Oliver I am not. <br />
<br />
So I wrote something that made sense to me. The exercise was useful. <br />
<br />
NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-69052026947509295252016-04-24T15:48:00.000-07:002016-04-24T15:58:35.560-07:00A Fresh Start<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrvwErSAEGSLtazeJedNEv_EwYhZs3JY83wvcu539SyM_ioPtAkuJzoMnR6kMeF-JGIsPIZQFlFnC77dju0hoqbZkjP1e4IH9jLeUEgAoNUjZIxEOeG6nTFU6QgTeQpoJBn6W/s1600/whitepi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrvwErSAEGSLtazeJedNEv_EwYhZs3JY83wvcu539SyM_ioPtAkuJzoMnR6kMeF-JGIsPIZQFlFnC77dju0hoqbZkjP1e4IH9jLeUEgAoNUjZIxEOeG6nTFU6QgTeQpoJBn6W/s320/whitepi.jpg" /></a></div>It seems a good time to come back here and write a public facing blog. <br />
<br />
I need to learn how to be comfortable talking broadly about things that matter to me and expressing opinions. I am quiet, watchful, unless I am teaching yoga or in a room with folks I feel very comfortable with (and then I babble on about all sorts of seemingly unrelated things endlessly). <br />
<br />
When I am quiet, people watch my face. It is such an interesting thing us social animals do watching each other’s faces to look for clues. And maybe in the moment I am practicing being non-reactive in a spiritual sense but some fleeting opinion or thought or reaction passes across my face that can be interpreted as something in the end my better judgment or common sense tells me it would be prudent not to express. But someone thinks it is Resting Bitch Face. <br />
<br />
So here I am to express what touches me, or moves me or makes me laugh or think.<br />
<br />
Last night I watched <i>The Big Short</i>. It is in my wheelhouse as a former broker with a flaming social conscience and someone interested in how money works, a person who discovering that she wasn’t greedy enough to be particularly successful who turned to poetry, which I truly believe is an affliction not a gift.<br />
<br />
A quote from the movie sums it up. <br />
<br />
Overheard at a Washington, D.C. bar: "Truth is like poetry. And most people fucking hate poetry."<br />
<br />
People do like pretty pictures of flowers though…<br />
NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-4112654180444124542016-03-18T13:34:00.002-07:002016-03-18T13:35:40.866-07:00Transitions<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS1wFpXm72Dey34oDusd7mZXBbSkrO8YM9qvIKx3zQ0Oq9NXhmmmD2nhRvt9Mm4XCCSi05YMCpiPme6scuY7RJ9J9dXreytMO5_poI0NxaM4UZ4erhvrPEZmNoRBMh_TAE550a/s1600/transition.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS1wFpXm72Dey34oDusd7mZXBbSkrO8YM9qvIKx3zQ0Oq9NXhmmmD2nhRvt9Mm4XCCSi05YMCpiPme6scuY7RJ9J9dXreytMO5_poI0NxaM4UZ4erhvrPEZmNoRBMh_TAE550a/s400/transition.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
It has been some time since I have taken a picture I feel really good about. This one today was a lovely surprise.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-80596975069750134092015-10-11T17:53:00.003-07:002015-10-13T11:47:11.724-07:00The Through Line Part III 2015The flowering plum, those dark red leaves<br />
out the side window seems a bit wan these days.<br />
So little rain; jays come looking for peanuts,<br />
search the corner at dawn out where <br />
the teenagers back in the sixties left their<br />
hippy messages carved in wet cement. <br />
<br />
My son uses chalk sticks almost too big <br />
for tiny hands as we make pastel patterns <br />
out on the decking. He delights me with stories <br />
that make no sense while I try to figure out<br />
when my mother is coming for her next visit.<br />
<br />
This block, so oddly zoned, half historic,<br />
half modern, soon we’ll have to move from this <br />
beautiful old place that once housed a young boy<br />
(like mine) who grew up to become mayor<br />
of this funky old town. With at least one alcoholic<br />
<br />
parent, a world of corruption, I suppose you<br />
can’t blame him <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">too</i> much for packing all the Roma<br />
families up and sending them to Texas during<br />
the depression. Everyone was doing similar spot<br />
deportations even them. A hard legacy.<br />
<br />
I stand in the library upstairs, my hands<br />
on this sweat burnished wood framing <br />
think about the house, what the walls<br />
have absorbed in sunlight and shadow,<br />
the adventure of the big move<br />
five blocks from where it was built. <br />
<br />
A neighborhood spectacle, disabled power lines<br />
everyone came out to see it lifted, transported <br />
reoriented so the bay windows that look out<br />
on the rose mallow now face north instead of south.<br />
<br />
Does the house mourn the church that stood <br />
stalwart beside it all those years that recently burned?<br />
<br />
Off the brick walk they moved as well <br />
they planted the huge mimosa out front<br />
and it’s siblings seeded two lots down <br />
to be ripped out for transitional housing <br />
going in next year where the old gas station used to be. <br />
<br />
That toxic site, leaking and tested repeatedly <br />
will soon house folks who once lived rough <br />
as the immigrants who settled this land lived rough<br />
when they arrived to freezing shacks at the bottom <br />
of the clear cut hill behind us. <br />
<br />
I wonder if, when he is grown, my son will pass by <br />
in his solar powered self driving <br />
smart car and remember with a smile <br />
the patterns we laid down together and that<br />
from way back Sunshine does in fact love us all.<br />
<br />
NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-44647380252522952852015-08-09T10:53:00.000-07:002015-08-09T11:07:34.487-07:00The Through Line Part II 1968The men have taken the full pot of soup<br />
up to the park again. With this next baby <br />
due so soon I can’t carry much of anything<br />
except the twins. They manage to attach <br />
themselves, as if by magic, to my hips.<br />
<br />
Some of the kids that hang out at the Psychedelic<br />
Supermarket after carving “Sunshine<br />
Loves You” complete with curlicues and peace signs <br />
in wet cement on the corner,<br />
and other such pink cheeked high as a kite sentiments, <br />
managed to string a series of extension cords from<br />
<br />
Neighborhood House across the street<br />
to the makeshift stage behind the tennis <br />
courts near the Youth Ministries office <br />
they still call the Catacombs even though<br />
the original had to close for lack of space.<br />
<br />
This morning I stopped with all the little ones <br />
by the orchard where the stables always<br />
were to chat with the elderly woman who made <br />
her fortune sewing up aprons and selling them <br />
door to door. She was here collecting her rents<br />
<br />
shaking her head at the flowered skirts,<br />
headbands all the pale suburban girls draped <br />
over the merry go round next to the wading pool <br />
are wearing. A few too many of them <br />
are pregnant like me.<br />
<br />
Joe wants to keep them all warm,<br />
we do what we can to make them eat.<br />
Stan next door has big plans for his natural market<br />
and I have Emery and his big heart.<br />
<br />
Even the proposed curfew they’re all<br />
talking about can’t bum him out. He says<br />
we should throw a party, invite the city <br />
commissioner a half hour before the enforcement<br />
starts and make sure the media is there. <br />
<br />
We laughed and laughed at that. <br />
I wish the library were still here.<br />
I try to imagine the line of kids <br />
handing one book after another <br />
up Hooker Street from the old building to <br />
the new, the few older folks here<br />
still remember that day as if it were last week.<br />
<br />
I hear the Zoo is setting up on stage.<br />
I’ll put the smallest children to bed and try to <br />
get a story read with my swollen feet<br />
propped up before the guitars get<br />
too loud and the whole world sounds<br />
like it is about to break apart. <br />
NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-91284339496064308582015-08-09T10:52:00.001-07:002015-08-09T11:14:19.516-07:00The Through Line Part 1 1914At dawn as curtains are drawn <br />
In the children's room I can hear<br />
harnesses clanking as horses <br />
are hitched to their wagons up<br />
at the drayage stables in the next block. <br />
<br />
I smell blood from the slaughter <br />
shed downstairs in back as Isaac <br />
starts his day's preparations for the shop.<br />
Dark men speak Yiddish in front of the Shul <br />
as junk peddlers imagine prosperous finds <br />
<br />
In the mud. Nothing goes to waste here.<br />
I murmur to the baby in French so she'll know <br />
when she grows the sound of a life more<br />
than a butcher's wife, kosher or otherwise,<br />
a life of thin hips and admiration <br />
<br />
From some of the most gifted young painters <br />
on the Continent. Those epic Homeric tales <br />
of wild meaningful journeys, of intricate <br />
detail, the white horse, the blue rose,<br />
your mother one of the models,<br />
a muse, yes, one of those. <br />
<br />
It is not the smell of damp ink <br />
or marble chips, this morning<br />
but wood smoke, offal and the salt<br />
we had delivered yesterday. Eloise says<br />
there are a few new books in this week on the ships.<br />
<br />
I'll send the boy when we can spare him <br />
to the lending library. I want him to learn<br />
more than how to handle the cleavers<br />
and knives and look for old glass <br />
up where the shacks used to be on the other <br />
side of the trestle over this forsaken hole<br />
in the ground they call a gulch.<br />
<br />
NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-29494852619133823012014-09-01T08:45:00.001-07:002014-09-14T14:20:19.779-07:00All Gone<div class="MsoNormal">
The butterflies have all gone,<br />
dried cocoons rattle in fading light.<br />
There is a knot at the heart.<br />
<br />
A pony prances in front of a narrow gate.<br />
She's not sure she'll be able to make it through.<br />
The alpine lake is twilight blue.<br />
<br />
Where are we? The cave?<br />
Is this a projection?<br />
What will make it past the door?<br />
<br />
It is unfashionable these days to believe<br />
anything will after the power switches off.<br />
<br />
In the quiet beyond the senses<br />
you are there across the river.<br />
You are the river, the reflected sky,<br />
the bird circling above.<br />
<br />
So am I.<br />
Blinded, I see we are<br />
the pony, the gate, the lake,<br />
a container for all change,<br />
all movement that cannot be contained.<br />
<br />
Your long legs stretch out,<br />
a cat in your lap beyond time, purrs.<br />
You hum as wild bees hum,<br />
heavy with pollen heading home.</div>
NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-15465650808314396282014-05-25T06:19:00.001-07:002014-05-25T06:19:46.971-07:00Four Rainbows on the SeaI tend the ancient lines each day<br />
here in the isolation chamber<br />
close to the wild heart<br />
of poppies so bright they sing.<br />
<br />
Somewhere there is snow<br />
a hummingbird rests impatiently<br />
on your hand as you replenish nectar,<br />
a bow moves across strings.<br />
<br />
A sound as lazy summer<br />
grass sounds in the wind.<br />
There might be a book<br />
that holds all this chaos of delight.<br />
<br />
An old black truck<br />
covered in pink blossoms out front,<br />
apples and pumpkin flowers.<br />
I've tried letting go<br />
<br />
but the lines need tending.<br />
Lineament of land,<br />
your hand,<br />
the shape and contour of it all<br />
<br />
holds me close, close now,<br />
memory. Not so long ago<br />
someone made these lines.<br />
Could it have been us?NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-11608466935889810882013-12-15T10:07:00.000-08:002013-12-16T05:42:23.878-08:00Tempered<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--EndFragment-->NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-63322132101818331432013-05-27T10:36:00.001-07:002013-05-27T10:36:29.339-07:00A Good Year <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQyTc5tin9F8sJ7ojOJrreyXmaeLxZRMZEWGzC4U3POYidQgfEGxwqTaMJFwgXKLdjVl7JxdFjTMbsh_ax4LPJBApCJqYXKNMajIemThderEuBAoeBUGbG_NS6D4pzooowA-v/s1600/smalliris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQyTc5tin9F8sJ7ojOJrreyXmaeLxZRMZEWGzC4U3POYidQgfEGxwqTaMJFwgXKLdjVl7JxdFjTMbsh_ax4LPJBApCJqYXKNMajIemThderEuBAoeBUGbG_NS6D4pzooowA-v/s400/smalliris.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For Iris</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-23078606791261552402013-03-05T07:38:00.000-08:002013-03-05T07:41:18.091-08:00Companionship at the Edge<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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It is easier, I think, to believe in reincarnation.<br />Especially on these days when the wasting<br />gets to us in spite of our best intentions<br />or maybe the hoary yellowed nails of such well used feet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We know fully that someday they will be our feet.<br />Today we pay forward through the necessary gate—fear,<br />always the silent partner in the room, theirs and ours.<br />We distract it with our laughter, or listening, if only to
the breath.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hands on or not, whatever is needed in the moment<br />this work reminds us that the only thing that matters<br />is this particular moment.<br />We all have our uses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grateful to have found ours<br />we know the gift here is that which the person close by<br />in the bed, or recliner in this room brings us<br />during the unfolding transition they allow us to share.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This is an occasional piece written on request this last weekend for a newsletter for hospice volunteers.</span><br />
<h3>
</h3>
<!--EndFragment-->NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-54804401215990986062013-01-01T08:35:00.000-08:002013-01-01T08:40:44.756-08:00Happy New Year!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHNsICIlVc6SYtHC9SzEFREJu7gsbliQvym8rbPFn5bQ_Z_rPCaQnGoNhP900-_ez0vB0Tk0WhyMClqwyksfQEvG1CGi2t8xFdYVhBqijRocNvTP7b-z-XqrgxFS37uPM3UAY/s1600/underconstruction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHNsICIlVc6SYtHC9SzEFREJu7gsbliQvym8rbPFn5bQ_Z_rPCaQnGoNhP900-_ez0vB0Tk0WhyMClqwyksfQEvG1CGi2t8xFdYVhBqijRocNvTP7b-z-XqrgxFS37uPM3UAY/s320/underconstruction.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I sit in a chair just like this one, with tattered dark red padding on the seat that was Mr. Finch's chair the last few years of his life. My life without him is still under construction, what with a slightly more than full time job that is populated with odd people and stress, just finishing up my 200 hour yoga teacher training course, teaching class once a week at aforementioned weird workplace and trying to focus on poetry, the memoir that Mr. Finch (Andrew) so wanted written and photography. <br />
<br />
I go to the local Stonehenge Galleries poetry reading on the second Sunday of each month and enjoy that tenuous connection into the life in poetry. More and more I've begun to think of poetry as a joyous affliction. It strikes all sorts of unsuspecting folks and how we manifest this affliction is most fascinating. I've started a micro-blog <a href="http://nokorose.blogspot.com/">here</a>, which has a photo a day and a link to keep me in the mix.<br />
<br />
Besides missing the bird guy, and finding the frustrations at work challenging, and the concerns of living with older cats and fretting about my siblings as they face their own challenges, I am happy. Maybe that is why I am not writing as much. <br />
<br />
Not to worry, this too will change. :)<br />
<br />
The very best wishes to all of you for a sparkling year brimming with ease, laughter and that joyous feeling of having nailed the perfect line. NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-83236760592838669112012-11-24T17:55:00.002-08:002012-11-24T17:55:38.464-08:00Thanksgiving<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG47LdRYC_JL2SWqfT3K1Vxi5B3Y0sLhA2d6NfEtrmV9YeW8mIPOULnCixieTdtIpEBO-SiSTKR2UyBEFG0yvIOSZhZYzrXJizUhcupb0H0sT24lMFLnofwQNszWDVg2CCdif6/s1600/mulch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG47LdRYC_JL2SWqfT3K1Vxi5B3Y0sLhA2d6NfEtrmV9YeW8mIPOULnCixieTdtIpEBO-SiSTKR2UyBEFG0yvIOSZhZYzrXJizUhcupb0H0sT24lMFLnofwQNszWDVg2CCdif6/s320/mulch.jpg" /></a></div>
Hope yours was joyful.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-65317020444802455992012-08-27T13:35:00.000-07:002012-08-27T13:36:33.089-07:00Dahlia August 26th 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOR-rK2Y9bthYDum8TB3mspU4nuPWy0abR5odnC9zXU-njlShbOfBnhUX_Izgf7LZCFKU63KtXaCvGaplJjUzChzLVQpJP0VhfeapR9gRcCquNOsiLHE9bBt_TLO-jzDLS6zo/s1600/fullscreend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="242" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOR-rK2Y9bthYDum8TB3mspU4nuPWy0abR5odnC9zXU-njlShbOfBnhUX_Izgf7LZCFKU63KtXaCvGaplJjUzChzLVQpJP0VhfeapR9gRcCquNOsiLHE9bBt_TLO-jzDLS6zo/s320/fullscreend.jpg" /></a></div>SE Portland garden yesterday during our Sunday Parkways ride.
NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-45539526394884683062012-07-23T19:50:00.001-07:002012-08-18T18:32:47.776-07:00The Secret Tribe of the Horse PeopleNot what you think;<br>
some canyon dwelling<br>
corn beer drinking<br>
hardy indigenous folk.<br>
<br>
Not julep in hand<br>
milliner’s best-dressed<br>
veranda lounging<br>
owners of well-bred genes.<br>
<br>
Not poster swooning<br>
young women brush in hand<br>
willing to groom their way<br>
into the local stable.<br>
<br>
Not a farrier, vet or jockey,<br>
or creative trainer<br>
with a syringe full<br>
of snake venom up his sleeve.<br>
<br>
No confederation of track<br>
habitués or cowboys<br>
or purveyor of pointy toed boots<br>
for one day in May.<br>
<br>
No, the horse people<br>
know who they are<br>
by suffering the blessing<br>
and indignities of being born<br>
<br>
human, in frail bodies<br>
with two legs,<br>
poorly designed knees<br>
that over time can’t carry<br>
<br>
the wild desire to run.<br>
Where running is everything<br>
the whole world is movement,<br>
grass, sunlight, the herd.<br>
<br>
Trapped in bodies that speak<br>
only of limitations<br>
aching for the Steppes, a windswept<br>
island separated from the coast.<br>
<br>
They clutch a whiskey, or vodka,<br>
listen for rhythmic drumming<br>
of hoof beats, almost imperceptibly<br>
widen their nostrils and shake their inadequate heads.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-69443913154355883822012-07-04T07:43:00.000-07:002012-07-04T07:45:43.568-07:00Raptor Rapture Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEefyQbhooqpGfzLQqIXtrqBX_Jkcn244NSRQuGfLfIwSREJxYr0i-1DePHwyQ4Kq2L5i7VQkRC5Q18Pk5pgMbX6lsvsIJqVbDIu_NKQ1Z3nA-sh8vrZTUa2cRzMe6n1YyBnLT/s1600/theo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEefyQbhooqpGfzLQqIXtrqBX_Jkcn244NSRQuGfLfIwSREJxYr0i-1DePHwyQ4Kq2L5i7VQkRC5Q18Pk5pgMbX6lsvsIJqVbDIu_NKQ1Z3nA-sh8vrZTUa2cRzMe6n1YyBnLT/s320/theo.jpg" /></a></div>
<center>Last Sunday afternoon over at OMSI.</center>NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-75710054591672675692012-07-04T07:40:00.000-07:002012-07-09T08:52:53.727-07:00The Fourth of JulyIts half past hydrangea on the flower clock, the lilies are coming on. My mother’s birthday, though, she’s long gone. But you…<br>
<br>
Three jobs between us we both have the same day off. A picnic, you say, in the park cross the way, we won’t get lost in the dark.<br>
<br>
First we must provision, a baguette, some Brie, a blanket, of course, and thee. We head off to the store where we’d been a million times before.<br>
<br>
Except this once you didn’t see the crazy curb sticking out to protect the tree. I did, but then it was too late to shout.<br>
<br>
The tire came off the rim the way we hit. You backed off angry, scared enough to spit, the energy between us dark as you maneuvered us into a lopsided park.<br>
<br>
It was the mark of us, our style, to fret and snipe and bark while waiting for the Triple A I had so recently purchased on a self-protective lark.<br>
<br>
A passerby might see distress, the not all right, but would they know we couldn’t hold back the change to come with all our might?<br>
<br>
You’d been tired we knew, the jobs exhausted you, your vision narrowed, the periphery gone somehow, a mystery<br>
<br>
A stroke I worried, and you the dreaded C, but instead we spoke of those we knew and family. Slowly home on the spare we went<br>
<br>
To stretch out in the long grass, spent. With a combined effort we tried to keep the topic light, then out of the blue you began to recite<br>
<br>
In order your living sibling's names. So many brothers, not so much blame as families go. We must have known this chat would frame<br>
<br>
The next few months as contact was made with them about the facts of your prognosis and desires in the time ahead and all the fires<br>
<br>
Left to be put out. When the Navy-man came for your pre-surgical labs later in the week, we all marveled at the grace that came to us on that specific street.<br>
<br>
No tree, nor child, or car, or bike came to harm as the Fates took flight to circle round the rest of this particular life<br>
<br>
To offer an end to all your pain and weary making strife.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-25872207841126358792012-05-24T14:38:00.001-07:002012-05-24T14:38:48.700-07:00My Current Favorite<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbBV_b5FHiDQ0Uyr840knfNuVj3mO5xRwKi35bZdQ7C_ob1KStvl1uH7J_7rp1E0R2yXgQtmZzS1V5zZCdrqVuUA7BrkbUT9laWxW8Oj8WUhN7fDyQusiShDp-Gs56wyBg_eX/s1600/fullcopper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbBV_b5FHiDQ0Uyr840knfNuVj3mO5xRwKi35bZdQ7C_ob1KStvl1uH7J_7rp1E0R2yXgQtmZzS1V5zZCdrqVuUA7BrkbUT9laWxW8Oj8WUhN7fDyQusiShDp-Gs56wyBg_eX/s320/fullcopper.jpg" /></a></div>
This is the Copper Beech up the street. This is a spring shot, not winter.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-24943819452782136572012-04-15T16:38:00.001-07:002012-04-15T16:40:26.165-07:00The Perfect Weekend Away<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnbJ1PkYY4ZQRuBAldERq7mzVBtCJLke3YoJSAoE1JqHJudihs7Wm7TA8nDMhx6d9TndMnAXDo6TqyGgn9Y7zb-dykGjHyjd9tN2Tom9JPnfLgS-1rgwWovAYsqlSCNz_e7NE/s1600/pc041312.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnbJ1PkYY4ZQRuBAldERq7mzVBtCJLke3YoJSAoE1JqHJudihs7Wm7TA8nDMhx6d9TndMnAXDo6TqyGgn9Y7zb-dykGjHyjd9tN2Tom9JPnfLgS-1rgwWovAYsqlSCNz_e7NE/s320/pc041312.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731776404201336930" /></a>Pacific City Oregon April 13 21012NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-24528883635449805472012-02-04T10:59:00.001-08:002012-02-08T06:55:16.433-08:00The Next Block DownWestern Gulls sit in a line on the pitched roof of the old neighborhood temple waiting for the demented woman two houses east to throw bread out her broken dining room window with glee.<br /><br />Crows in bare trees, on wires carefully avoid the opportunity for entanglement a pair of tied together shoes thrown up there by the gamer college boys across the street presents.<br /><br />Somebody’s father who can’t smoke inside the restored tinderbox historic apartments sweeps the sidewalk with ferocious intensity that shows up the grounded crabapples next door.<br /><br />Pink buds strain south towards the low winter light on the unruly camellia bush, ignore battered bikes, abandoned art projects in the messy yard it is trying to grow out of.<br /><br />Serene, the perfectly painted in olive with two-color accents well-heeled four-plex on the corner shows her restoration with clean dignity as the roots of the huge mimosa tree facing her make their forceful way to China.<br /><br />Quietly, the low slung house full of light, first library in the neighborhood, endures benign neglect from the active young couple who paid way too much for her at the very top of the market.<br /><br />The heart of this small world resides in the proud yellow house built next to the temple for a non-Jewish caretaker who could then do maintenance on the Sabbath. Not showing her age to strangers she reigns…<br /><br />Watching over us with good will and humor she would comment to anyone who knew to ask that life is about enjoying every moment we have and accepting loss with cheerful well-groomed grace.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-20660370688790563102011-12-04T14:04:00.000-08:002011-12-04T14:06:03.862-08:00Early December<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUDJgQ9iRAElVnzqNIFWang35uu_f3H2xYCvmn5jYUZIt6xqGZSm4kOZWLGnOxQfxD5hcCPhML_d_8UyXx3wOouMhRU-ho-QZ6GzPTWeGmdb5mvGA1K4gJjSgimnTjGKO_Y2J/s1600/earlydec.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUDJgQ9iRAElVnzqNIFWang35uu_f3H2xYCvmn5jYUZIt6xqGZSm4kOZWLGnOxQfxD5hcCPhML_d_8UyXx3wOouMhRU-ho-QZ6GzPTWeGmdb5mvGA1K4gJjSgimnTjGKO_Y2J/s320/earlydec.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682397856704024018" /></a>NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-35985564227211530072011-11-12T17:25:00.000-08:002011-11-12T17:27:09.640-08:00Concessions of GraceThe barefoot nuns<br />considered unmarriageable<br />by their wealthy families<br />laughed in the garden<br />as they tended particular myrtles<br />and their exotic flowers<br />that would dry into cloves<br /><br />Tonight the chapel master <br />was returning from Italy<br />with new music for them to sing<br /><br />Elsewhere, the territorial spirits<br />were taking dominion over<br />the steadfast but ever-changing moon<br /><br />To them it is all a texture of sounds<br />They stand resolutely in front<br />of the gates of paradise stuck open<br />with the grit of ages<br /><br />Conversing with the fates<br />what they do not have <br />is visible everywhere<br /><br />The seductions of certainty<br />Red-twigged dogwoods<br />Mr. Saltmarsh and Mr. Squadron <br />build a particle accelerator <br />out of a kitchen chair <br />a clothes rack<br />a pie pan<br /><br />Let the bear decide<br />The nuns pick oranges to preserve<br />for the children on their Saint’s Day<br /><br />Their bruised hands push cloves <br />into the fragrant flesh<br />one by oneNokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-26162469745819721562011-10-06T09:29:00.001-07:002011-10-06T09:29:44.707-07:00The Nobel PrizeI am very happy that Tomas Transtromer won the prize! I so admire his work. Truly I do.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-40583638792398255682011-09-22T08:37:00.000-07:002011-09-22T08:43:18.554-07:00Post Reading HighThanks to everyone who came to the reading last night! I had fun.<br><br>
It was the first time I have ever had this long a time slot to read my poetry in (35 minutes) and it was an interesting and useful exercise in preparing for the reading to create a narrative line that bound the poems together. In this particular case the narrative was about my complicated and rewarding relationship that was all about poetry with Andrew.<br><br>
So many times, most times we go to a reading and the poet reads one poem, maybe with a little comment and then another, maybe with another comment and in the end we get a somewhat disjointed view of the body of work.<br><br>
And reading is all about the body.The physical body and the body of work.<br><br>
As far as I am concerned it is about respect too. Respecting the folks that have shown up and are listening to you. I have just barely heard a number of featured readers in the last five months or so since I have been back in the mix. Mumbling, never looking at the audience, swallowing words, etc. etc.<br><br>
I know reading in public is difficult. It takes a different skill set then writing the darn poems. But please, if you are going to do it, think a little about the experience of your audience...<br><br>
This morning I feel this unusual for me sensation of delight and accomplishment.<br><br>
Absolutely lovely.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19311954.post-67390357951989725822011-09-01T08:56:00.000-07:002011-09-01T09:04:54.023-07:00Join Me September 21st!Do join me on Wednesday September 21st at <a href="http://www.stjohnsbooks.com/" target="_blank">St. John's Booksellers </a> at 8622 N Lombard Portland at 7pm for my new chapbook launch and Featured Poetry Reading.
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<br />There will an Open Mic afterwards so bring a poem or two of your own.NokoRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04542583648189357701noreply@blogger.com1