Madame Eclectica, always one to steal the spotlight,
muscled her way into the life drawing class.
I hope Baba will cut her some slack.
She does look rather fetching, though.
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This is me, the fall fairy.
I bring to the party all manner of dried seeds, pods,
flowers, and grasses, to decorate
Baba’s house and festoon the
Bone Chair.
The Harvest Moon rises behind me
and I am caught in her glow.
I hope to dance with all of you
at the party.
(ps: I did the drawing…that felt good!)

I hope you will enjoy this performance, and my costume. I am a bit early, but this is the only night I shall be in town…

Green Chinese Dresser

In the middle of the night I stretch my arm

up to the top of the green Chinese dresser.
It’s too tall for a bedside table,
but I wanted it close.
My fingers skim the gouge in the smooth lacquer,
one in a list of crimes for which
my ex-husband
was held accountable
in the spring of 1993.
This chest used to hold
silken scarves and gloves,
fancy linens and tiny crystal perfume ampules,
boxes of fine gold jewelry.
My grandmother’s “special-occasion wear”
was perfect for my everyday visits.
After forty years, this dresser is used to me
and my no-longer-small fingers
as I pull the drawer open with a
silken sigh.
But it has changed.
The enigmatic coquette
holding a lotus blossom
has become a marketplace auntie,
holding a basket of bread and fruit.
Glamorous silks and kid gloves
gave way to everyday ephemera.
In these fragrant drawers
my grandmother’s scent lingers,
along with
a diaphragm, pantyhose,
wrinkled photos, receipts,
love letters, scotch tape,
spare buttons, sewing thread,
tiny scissors, nail clippers,
my favorite lotion,
pens, spare beads, warm socks,
and even, once,
a vibrator.
I feel around in the bottom drawer
pull out fuzzy socks.
Slipping them on my feet,
I curl into my warm bed
knowing that the green Chinese dresser
stands tall
close by in the dark.

“This is my power hand.
All the thoughts and colors of the world
are inside it, flowing through
my arteries and veins.
All creativity is a part of me,
and I am organically a part of all
creativity occurring in the world,
now, always, and forever.
I may fear that I have no access to this power
but all I have to do is reach out my
HAND.”
I have not been feeling myself of late, and if you notice
in this self-portrait, there has even been some
serious image corruption.
Obviously there is a ghost in the machine.
Could it be me?
I fear this reflects the corruption of my very soul,
and warn all travellers to beware.
I shall wander the earth on
All Hallow’s Eve,
seeking freedom from
the spell that
has surely
been cast
upon
me.
Or
maybe,
just a spot
of
BLOOD.

Harvest Moon

The moon rises
from the milky bed
of her own luminescence
golden sphere balanced
on the horizon.
I feel the magic of the world.

Harvest my thoughts, oh goddess.
Through the planting season,
beneath bright sun and midnight shade,
with tears and sweat
I laid them down.

Dormant seeds,
some gathered from last year’s crop,
some given,
clutched tightly in my damp palm
and then released,
arcing into the fertile dark loam
of memory.

They crept,
vining their way
across time, space and
my heart,
until I was covered with
green.

Goddess, come to light the harvest.
Thoughts crunch
beneath my feet,
turn to brown
as the circle closes.
The moon is round
and she rises.


her skin the blue of twilight
she slips between
the hours
ferrying messages
between above and below
I saw her today
and gave her a note
it said: I am coming