October 2012

Weird31 Oct 2012 06:47 pm

Saute an chopped onion in some butter. To me, a soup recipe should always start with onion in butter, and then add something, anything, it doesn’t really matter. But for this soup, you’re going to add pork. I don’t know how much pork, as much as you have.  You would be hard pressed to add too much.  Cut the pork into cubes and brown it in the butter with the onion.  Then add water to cover, a teaspoon or two of salt, and bring to a boil.  Add a can or two of pumpkin.  No, I can’t be more specific, you have to see if the stew is thick enough. I suppose it’s better if you have some wonderful pumpkin left over from your carving, but pumpkins good for carving and pumpkins good for cooking don’t always overlap. Besides, one of the messages of Samhain is that life is short, and so we are going to use canned pumpkin.

Add maple syrup, pomegranate juice, and bourbon. If you know your ancestors’ brand of bourbon, get that. The bourbon adds a nice flavor to the stew, but I use it because my ancestors have always liked it and it brings them around. I used about a quarter cup of maple syrup and bourbon and a half cup of pomegranate juice but since I didn’t measure the pork I started off with, that probably doesn’t mean much to you. Use as much as you like.  Lower the heat and simmer for an hour or two or three, or until you’re ready to eat.  This stew can cook for days.  You will see the ancestors gathering around after a while, sniffing the air and gossiping. Just before serving, sprinkle a handful of pomegranate seeds in the bowl so they will still be crisp.

Serve with a side of starch, potatoes or bread or rice.  Serve your family, and make sure to leave a big bowl for the rest of your family, the ones who are gone that you usually don’t see.  Tell stories about them, and wait for them to break in to correct you.  Listen to what they have to tell you. Love them and remember them.

poem22 Oct 2012 11:43 am
When the Goddess of Light
dropped the rod of glass
with which she controlled the sun,
it shattered into a million splinters
raining down from the brilliant sky,
each one remaining a magic rod in its own right.

When the splinters fell on the heads of women,
they became rod cells,
inserting their subtle vision into innocent eyes.
For the women,
only glimpses emerged
from the thick dark shadows of chance.
For their daughters, however,
the future bloomed with color and light
against which mortal motion
was mere shadowplay.

When the girl cracked her head
on the playground bench, no one thought anything of it
until she lost count of the healer’s fingers
flickering through infinite possibilities.

When the blood stopped
and the wound faded to a wasp-waisted scar,
the double vision remained.
She could see the past out of one eye
and the future out of the other,
intricately overlain.
She could see separate potentials out of each eye,
and hold them up to some ephemeral sun
to see the differences.
But she could not navigate between them,
nor tell anyone
how to get from here to there.

When the young woman went to the social
at her father’s stern command,
it didn’t take a seer to foretell disaster.
Yet the moment her slippered foot snagged in her moon-blue skirt
and sent her face pitching toward the parquet floor,
a hand appeared beneath her elbow
to save the day.

When the musicians called for a reel,
the young man led his stumbling date into the dance.
He felt the music through the floor,
for he could not hear it with his ears,
and he pulled their four feet into the perfect rhythm.

When the reels changed to a slow dance,
the young woman leaned her head on her date’s shoulder
and closed her eyes.  The future squeezed itself around her
with a strangely familiar grip, and she could
understand it better without the distraction of daylight.

When the young woman pulled away,
it was Time itself that counted the time for her dancing.
Her hips suddenly hung like a pendulum from the clock of fate
and her feet flew through the steps
with flawless grace.

When the young man saw her begin to move
to the beat of a different, hidden drum
he looked down and began to perceive
the decisions scattered like dust at her feet.
Then he remembered his lazy summer afternoons
spent studying the busy bees in their golden ballrooms,
dancing, dancing their way across the combs
as they told off the trip to the nectar fields.
He called out the future in his loud flat voice
and the sages chaperoning the social
hastened to take notes.

When the two were married,
it was no surprise to anyone who knew them,
for their eyes were filled with no one but each other
from the moment they met.
They made their fortune from telling fortunes
and the distant, shifting futures of the land they called home.
Together they made their way
safely through the lengthening days.

When the baby came,
the midwife fussed over her in the usual way,
and failed to notice that she was not a usual babe
as deft hands tucked her away in a dark quiet room.
The baby’s eyes glittered in reflections of invisible light
and her ears twitch, twitch, twitched in pursuit of silent sounds.

poem15 Oct 2012 11:37 am

Instead of noisy static, we hear clear beats

grouped in patterns of seven and eleven.

Our entire team is galvanized; not even

the frequent napper holds back to see who gets

to break this code. At last this is the breech

in the chaos where we’ve plunged our heads

for years. If this is more than just a glitch

in our equipment, we’ll do as it bids.


We work around the clock like beings driven

by unseen forces. Take-out pizza boxes

fill up the lab. All effort goes toward solving

the encrypted message. The smell of pizza mixes

with smells of a gym locker room: not even

the need to run a clean, tight ship relaxes

the grip of this obsession. Where it leads

is up for grabs. In face of all the scads

of data, interpretation lags behind.

Prime numbers turn to other universals –

Planck’s constant, pi, the speed of light. The mind

of each researcher is party to rehearsals

that leap from a quantitative kind

of knowing through sensual feeling parcels

to mountains forests horses starlight art

and magical perceptions of the heart.

poem08 Oct 2012 11:27 am




She slips beyond the reach of man

in torpid heat he kneels to pray

bright-eyed, fevered upon the sand


He casts hook and line with firm hand

in frothing water day by day

she slips beyond the reach of man


He feels the curse as if a brand

the distant gods regard his face

bright-eyed, fevered upon the sand


Sleek siren heeds no human plan

from ships, or sailors’ longing gaze

she slips beyond the reach of man


Bright silver lures her near the strand

the man has hardened in his ways

bright-eyed, fevered upon the sand


The man must feed his hungry clan

pulls food not myth from raging waves

She slips beyond the reach of man

bright-eyed, fevered upon the sand