Happy New Year!

Two of my new dolls, "Draculaura & Frankie Stein".

 “May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.” ― Neil Gaiman

And I'm adding these to Mr. Gaiman's list:  Read, buy & write lots of poetry, play with dolls, moonbathe, grow flowers, do something that scares you, pray, play in the rain, don't act your age, sit on a truck tailgate and swing your legs, rescue a pet, give away stuff, tell a friend you love them, make peace with the past, skip down the street, live moment by moment and most of all LOVE & FORGIVE (especially yourself) with all your heart, mind, soul and being.  xo

Love & Hugs,
Marion

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.~T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

BLANK BEAUTY
By Judith Pordon

Beautiful blank pages
kiss our
imaginations
with backgrounds
that demand precision.

Our black letters cross
on tightrope lines,
curving
without wavering
across deep, invisible currents.

These beautiful blank pages
are promises of our
reflections
Our gentlest strokes.

-------------------------------

"The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes."  ~André Gide, Journals, 1894

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The Hymn of a Fat Woman by Joyce Huff

 

The Hymn of a Fat Woman

By Joyce Huff

All of the saints starved themselves.
Not a single fat one.
The words “deity” and “diet” must have come from the same
Latin root.
Those saints must have been thin as knucklebones
or shards of stained
glass or Christ carved
on his cross.
Hard
as pew seats. Brittle
as hair shirts. Women
made from bone, like the ribs that protrude from his wasted
wooden chest. Women consumed
by fervor.

They must have been able to walk three or four abreast
down that straight and oh-so-narrow path.
They must have slipped with ease through the eye
of the needle, leaving the weighty
camels stranded at the city gate.
Within that spare city’s walls,
I do not think I would find anyone like me.
I imagine I will find my kind outside
lolling in the garden
munching on the apples.
-------------------------------

"The Temptation of St. Anthony" by Salvador Dali

Sweet Potato Souffle

The BEST dish ever...even if you're not crazy about sweet potatoes, you'll love this dish.  Ignore that line about adding raisins and/or coconut.  They're optional and not in my recipe:

My ratty old, well-used cookbook recipe.  (Like I said, ignore the raisins and cocount).

Make sure you drain off all of the liquid if you use a large can of cooked sweet potatoes.  I broke in my new KitchenAid mixer with this annual holiday dish at Thanksgiving.

Spread whipped potatoe mixture in an oven-safe casserole dish.

Mix the topping separately, adding the melted butter last and stirring till it holds together, then spread with a spoon on top of the sweet potato mixture.  It will be lumpy and thick.

And, voila, the final product. 

Enjoy!

Winter Haiku

A Cardinal in my icy Cypress tree last winter.  A Mourning Dove in the angel bird feeder.

The wind chimes shiver,

touched by winter’s frosty breath.

A Cardinal sings.

~Marion

Strange Woman by Jill Essbaum

'Pandora's Box' by John Waterhouse

Strange Woman

By Jill Essbaum
After Proverbs 7

She searches the sky for a god who will reach down and love her.
She seeks the arms of a lust that would stretch out to have her.
She shudders like a whore in a rickety chair.
She plaits ribbons of pain in her hair.

She sings unruly songs in strident keys.
Her feet abide in no man’s custody.
She is pity’s shabby bride, and lechery’s courtesan.
Mistress of a never-to-rise-again sun.

She tinctures her wines according to your desires.
In her bed, Hell is always and only fire.
You can set her apart like surfeit, delirious tither.
But no. She won’t be faithful to you either.

But hearken: The Goodman is gone and she will flatter you.
Use her. She will let you.

----------------------------

"Some men know that a light touch of the tongue, running from a woman's toes to her ears, lingering in the softest way possible in various places in between, given often enough and sincerely enough, would add immeasurably to world peace."  ~Marianne Williamson, "A Woman's Worth"

Moth & Dragonfly by Marion

My blue/green dragonfly friend.

Pink Sphinx Moth drinking from my Moonflower.

Moth and Dragonfly
By Marion

Night, she awoke me
whispering in my ear
wake up, wake up, dragonfly.
Danger is near.

I’m glad we
weren’t born sparrows
because sparrows can be caged;
I’m glad we weren’t born mortals
because mortals bleed and age.

I flew up from my slumber,
the silence unlike other nights
and found his wings there beating
against love’s too bright light.

I’m glad we
weren’t born sparrows
because sparrows can be caged;
I’m glad we aren’t mere mortals
because mortals bleed and age.

I soared to him and told him
light would burn his delicate wings
if he didn’t move back from it,
he would soon die from its sting.

And I’m glad we
weren’t born sparrows
because sparrows can be caged;
I’m glad we’re moth and dragonfly
and don’t know love’s light fades.

1/2010

-------------------------------------

Oh, Earth, Wait For Me by Pablo Neruda

One of the best books I've ever read in my life.  Defies genre and transports the reader...  "The Wood Wife" by Terri Windling.

Oh, Earth, Wait For Me

By Pablo Neruda

Return me, oh sun,
to my wild destiny,
rain of the ancient wood
bring me back the aroma and the swords
that fall from the sky,
the solitary peace of pasture and rock,
the damp at the river-margins,
the smell of the larch tree,
the wind alive like a heart
beating in the crowded restlessness
of the towering araucaria.

Earth, give me back your pure gifts,
the towers of silence which rose
from the solemnity of their roots.
I want to go back to being what I have not been,
and learn to go back from such deeps
that amongst all natural things
I could live or not live; it does not matter
to be one stone more, the dark stone,
the pure stone which the river bears away.

~Pablo Neruda

(Poem excerpted in “The Wood Wife” by Terri Windling, pages 130, 131)

=======================

Evening

 

The sky puts on the darkening blue coat
held for it by a row of ancient trees;
you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight,
one journeying to heaven, one that falls;

 

and leave you, not at home in either one,
not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,
not calling to eternity with the passion
of what becomes a star each night, and rises;

 

and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)
your life, with its immensity and fear,
so that, now bounded, now immeasurable,
it is alternatively stone in you and star.

 

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

 

Excerpted from "The Wood Wife" by Terri Windling, pages 131, 132

 

=======================

Please, please, please...this is my burning desire:  "Return me, oh sun, to my wild destiny..."

little tree by e. e. cummings

little tree

by e. e. cummings

Little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don't be afraid

look the spangles

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i'll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they'll stare!

oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we'll dance and sing

"Noel Noel”

***********************

Remember
this December,
that love weighs more than gold.  ~Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon

***********************

Frenzy by Anne Sexton & Psalm 91

Frenzy

By Anne Sexton

I am not lazy.

I am on the amphetamine of the soul.

I am, each day,

typing out the God

my typewriter believes in.

Very quick. Very intense,

like a wolf at a live heart.

Not lazy.

When a lazy man, they say,

looks toward heaven,

the angels close the windows.

Oh angels,

keep the windows open

so that I may reach in

and steal each object,

objects that tell me the sea is not dying,

objects that tell me the dirt has a life-wish,

that the Christ who walked for me,

walked on true ground

and that this frenzy,

like bees stinging the heart all morning,

will keep the angels

with their windows open,

wide as an English bathtub.

******************************

Dear God,

I have been a razor poised

on my own delicate wrists

and I have pushed until

my brilliant red blood trickled

like crimson tears

down my arm onto the filthy

floor.

I have been the bleeding arm

and the tear-stained,

copper-tasting blood.

I have been without hope and

emptier than an atheist’s soul.

I have laid me down to sleep

and prayed for death and not

to wake.

And yet you came.

You came when I cried out,

alone, hopeless & dying

and you gave me hope

and washed me with your

gentle love,

bandaging my broken,

barely beating heart with

your most tender words & then

hiding me under your wings

like a mother bird

until the world felt safe

once again.

How can I not be heartbroken

& so fucking sad when others

who've never known

your salvation---the hardcore,

life-saving kind---

disregard you and spit

in your face?  But then,

I guess you're used to that.

I will always love you

and worship you

as if my life depends on it---

because it does.

Marion 12/4/11

_____________________

Psalm 91

 ¹ Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
      will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
 ² This I declare about the Lord:
   He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
      he is my God, and I trust him.
 ³ For he will rescue you from every trap
      and protect you from deadly disease.
 ⁴ He will cover you with his feathers.
      He will shelter you with his wings.
      His faithful promises are your armor and protection.
 ⁵ Do not be afraid of the terrors of the night,
      nor the arrow that flies in the day.
 ⁶ Do not dread the disease that stalks in darkness,
      nor the disaster that strikes at midday.
 ⁷ Though a thousand fall at your side,
      though ten thousand are dying around you,
      these evils will not touch you.
 ⁸ Just open your eyes,
      and see how the wicked are punished.
 ⁹ If you make the Lord your refuge,
      if you make the Most High your shelter,
 ¹⁰ no evil will conquer you;
      no plague will come near your home.
 ¹¹ For he will order his angels
      to protect you wherever you go.
 ¹² They will hold you up with their hands
      so you won’t even hurt your foot on a stone.
 ¹³ You will trample upon lions and cobras;
      you will crush fierce lions and serpents under your feet!
 ¹⁴ The Lord says, “I will rescue those who love me.
      I will protect those who trust in my name.
 ¹⁵ When they call on me, I will answer;
      I will be with them in trouble.
      I will rescue and honor them.
 ¹⁶ I will reward them with a long life
      and give them my salvation.”

R.I.P. Cody, The World's Best Dog Ever

We'll miss you every single day and so will all of your cats.

Books

By Sara King

Don't say you'd mourn my passing.
You a writer, and a liar.
Writers are the worst of liars---
their audience has no face,
so they don't have to smile,
don't have to weep,
don't even pretend to love.


I know you will forget me
while I sleep with the worms.
You have forgotten me already
and I am breathing still,
here in the wet leaves and wind,
you, hiding somewhere in the city,
behind Dostoyevsky and cognac.


If only I were a book,
then maybe you would read my body---
run your eyes right to left
over my flesh,
bury your face
in the pages of my breasts.


But I am only a bookmark---
a place to rest
when you are reluctantly tangled,
you,
a voracious reader,
me,
a vicarious lover. 

Your Heart Was My Home Until You Handed Me An Eviction Notice

by Amanda Bower

I removed the layers of blankets from my aching bones

to excavate the secrets that were held together by saliva

in papier-mâché envelopes, only to chew on disappointments

and lie on shards of fragile stained glass that tampered with my flaws,

instead of putting me back together with multicolored duct tape

so gray was only found inside of my body.

I wrung the tears from your sweatshirt and decided it was time

to give it back to you, in exchange for my serpent heart

[barely beating,

barely breathing];

instead of curling inside your stomach and making you

nearly as ill as I had become, just by drinking venomous nectar

and digesting fireflies so a small portion of me would feel alive,

I climbed over your picket fence and let you recline my eyes

in another awkward position to the point where I only chain-smoked

the main exhibits of your aesthetic proportions and declined

every deficiency of the person you truly are,

i. blunt