DSCN1947Water’s ways

sculpted wood

polished bone

etched in stone


water whispers its way

springs source to sea

runoff to river

to water-




through rifts

soaks down

oceans answer

an ancient calling

water falling


with time, tide

water’s atoms

carve out continents


drop by



water’s ways remain

the same


through states through time

water finds a way


Apex predator

*A glosa is a form that pays tribute to another poet. It borrows lines from his or her poem to end each stanza of the glosa’s four 10-line stanzas. 


Rubbing its back upon the window panes ;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet ;

There will be time to murder and create.

            -T. S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock


In its heart it holds

stolen moments.

Streams of seconds

run through its veins,

muscles of minutes

wrapped around hollow bones.

It stretches, falling

like shadow over ancient stones

prowls carelessly, leaving smudges and stains,

Rubbing its back upon the window panes. 


Quietly stalks

sheltered in silence,

a kind of muted violence

In darkness it steals minutes

tears seconds from life

like flesh from bone

in its greed takes hours,

even days months and years

Always invisible, Time

is appetite and crime.

There will be time, there will be time


Creates rifts

in lives, leaves

skeletal memories

fragile fragments

of remembrance

people staring at their feet,

misunderstanding and Time hanging

between them like a wall.

Time, insufficient, ever incomplete

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet ;


In a cruel twist of fate

it stands still

claws retracted,

curls up in a corner

suddenly sedate

leaving life

stuck on repeat

awaiting the end

so make your choices choose your fate

There will be time to murder and create.




For the love of place,

Topographies of faces,

And of sacred spaces


Tracing footsteps,

Traces of dust and sand

Across the land,

Tracing steps

Back to their roots


Roots anchored deep

In the entrails of the land

Entangled in the past

The present and the future


Rugged coastlines

And curving spines

Of ancient mountains


Mapping out trails


Crossing rails


From ancient times


The ebb and flow

Of time, of tides


Memories of faces

But do even

Sacred places

Remain the same?

Paris, France

La Tour Eiffel et la Seine

Nous avons débuté notre journée avec une tournée en bateau-mouche, sur la Seine. En sortant du métro près de la rive nous avons tout de suite aperçu la Tour Eiffel. 

Du bateau, nous avons aperçu beaucoup de bâtiments et monuments, mais aussi une multitude de ponts.


Des ponts!

Nous nous sommes aussi promenés près des champs Elysees, visité la Cathédrale Notre-Dame, et nous avons emprunté des vélos (un service de la ville de Paris) afin de se rendre aux Tuileries. Personne ne porte des casques d’en Europe, ni en France, ni en Allemagne…

Promenade près de la Seine

Promenade près de la Seine

Chemin pour vélos

Chemin pour vélos



Samuel de Champlain, parmi les premiers français à mettre pied sur le canada

Samuel de Champlain, parmi les premiers français à mettre pied sur le canada

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris- très beau!

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris- très beau!

Demain matin nous partons pour Poitiers et ensuite, LaRochelle!








Ship on the Rhein

Ship on the Rhein

Bikes everywhere

Bikes everywhere

We landed yesterday morning at the airport in Frankfurt, dopey with jet lag and overwhelmed by the sheer amount off people. After taking a fast train to Colongne,reunited with our mother and happy to see our grandfather and his wife, we spent much of the day walking around so as not to fall asleep asleep.

We dodged so many cyclists and were amazed at the bike culture in Cologne- as a pedestrian, there is a real danger of getting run over!

Now we are in Paris, tired and excited for tomorrow.


Wolkenbruch, (german).  A cloud breaking.



The River fuller than I remember it, waves rolling towards the shore and washing up against the rushes, on the doorstep of our old home.


Then, a break in the clouds and the sky takes on a pale blue with dark purple-blue clouds, like bruises, crowding the edges.



Kingfishers, -assumed descendants of a certain individual named Charlie-, chatter as they swoop into over the water and perch along the shore. The Charlies have lived along this river for as long as I can remember, and so has the heron.  Long-legged, long-necked, he clears the treetops, his pterodactyl-like figure surprisingly graceful both on land and in the sky. Every summer they, the River, the oak trees, the old house, they’re all still there, just like before. Just older, bigger, smaller, wilder, more run-down.


In the morning, bare feet trampling thyme,

Time here always too short,

Tabusintac, Taboosimgeg, till we meet again.


Like beached whales

Like beached whales