Bella grooming

new camera purchased recently, Pentax DSLR, K10D, lens a k mount SMC Pentax 50mm f1.4 manual lens

one of the attractions of the Pentax DSLR cameras is the ability to use older Pentax lenses in Aperture Priority mode.  That old glass lives again.

Poem – Nothing to do with Zen

Nothing to do with Zen


This poem has nothing to do with Richard Brautigan

After the rain fell for a year
I began to notice puddles were nothing new.
You told me I would begin to realize these things.
I was feeling the great ache. A new version.
Upgradable to wisdom for a price.
Pray for us now and all the hours
until we reach a safe place.
The cat knows what that is.
When did I lose my last molecule of patience.
The snow was trying to be rain
And failing against my windshield.
we use words
to dissect our experience,
put distance and padding and forgetfulness
between ourselves and the present. We know.
We spent time figuring out the past —
     the outcome tax calculation
                the night before the filing deadline.
Counting. The annual
comedy fest evolves curiously.
You know what I mean.
A gurgle and a giggle and the pushing rush of all that
turned inside out

like your sweater that you rushed
to pull off,

the miracle of that everyday magic trick.
Strong hands and patient eyes.

And when the sun goes out
like an old light bulb when you switch it and it says gone

in a joke without a punch line. .
You nod like an old soldier in the front

     of an old fire    in an old chair
and the kitten attacks the dancing
fire flickers   on the black tile     before the fireplace
       in a home you knew.

So many obstacles, none of them
    created by anyone else.
Must be elves, no
          and not escaped midgets from the circus.
All my work.
    It is only love.

It is only joy and another roll
through the car wash for souls.
I have a coupon for two.


51 F as the January Thaw continues

thunder and lightning yesterday and rain overnight, this was taken at 9 am on January 8 2008

it is supposed to stay super mild for another few days

Georgian Bay ice may melt and at least part of it open up

Poem – Right Now I Call It Love

Right Now, I Call It Love


I think of you

And my wrist watch begins to howl

Like the last angry wolf

In a bad cartoon.

This is no cat and dog fight

With punctuation marks in

Dialogue balloons.


There is a pin and we are stuck.

You are going through a difficult time.

It feels like you are sailing an ocean cruiser

Through a tunnel

And I am running ahead stringing flash bulbs

That go off after you have passed.

My Australian crawl is improving daily.

You keep changing blindfolds.

Simplicity is a small town in Brazil.


I meditate, drink Diet Pepsi, say things

Behind the wheel of my car

That Theologians could not catalogue.

I miss you at night. I miss you

At the damnedest moments of the day.


It is a hobby few are cultivating.

When I understand everything

I will give it a new name.

Right now, I call it love.

Everything will be all right. 

My dogs tell me this.

They know everything.

My friend, the orange cat,

Knows them personally.


In an earlier life, I was his cat.

And he was a zen buddhist monk

Or the most beautiful woman

With red hair and I would watch

The men try to love her.



Poem – Apartment


Their first apartment or was it the second.
Montreal in 1949.
My mother looks at the photo.
It is 1995. The outside shot
My sister stopped playing
To look at the camera.

“That’s where we moved to,” my mother says.
“We didn’t have two sticks
of furniture to rub together.”

I look at her eyes looking at the photo.
“A table and two chairs. A bed and the crib.”
Her head shakes. She does not smile.
Holds the photo album on her lap.
Her wheelchair rolled up
to the good light.

Poem – The Can’t Story

The Can’t Story


It has come up many times.

A traditional story like the one

About me giving away my big sister’s tricycle

When I was three to a boy who asked for it.


My sister taking

the Red Cross swimming lessons.

Taking the tests for lifeguard.

Crying in the water,

Saying she can’t.

My mother, the Swedish Viking woman,

The lumberjack’s daughter,

Standing on the balcony spectator level

Leaning over the rail and using

The Norse battle voice

Pushing her will

Over the rail

Through the air

To my sister

In the water.


“I don’t want to hear can’t.

You can.”


She did.