Update from Pris...via Berenice, Wales.

Friday:
I've just phoned Pris. She is still without power. It's looking like friday of next week or possibly longer. The problem is the damage to the power station serving her area. That is going to take some time to repair. I've told Pris of all your kind replies and she says to tell you that she really appreciates what you have written.

Saturday:
Update via email from a friend. "She has luke warm water for bathing, a camp stove (gas) to heat food, and canned goods. But she is cut off from the world she knows best- her computer, and will be for several more days it looks like at the least. Her voice is pretty shaky, but she's holding up."

I miss Pris hugely and every snippet of information is of great comfort. This is one heck of a tough time for you Pris, I hope you get to read this soon...very soon. I feel honoured to be caretaker of your wonderful blog and to be passer on of news to your friends and readers. Thank you for the privilage. And thank you Joe for keeping me updated with the emails.

Okay...I'm going to put down the duster before I knock another ornament off the shelf and wait patiently for some more news :-) Berenice.

Hotline from Wales...news from Pris.

My name is Berenice, and Pris has asked me to post this on her behalf. I've just been talking to her on the telephone. At this time Pris has no power. The power is out all along the east coast, 100 miles north, down to Miami and around to the west coast. The power people are going round her area assessing the damage. The latest is that it could take from a few days up to a month to restore power, depending on the area and damage. In Pris' local area there aren't any poles down, so that is promising.

I'll be phoning Pris in a day or so, and also have email contact via a friend who will phone her. So I will post here every few days to keep you updated. I am very glad, more than I have words for, that our dear friend Pris made it through this hurricane.

Wilma rapidly approaching

Even though it's just now reaching the west coast of Florida, about four hours from us, tthe wind is gusting outside already. The storm has picked up speed and a few tornados have set down.

Here's the morning Washington Post Online.

I don't know if we'll lose power or not, but the odds are that we will. Yes, I'm nervous. No, I didn't sleep well...not at all since around 3 30. Last year did a number on me with two hits in my area. I hear the word 'hurricane' and my stomach tightens up.

The lights are flickering again. I'll post this and sign off.

Pris

The 'stray' makes more inroads...into house and heart

(click to enlarge)
That stray...the one we weren't going to become involved with? The one who brought her babies into our garage? The one who is now being fed beside her bed in there? Well, here she is inside, confidently drinking from the dog's bowl. Sigh...I think we've adopted a cat.

Wilma due tomorrow. Could be power outages so if I'm not online, I'll be back!

Pris

We are made of stardust...

My special anniversary issue of Smithsonian magazine came yesterday, featuring people over the years who made and are still making a difference. Margaret Burbidge, astronomer, was one of those people.

I quote: Burbidge and her colleagues had provided a map of the routes by which elements heavier that hydrogen and helium are forged within the fiery bellies of the stars. The calcium in our bones, the iron in our blood, and the oxygen we breathe all came from the ashes of ancient stars, which had either exploded as supernovae or died slowly, releasing their matter into the air.

This was verified both in theory and in laboratory experiments.

We are made of stardust. I find this to be a magical statement!

a newborn
cries in the night
twinkling star

Pris

Read more HERE

Small Potatoes

Sirrus Poe, Fiction Editor at Verse Libre and author/poet has a review of my chapbook, Abrasions, in today's Small Potatoes. Thank you, Sirrus. You captured the essence of what I set out to do in this collection very well. I hope each of you will take the time to read his review and to read more from Small Potatoes while there.

Sirrus Poe is also the generous webmaster of Poets Who Support Survivors, linked in my right-hand column, which has already raised a significant amount of money for victims of Katrina. If you click the link and read his offer to poets, you'll see why I use the word, generous.

By the way, for anyone who might be interested in owning my chapbook, it can be ordered from Rank Stranger Press. I should mention that you'll also find excellent books listed there by Jim Chandler, Ron Androla, Carter Monroe, D.B. Cox, Tim Peeler and more.

What Animals Know

Click to enlarge this wonderful photo of a wild gorilla using a stick to measure the depth of a portion of water before she crosses it. While Gorillas who've been captured have demonstrated amazing feats, including both a recognition of human language, as well as an ability to use particular tools or hand signals to communicate back to humans. we continue to see ourselves as the superior race. We continue in too many cases to not give enough credence to the intelligence of the animal kingdom because it cannot speak our language, cannot build rocket ships and bombs, cannot pollute the atmosphere to the point of global warming. Yes, this bothers me. To read more about these wild gorillas, go to this article in The Washington Post Online.

If you could communicate with any animal in the world right now, which one would it be and what question/s might you ask?

Featuring Jim Fowler, the winner of my halloween challenge!

I've always admired Jim Fowler's poetry, anyway, so this is a marvelous 'excuse' to post one of his poems. Thank you again, Jim. Jim has the remarkable ability to write about subjects ranging from painful to sensual and reach in and touch the human essence in his writings. I always look forward to seeing his poems whenever they appear on the net.


Survival Rate

They took the lump and nodes
she said with a twisted smile.
Widow slim and gray, no man
to rest on the missing breast.

Hopes for a cure, lies down
weakly to radiation, her deadbeat
brother-in-law, a reluctant chauffeur
to medicine's assignation.

She returns to the daily casserole
uneaten, wonders why he doesn't
care for her cooking. Instead,
Jack D. and bags of Doritos,

a new pain in the missing flesh
once in her husband's hand.

James Fowler
(c)2006

Not again!!! Hurricane Wilma

Well, it was just on the news. Hurricane Wilma is forming in the Caaribean with a track up first through the lower Gulf, then northeast across Florida and is coming across West Palm, where I live, on Saturday. They're expecting it to build to a Category III. Already, the pit of my stomach is crawling.

We'll see what it does in reality, but we have food, hurricane shutters that are easy to put down if it follows the projected tract and, this time, a hand cranked flashlight and a hand-held battery operated teeny fan (yes, it's still in the eighties down here, folks!).

At least mama cat and her kitties are safely ensconsed inside our garage and we're as ready as we'll ever be.

How do I tell my tummy that, though??

Pris
P.S. If I can be grateful in the face of a possible hurricane, it's that it's not now predicted to go straight up the Gulf and hit the New Orleans area again. They've had enough!

Have you ever thought somebody was still alive...

...then found out they'd been dead for almost nine years? When I first moved to Boston to put my first husband through law school, I found a job under T.X. Barber at the Medfield Foundation, an institute dedicated to collating pain research and debunking most of the myths about hypnosis. My friend, Barbara (in the lower post 'What are friend for?') and I were the only females in an enclave of some pretty bright men who still at that time thought women could NOT think or properly do research, including our boss. Why were we hired, then? Who knows??It was an uphill battle for us and crazy times.

Recently, the man in the bottom of the photo (John, who was the only one who didn't treat Barb and me like idiots) and I exchanged a couple of email notes, which led me to wonder where the one in the middle was. Nick Spanos was wild, brillant and did or said what he thought--and yes, he bulled a lot, too, and considered you a fool if you believed him. His car was a garbage bin, as was his office and his apartment there near work. He went on to an outstanding career. I'd heard about him from time to time. It was only when I googled him that I learned he'd died in a small plane crash in 1996. Here's to you, Nick. You're up there with the Big Bopper, probably bulling him, too!

Are YOU ready for Halloween??

(click to enlarge)

Now...the first person who can tell me in a comment what is in the graphic on the left, I'll post one of your poems, rants, mental meanderings, etc (within size limits and nothing porn)as soon as the right answer comes through and you then post in a comment what you want!

Pris

Want to hear me read?

Click HERE for my Ipod radio channel. If you don't have Ipod, by clicking on the poem name in the list, you can download. I don't have Ipod, so by downloading, it loads into my Music Match Music Box (my MP3 default player) and then I listen at my convenience. Dial-up users may find this time consuming, but with fast speed access, it goes quickly.

Created through MiPo and Didi Menendez. She's in the process of setting this up for a large number of poets who've been invited to read on the shows she and Birdie create, a time-consuming task. Thanks for all of your hard work, Didi!

Pris

What about them bananas??

Another one in my 'white space' series. I couldn't resist making another humorous one while other multimedia members are making these wonderfully beautiful creations.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? (Click photos to enlarge)

For some time now, a scrawny half-grown cat has been hanging around our house. We didn't know at first if she belonged to somebody, but couldn't find an owner. If she did, she clearly wasn't being taken care of, so my husband started feeding her (yes, I know. don't say it lol). About the time he considered taking her to the Humane Society since we simply can't take on another pet right now, she was pregnant. Well, then of course we couldn't take her.
She had her litter. We couldn't take her in with a litter depending on her. We wondered where it was until last night. Suddenly, waiting at the front door was 'mama' with one of her brood, apparently to show us, since after a short visit, she disappeared with the kitten again. After that, she kept desparately trying to get into the house. This morning, my husband found out why. While the garage door was open, she brought the rest of her brood in, unbeknownst to us, though she didn't finish, since kitty number one is missing and must still be at the original haven.

So, here are the dinner guests. The garage door is left partway open and locked at that point so she can come and go. She has water. She's been fed. Now what do we do??

Inexplicable Disappearances

Rainbows settled in silent flares
around our faded bell-bottoms and
defiant hair, igniting us.
We were the Revolution, the
torch clutched in Lady Liberty's hand.

King's dream led us to Selma,
to Washington (and oh, dear God,
when will the Dream come true)

Where did we go? We of the burnt
draft cards, the discarded bras,
we with the voices of a thousand trumpets
and aching breastbones, hoping
to turn water into wine and so transform
the multitudes.

Questions and more questions...

Maybe our dreams ran through our fingertips
until the weary fires finally died.
Perhaps disappointed tears doused them,
bright vibrant colors running down
through dead uneven grass
to the seas where even the dolphins
have grown oddly quiet.


Pris Campbell
(c)2005

Two Haiga In White

(My multimedia group has set itself a challenge this month of creating haiga using white space as a primary part of the image. Click on the image to see full size. Remember, Windows resizes, so you may need to also click on the orange square in the lower right-hand corner to take the size on up)

Idea from Bill Allegrezza's blog and Jennijot blog (see links at right)

Seven Things I Want To Do Before I Die:
1. Ride my bike again
2. Sail in Maine and then down the coast as far as I can go.
3. Publish a series of novels that people like and buy
4. Make love passionately with a man who loves me with passion
5. Dance and play the piano again
6. Drive without getting dizzy
7. Visit every friend I've missed since I've been sick

Seven Things I Can Do:
1. Write
2. Create
3. Listen
4. Laugh at myself
5. Survive an intolorable situation if I have to
6. Create graphics
7. Be a good friend

Seven Things I Cannot Do (for the last 15 years):
1. Drive to the grocery store or run errands
2. Mow the lawn
3. Travel
4. Remember things easily unless I write them down
5. Talk without losing my voice
6. Tolorate boredom
7. Gain my independence...yet

Seven Things That Attract Me to Someone:
1. Brains
2. Sense of humor
3. Eyes
4. Gentle spirit/Kindness/Acceptance
5. Openness to different points of view
6. Inquisitive nature/curiosity/a seeker
7. Sensual nature

What would your answers be? Feel free to add them to the comment box.

The previous post reminds me...

...that The Most Intriguing (and Sensual) Male Poets of 2006 calendar is coming along nicely. We have nearly everything in now that we need for Didi Menendez to finish laying out the pages to go onto the print calendar. Thank you, Didi!!!

Let me tell you, it's really a rough job looking at photos of all these attractive men:-)

Pris

The Sexiest Woman Alive??

As any of you who've read the newspaper lately already know, his woman was picked by Esquire as this year's Sexiest Woman Alive. Last year's choice was Angela Jolie. Yes, this woman is attractive, but I can't help but contrast her appearance standing next to the magazine cover and the photo in the cover, itself, where she's been made up, posed, air brushed, etc into a surreal image of who she really is--who NOBODY really is. The American Fantasy. We still go for it.

See the article at The Washington Post Online.

Click on the photo to enlarge it.

A poll: Compare the cover and the woman. Which would you like to spend time with, if either?

Second: name the women YOU think is the Sexiest Woman Alive. Eliminate wives (if you're a guy)...yes, we all know they're sexiest...they'd best be or you might get a shiner lol. Go for it! The Esquiring Mind wants to know.:-)

Sea Art

Thanks to Brian Campbell's blog, I found this wonderful link to sea photos that look like fine art. Click HERE to see more. If you click on home at page bottom you'll see even more underwater galleries. This one just happens to be my favorite.

Pris

Of Things Unspoken

Silence. Like the sound of a whale asleep
in a gray slant-lit cove. Or the soft inhale
of the north wind after a storm has passed.

Silence...
      my prison
            my cave
                  my haven
my coffin.

A neighbor bikes past my house.
Longings for my own cobwebbed bike
surge deep inside of me.

I imagine old lovers returning
to resurrect limp limbs with a whisper.
I dream of dead friends and relatives
gathering to sing hymns to the gods
of late awakenings.

At night I fly high over rows of rooftops
bent like a sea of tents.
My cobbled body stares back at me.

Eyes closed, my arms web into wings.
The wind rises.

Pris Campbell
(c)2005

Are you a Yankee or a Rebel?

Click HERE to take this test.

For my British friends, I realize we're ALL 'Yanks' to you, but 'them there be fighting words' for a Southerner to be called a yankee here lol.

I scored 71 percent Southern , by the way. I was raised in the south and went back for visits until my folks died, but have spent my adult years living in Northern states. Florida, btw, is geographically south, but culturally north as well as a wonderful mix of everything else.

Pris

Devolution A Cinquain

beach sands
cool to fine ash
under charred glassy stars
adam and eve seek new Edens
feet numb

Imitations In Peach

You're a peach, he tells me in his
best Gary Grant imitation. Hair combed
just so; white dinner jacket, black
tie, his gift of faux pearls dangling
from perfectly manicured nails.

He watches old movies, pretends
he's DeNiro, Redford, Astair.
Once, after watching Rocky, he tossed
me around, then wrapped me in bandages,
Frankenstein whirring ominously
in black and white on the telly.

I like his Mr. Ed the best. I get to ride
on his back, feed him bad apples, slap
him hard on the rear while he bucks,
shimmies and guffaws in delight.

Pris Campbell
©2004

Half-open

Bukowski Never Did This, a book by Jack Saunders

I received an intriguing book in the mail by prolific author, Jack Saunders. The book consists of a variety of short topics, ranging from social commentaries to diary entries to letters to descriptions of 'Art Brew's life, Jack Saunder's doppelganger. Threading thoughout the book is this question: how does a full-time working man with long hours also find time to write? The book can be read by opening it up at nearly every page, since the parts stand alone, as well as being part of the whole.

Thanks for sending this to me, Jack.

For purchase information, write Jack Saunders at saunderj@bellsouth.net or check the publisher at Underground Literary Alliance

Featuring Kit Wilson of Katikati, NZ

Kit Wilson has had a spot on my guest page on my website for several years now. While his creativity is focused far more on his video work, his graphics and work in the community, he has the eyesight of a poet, too. This is one of the poems from his page. Thanks, Kit, for sharing your razor sharp humor with me throughout the years.
****************

The Long Way Home


I try to write
about sunshine kissing your face
and
the luminous touch of your skin at night.

I try to write about
bodies moving in sensual unison
and
how the smell of your hair makes me cry.

Like poets do.

Alliterative adjectives and clever construction seem empty artifice.
They fail to fulfill and they fall away.

Words cannot begin to convey even
the most unremarkable aspects of who we are.

By way of example:
What sentences suffice as I stare in fascination at the imprint
your head leaves on a morning pillow
and dust motes dance in your passing.
What words come close to the inconsequential incomparable knowingness
Of a simple sidelong glance.


This is the now on which the universe of us is built.

Solid.

Soft.

Unspoken.

Lost in thought
I take the long way home.


Kit Wilson
(c)2001
Dedicated to my wife, Sue Baker Wilson. She is my sunshine, my way home.