Message from Pris...posted by Berenice.

Pris asks me to post this. She is having major power fluctuations at her house. One trip from the utility hasn't fixed it. Someone will go up the pole Wednesday. If not that it will be Thursday or Friday before the electrician will be there. She can't use her husbands computer till problem is resolved, and there is the possibility it was damaged during one of the fluctuations.

Watch this spot. Pris will eventually reappear.

Last Rites

I have often paddled
past my margin of safety,
once fucking a madman
in the lull of a hurricane's howl.

I have splashed eagerly
through baptismal pools, immersing
myself in sins shed by others,
to sample ungodly fruit.

I have seduced liars,
beggars, rich men, & priests,
stolen chocolates from
old ladies, and called
evangelical talk shows just
to rate my last bedded lover.

I do not come seeking
absolution, confessional wafers
or prayers for salvation.

My only request is that
I exit this lifetime
straddling the lap
of a warm, lusty man,
muscatel tumbling empty
from one fading hand.


Pris Campbell
©2003

Published in Niederngasse Journal

Art by Gustaf Klimpt

*My computer is still away, so I'm posting some things from my website that I had on my husband's computer before I passed it to him a couple of years ago.

Hard Drive goes belly up

I can still post and respond to comments to my blog from my husband's computer, but they may be more sparse until I can get my own computer back together. First step is getting hold of my tech friend today. We were afraid this would happen, there was so much damage on the hard drive when he was here last.

If you've recently sent me an email, I wouldn't have saved it yet, so write me again. I'll retrieve it off the main bellsouth site.

Thanks and wish me luck!
Pris

Tracy Chapman brings it on home.

I was first introduced to the singer,Tracy Chapman, by the teenager who grew up , also as an only child, in the house I was also raised in, years earlier. My parents had built a retirement home when I finished grad school and this girl was the daughter of a boy who was about six years behind me in school. She had dropped over to see my parents and invited me over to see my old home. Her room had been my father's. Mine had been across the hall. She dragged out tapes and one was Tracy Chapman.

When my father was dying in 1986, I had made several trips to Pageland, my hometown. He was on oxygen in a hospital bed at home, with Hospice helping. It was Christmas and we knew he was close. The teenager invited my cousins and me to come walk through the house again if we liked. I remember walking up the stairs and seeing the bathroom on the landing with the old fixtures where I'd so many times seen my father shave, when I was a child. We walked on back towards the pond. An old board hung on a rusted nail in the trunk of the Chinaberry tree along the way. It was the last remnant of the 'ladder' that led up to my treehouse where I spent some warm afternoons reading. Then...the woods, the pines where I ran many autumn afternoons , the only sound being the swish of my feet on the pine needles underneath.

Back home again, my father had gone into a state between awake and coma. He was talking nonstop to people I couldn't see. He did that all of Christmas day and drew his last breath as I stood beside his bed the following day. It may sound crazy but I felt....well special to be with him as he died. I wanted to be there with him all the way.

I hear Tracy Chapman and I not only hear a singer I admire. I hear my memories.

This is the Amazon Linkto that first music of hers I heard. I still think it's her best.

This is a Lyrics Page from that album. Well worth a looksee.

Pris

Kitty adoption time (Click to enlarge)

A poem by Robert Frost, posted in honour of the kittens leaving home. I know, I know...don't say it lol.

NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.


by Robert Frost

from theFamous Poets Site




The kittens are weaning off. These left for the same home yesterday. That's the garage workbench they're on, their favorite place to doze during the day. The mother cat and the other two kittens were definitely affected and have been searching. I can't keep five grown cats and they went to a wonderful home. The couple has an aging cat already and so had toys and food alread waiting for the babies. So why do I feel so guilty??



These two will go to separate homes by next weekend. The mother gets fixed on Thursday, so all off and on nursing ends then. The house is going to seem VERY empty. The kittens have been scampering everywhere now and are adorable.


If you know a well-known cat poem , for adults or children, post it in your comments. Google, if you don't know one. It would be nice to see a few of those. Originals would be great, too!

Pris

The Most Intriquing (and Sensual) Male Poets Calendar of 2006 is out!!

And it sizzles! Click on the below for a larger preview of the cover.


This LINK describes the calendar and takes you to the sales link where you can view all pages in miniature and, hopefully, purchase one.

These poets went all out for this calendar and for a great cause. Support them. Support CFIDS research. Enjoy yourself with this great calendar.

Richard Blanco graces our cover.

Pris
Ps Please note that these can take up to SIX BUSINESS DAYS TO ARRIVE, just in the U.S., longer for International, so order early. Thanks

Revelations Two

The horizon opens like
a zip-lock bag, spits
out the sun, closes again.
Sometimes a stray Spirit
slips out along with it,
given 24 hour reprieve
from the other side.

Elvis popped into my
kitchen yesterday dawn,
sans sequins, hands
moving like graceful
swans as he spoke of
his hip-swiveling, Ed
Sullivan pre-army glory
days; Priscilla; long
blacked out nights with
bought friends and
pink Caddys at Graceland;
his mama...

He told me to set it all down.

He said I should be sure
to add that the best drug
is innocence and that fame
only digs empty holes in
the ground for thousands
to weep over needlessly.

Turkey Day

Since I imagine nearly everybody in the U.S. will be with family/friends and stuffing themselves with turkey today, no long blog post. I'll be home alone. Health problems prevent a ride up to the in-laws and their extended family/friends, so the husband is going up to join the festivities there.

Alone today, too? Add a comment about your favorite thanksgiving, OR a short poem, haiku..whatever means something to you.

Pris

Odilon Redon in the spotlight

Odilon Redon has been one of my favorite artists since I first saw one of his paintings in the Art Institute in Washington, D.C. back in the seventies. His subject matter ranges from boats to people to flowers to abstractions, all rendered in a symbolic style. He lived and painted just past the mid eighteen hundreds, and some of his gaunt, haunting drawings, rendered well before Picasso, clearly influenced that artist in the creation of the gaunt figures of his Blue Period. Hold them side by side and the similarities are striking, right down to positioning of the figure at times. Unfortunately, I've never seen those drawings on the Internet--only in a book of his works that I own. Redon never made a huge name for himself and, still, many art appreciators aren't familiar with his work.

Most of his paintings were quite dark, with a dreamlike quality to them. In fact, he wrote that most of his art came directly from his dreams. It was only later that more light entered his paintings.

If you google his name, you'll find more of his artwork on the web.

Not to slander, but to warn...

If you've written a novel and are looking for an agent, this was my co-author's and my experience with The New York Literary Agency. Two days after mailing an inquiry to them, they wanted to see our full manuscript. My friend did some further research on them and message boards were filled with warnings about them, much as with poetry.com for poets. The warnings stated such things as 'they accept your manuscript then start charging all sorts of fees for this or that and never make an attempt to sell it' and 'nonsense inquiries have been sent and accepted' and 'they claim to be New York based, but only have a mail drop there and are actually in Boca Raton, Florida'. Literary lists of agents said 'definitely NOT recommended'.

I submitted the following information about a mythical book titled Dracula Nights to them two days ago, intentionally misspelling the words in the description.

This is a whale of a story about a women who meets a vampire one night who turns out to be her dead husband brought back to life. She wants to fell in love with him agin, but she gets scared that he might bite her and make her a vampire, too. The novel is about their growing passionate love and how she finally has to decide whether to drive a steak through his heart or to let him bite her and become a vampire, too. Surprise ending!

Where it asked how long I'd been writing, I said 'since I was little and I finally decided I ought to submit one'.

Two days later, they were 'very interested' and wanted me to mail them my manuscript.

I'll let the post speak for itself. But...do you think... maybe I have a potential for a best seller here and was just too blind to recognize it?? :-)

All fired up, I submitted this one Nov 18 under the name of the 'husband' of the first author since I had to use the same email address.

One Lifetime

I think you're really going to like this book. A ninety year old man meets an alien. The alien tells him he'll make him young again for 24 hours if he will make love with the ugliest girl in the world and he shows the man a picture of this girl. The trick is that the man can live until he finds her. The book is about him traveling from country to country looking for this girl, but not too hard. When he finally finds her, she has a grate personality and he falls in love and tells the alien he won't make love to her, though, so he can still stay young.

bio

I'm a plumber ever since I got out of high school. This is my first book, but I think it's pretty good.


It took four days this time, but I just got a request for my manuscript on this one, too.

Now, if I let my dog walk over the keys and send that in, think they'll want one by him, too??:-)


NOTE: See Brian Campbell's post and look esp for the link to 'flarfing', the name he tells me that's been given to all the nonsensical poems sent to poetry.com to prove it's a scam. An interesting post. An interesting link!


Pris

The man who saves my skin constantly:-)

This was taken a couple of weeks ago. By now, the beard, remnants of no power from Wilma, will be gone and the hair will be about a half-inch shorter, but this is Lloyd. I met Lloyd online when he was a tech on the Windows Forum about five years ago. I owned a computer that everyone on the forum agreed finally had a witch living in it. No other explanation. If anything could go wrong, it did. If I added a new program, it froze. Finally, when the tech who'd built that machine wanted to do something drastic, Lloyd, whom I'd discovered by then lived about twenty minutes from me, offered to come look at the computer. Everybody who knew him told him he was crazy. I could be a mass murderer. My friends told me the same. Instead, in walks this man with an infectuous smile, an easy manner about him, and a solid knowledge of computers (including those inhabited by witches).

Long story short, Lloyd eventually built me another computer and has always been there for me when I needed him, either refusing to take money for his work or taking significantly less than the time he's put in. Yes, there have been marathons lasting hours with the old computer. He does all of this with good humor and graciousness and , while we only see each other at computer fixing time, we stay in touch and I regard him as my friend.

He'll be changing my hard drive tomorrow night after his work day is over and helping me get at least the basics set up so I'll be rolling again, meaning a long day for him. He didn't have to do it, but he does it because ..well, he's Lloyd.

Degas Self Portrait

I love this painting.

Shameless

You remind me daily
of your clay feet,
that you inevitably err on
the wrong side of prudence,
that you're the first
to duck when the west
winds blow hard, rousting
out cowering cave dwellers.
You say you have corners
I will never turn, or
enter, or poke into should
I choose to lie in your
bed, break bread with
you each morning. But,
you have cried in my arms,
made me smile in black nights,
held my hand when ghosts
popped up to say boo & so
I will follow your bread-
crumbs till the bag runs
to empty and still press
on waiting for eulogy or
vow at trail's end.

twenty-four years

for 24 years you have
lived only ten miles away,
past row after row of brown
shingled houses, one honda
dealership and at least four
cuban restaurants and i know
you still play our scratchy
rod stewart, or maybe cat
stevens and i turn, think
your hand will grab mine and
we'll pretend for one long,
back-paged night that you didn't
leave me for a woman with peter
pan hair and that i stayed
the angel with henry moore
thighs who fucked you till
time came and went and
there were no more nights
to forget or remember-ever.

The Ice King

That year, like others when
sleet found our obscure
southern town, limbs cracked
like old bones and birds skied
down iced slopes of sagged
telephone lines. Huge bags
of rock salt were dug from
their cobwebbed hiding places
by cold fingers and spread carefully
across steep steps and walkways.

Only bald Mr. Peterson, the
transplanted Yankee from Boston,
with chains for his tires, dared
that treacherous mile long ride into
town in search of a morning paper.

Mrs. Smith's monkey, Harold, got
loose late morning. He rushed between
houses, terrorizing both rabbit and
possom. At noon, he climbed the First
Presbyterian Church steeple, ringing
its bell incessantly, in claim of his
throne as King of this strange iced-over jungle.

School closed, we played cards, ate
red-eye ham, warmed hands
over fireplaces and stoves, pleased
to be freed from lectures of other
cold wars and from plump knees bruised
by kneeling too long beside desks,
prepared, lest the bombs come flying tomorrow.

By morning, we slogged through dank
puddles under still bomb-free skies,
books clasped to wool chests, unaware
of dogs howling and cats meowing
about yesterday's clear, silent miracle.

Small Potatoes

Read Michael Parker's Blog Post for today. He provides a link to the first issue of Small Potatoes, which is dedicated to the survivors of Katrina. He also gives a short review which is better than what I could try to duplicate here.

Pris

Who's linking to your blog???

A friend just sent me this site. Type in your blog URL in the box up top and the display will show you in several search engines where a link to your blog is found. It's mind boggling how links can spread...and thanks to all of you I found who have a link to my own blog!

Go to Wholinkstome.

Pris

The author in her youth:-)

Seated second to left with the awful glasses. This was my junior year and I was junior editor of the school paper, due to be editor my senior year, but I ended up skipping that year and going on to college. To think, what great tomes I might have written?? Click to enlarge.

Small town living is special. Links between people last since most of us returned to Pageland over the years until our parents died. I just got an email from the person in plaid standing, just over my left shoulder, yesterday. The boy in glasses, far left, grew up two doors down from me and, while he's not a great correspondant, we've also stayed in touch.

Watch this spot!!!!

It's almost out! The Most Intriguing (and Sensual) Male Poets Calendar of 2006. It sizzles. All that's left to do is proof the print copy and they'll go on sale. Save room on your holiday shopping list. You're gonna want this calendar. It sizzles. It sings. It's hot! A copy of the cover and the sales link will be on this blog and other blogs over the net as soon as we approve the print. We should be ready to roll within a week. Maybe less.

Calendar created by Jenni Russell, Pris Campbell and Didi Menendez.

Pris

In Memory

Ernest Walker, my first father-in-law. I just received word from my first husband that he died last Friday. I never lost my bond with my first in-laws. Denise, his wife, died a few years earlier. Rest in peace, Ernie.

Pris

the candles
are doused on his old mantlepiece
white doves singing

Almost adoption time

These are the kitties who, just born, weathered Wilma with us, first in the garage and then into the house. They're growing daily and are now eating solid food, as well as nursing. Best estimate is that they'll be weaned in a few weeks. We have a home for one and have finally decided to adopt all out to good homes, as cute as they are, and just keep the mama. We already have a dog and two pets are about all we can handle right now.

I'm going to miss them rushing into the house from the garage, their primary home (since they still aren't potty trained, but are learning), though.

Pris

Black Russians and memories

The end of our wedding party in Hawaii. Some of the ship's officers and wives are in the photo. Stan and Sharon, the subject of this post are standing, to far right, with Stan's head partly chopped off. Ken and Toby, also mentioned are left, on the sofa. Toby is wearing her maid of honor dress and Ken is the one with the tiny round glasses. Click to enlarge.



A good friend of mine and I are writing something together and, last night, we inserted a passage where two of the characters are drinking Black Russians. For those of you who've never had one, the drink is a deadly mixture of chocolate flavored brandy and vodka, made even more deceptively deadly since it tastes like a sweet chocolate soda.

The last time I had a Black Russian was years ago and the night was memorable. But first, some background.

My second year out of graduate school, I moved to Honolulu to work and live while I waited for the man I'd met that last summmer to return from his first tour of duty as a junior officer on a supply ship in Vietnam. Our wedding party, held at one of our navy friend's base apartment, also marked the first party since the ship's return. Four of us couples had become tight. One of those ideal situations where we four wives liked each other and also liked the husbands and vice-versa. All of us around the same age. All of us eager for war and danger to be over.

About a month after the wedding, Stan and Sharon were transferred to California to another ship. The crushing news came, not long after that, that Stan and Sharon had been in an accident following a party with too much drinking, much as the parties we had trying to live life while we could and forget everything else. It could have been any one of us, but it was Stan and Sharon. Stan was hurt, but Sharon was killed instantly. They were a couple who laughed a lot together and loved well. Letters were all we could do. There was no internet. No way to have immediate contact.

Ken and Toby were the next to be transferred. Newport. Before the ship went back to Nam. My husband had seven more months in Vietnam before he, too, was transferred to Newport and we renewed our closeness with Ken and Toby.

At some point, Stan's ship was docked in Newport for a time and so we arranged our first evening together. We all went out and ordered Black Russians. After a couple of drinks, Toby and I went with Stan out to the car where the three of us wrapped our arms around each other, Stan in the middle, and sobbed about Sharon. Stan was like a brother to us both and that time, though sad, was good, too.

Stan's ship left, though we'd seen quite a bit of him while it was there, and correspondence petered off. Howard and I eventually got a note that he was out of the service and working on his B.S. in business at the U. of Illinois, the place I'd received my own Ph.D. and met Howard who'd started grad school in Philosophy before the war days. Howard's parents also lived there, so the next visit out, we arranged to see Stan who'd remarried by then. Knowing the new wife would be possibly intimidated by old friends of Sharon's, we'd talked about ways to make her feel accepted. We wanted Stan to have happiness again.

We were met by a woman with a hostile look on her face. Instead of a hug, as was usual, Stan quickly thrust out his hand for a handshake. For the next half hour, time dragged, Stan looking to his wife for approval before he said anything, while she sat there glaring at us. We'd intended to invite them for dinner, but it was clear that this half hour would be all we would see of our friend. We said our goodbyes and left.

"That's how Stan is punishing himself," I told Howard as we left.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"He's made sure he can't be happy again by marrying this woman," I told him.

Yes, Stan had changed. The twinkle had gone from his eyes. The old Stan was no more. We'd seen the old Stan emerge during his time in Newport, so it wasn't just Sharon's death. It was how he had decided to let it take its toll.

He later sent a note that he had taken a job in New Jersey, just across from Manhattan. By this time I was working to put Howard through law school in Boston and Ken and Toby were living near Manhattan, Ken having found a lucrative job in advertising in the city.

Ken saw Stan once when Stan came into the city for lunch. He told us the same thing. He didn't really recognize the man he used to be friends with. No more laughter. No jokes. No lightening up. The lunch dragged and they never arranged any more of them.

So, when I think of Black Russians, I think of that night when Stan was still Stan, when we all held each other and cried, so full of love, so full of the belief our friendship would hold, no matter what.

I still wonder what happened to Stan sometimes. I still remember his laugh. It came from his heart and you couldn't help but laugh with him and adore him.

Note: We've scattered now. Ken and Toby later divorced. She lives in Sydney, Australia. I don't know where he is. I'm still in touch with the other close couple on the sofa. They live in Albany where he's a lawyer and their one child multiplied to four and they now have grandchildren. Nancy, mid-bottom, was the ship's captains' wife. Career. We lost touch, too, after transfers. The Hawaian woman to the right was killed shortly after this photo, too, by her nephew when she spent the night at her sister's home, sleeping in her bed. The son, who was mentally disturbed, thought he was killing his mother in the dark room. He got Gladys, instead. Howard and I divorced after law school. Something just went dead between us, too. We still exchange a sparse e-mail note occasionally and I saw him when I returned to New England three times in the eighties before I got CFIDS and couldn't travel. He remarried finally in around 1990 and has adopted a Chinese daughter. He's also done very well for himself as a lawyer, both monetarily and in his work. I'm glad about that. I like success stories.:-)

Want to see if you're being plagarized??

Kim Komando to the rescue again. If you take a phrase from one of your poems, essays, short stories or whatever, go to google and PUT IT IN QUOTES, google will search for that exact phrase. I just tried it. I copied and pasted not even a complete sentence from a poem and boom, there it was on Google with a link to where it was on my blog.

I remember a while back someone was posting plagarized poems on a board I posted to off and on. Wish we'd had that tool then.

Pris

A Tribute

The Kim Komando newsletter today featured this site, In Remembrance. It's a page of names with vidoes of music and photographs of young men lost in battle. You click on the name to see each video. I've watched only a few. More than that is just too much to see right now. Having had a husband in Vietnam on a ship and a brother in law in the jungles in that same war, you feel the pain of knowing you could very easily lose someone you love. Both, unlike the men on this page, survived their war.

To Howard, Paul, Ken, B.J. and to my online Vet friends, I'm glad you made it through. To the relatives of those on this page, my condolences.

Pris

Blood Is The Sinner's Revenge

Thorns slung 'round my neck,
I wait for that kiss
of betrayal,
the silence between
jagged breaths,
that soft clearing
of a throat ready
to speak about coinage
or refuge in Stockholm.

Here in my blue garden,
filled with the footprints
of whores and lost Jesuits,
my tongue has been
                          fed to

poets
morticians
liars
& weeping mothers...
a delicacy.

I bleed, but my tormentors
all face east, already blind
from the sun's cruel, scorching reality.

By the way...

If you haven't seen the movie, Crash, I'd recommend it highly. I rented it from Netflix. Stars range from Sandra Bullock on to other excellent cast and is one of the best statements on the complexities of both race relations and human love I've seen in a long time. It'll surprise you and move you. It did me. I just read that it has a shot at an Academy Award nomination. Hope it gets one.

pris

Sunday Means Forty-Second Street

(an older one)


Kneeling in the Forty-Second street alley,
cord tight above elbow bend,
vein swollen and ready,

Mother, on his arm,
watches and patiently waits.

Sundays, it's always the Square,
flashing sign drawing his eyes
briefly towards heaven.

His church.
She always told him to go.

Hard to remember her clearly now.
Life eats his childhood daily, fogging
memories of a figure in blue, scent
of gardenias in damp air, heels
clattering over hardwood floor.

She would like it that he comes here.
Everybody needs remembrance
of a mother's cool hand.


Pris Campbell
©2003

Published in Lotus Journal, June 2003

Mice Sing!

Everyone knows that mice squeak and squeal, but few realize that mice also communicate in the ultrasound range, at frequencies far higher than the human ear can detect.

Now scientists conducting the first detailed analyses of those vocalizations have concluded that these sounds are much more than a high-pitched version of the simple hisses and grunts produced by many other animals. Rather they are complex patterns of chirplike syllables that meet the scientific definition of "song."

To read the rest of this article in The Washington Post, click HERE


mousespeak

what do they sing when
lobotomized
    given lupus
      lathered with cosmetics
        drugged
          shocked?
do they sing dirges,
compose symphonies of sadness,
or do simple tunes of longing
escape for their mates,
keening outside
on the dying grass?

Scuppernongs...

How many of you have heard about them?

Go to this Things Southern site, for a photo and discussion. You'll find a comment from me near the end. They grew behind my house in the Carolinas and the golden ripe fruit are to wallow for!

Just to keep things in perspective....:-)

(click to enlarge)

A photograph of the new men's loo at the Sofitel in Queenstown, NZ, sent by my friend, Kit Wilson of Katikati, NZ. What do you think, guys? Opinions of the decor wanted.

More Wilma Damage

(click to enlarge)



This is a photo of one small part of the extensive damage in a small airport in the area, taken by a friend who wants to remain unnamed. It's an example of the scattered damage all over South Florida. Intact buildings can be right next to one with no damage. A church about two miles from us that has survived every hurricane over the years was completely smashed. The pews under the fallen debree were all that were left. Many still without power. No, things aren't back to normal yet.

My tech friend comes sometime this weekend to checkout/replace the power module in my puter. Those problems are in the post below.

Pris

On the Rocks

(click to enlarge)


This shot was taken along the Intracoastal Waterway near our home. For those of you who aren't aware of the Waterway, Mile One begins at Norfolk, Virginia and continues on down, around through the Keys and then up the west coat of Florida in parts. I remember entering the Waterway on my long ago boat trip from the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. It was already fall and the winds/waves were high. What a thrill to see that first marker!

Do I want to go or do I want to stay??

We lost power again this morning. It's back now, but, should I disappear, that's why. Cross your fingers and toes!

Now, a few storm shots. Click on photos to enlarge....

This shot was taken through the one back uncovered window. When rain was driven through the edges of the pane, we started to reconsider the wisdom of leaving that one open. We were lucky. My husband had thought about not shuttering a side one and that's the one the tree top from next door hit! This photo can't even begin to pick up the power of those winds.

The cat and kittens had moved into the garage before the storm, but became terrified, so here she is, moved inside the house right after the winds started howling. The kittens are growing daily, btw, and are back living in the garage again. No way to potty train an unweaned kitten and they're moving around like wildfire now.

We were fortunate this year to actually have cool weather. Last year, it was first ten days, then four of lying or sitting in sweat day after day, panting for breath. Sleep? Almost impossible. This was my improvised outfit for the coolest day. Hey, those socks with the sandals. Pretty cool, eh?? :-)
This was the sky the morning after the storm passed, taken from our back patio.



Pris

A Different Tomorrow

You imagine it will be like a kid's
pop-up book--tomorrow morning, or the next,
or, perhaps, the day after that.

New Orleans will unfold like a butterfly
in Joseph coat colors. Whalloped houses,
toppled trees, snapped poles will jerk upright
from the Gulf, on down through Florida and out
across the blue, chastened waters to Mexico.

The dead will rise chanting on broad-shouldered
horses, break bread for the hungry, throw
kisses to those left behind weeping, only to fade
as the sun does, come evening.

Perhaps, the morning after this happening, this
undoing, this back slap at Revelations, a photo
of a young man in Vietman kaiki will implode
from its mud grave. Thought swallowed by the storms,
it will wash clean, reclaim its place on that carved mantle
it now seems to have never abandoned.



~help keep my knees from knocking when the winds
howl, the house shivers, and tree tops fly~

I'm back...kind of..

Power down our street was just restore, but we're still having flickers and several people I know got it only to lose it again. Things are still very unstable. I'm exhausted literally, but have read all the caring comments and want to thank all of you for your notes and well wishes. The eye went right over us, so the power outages are still extensive. Grocery chains are open on generator power and have canned good. Most street lights around us aren't working yet. Lines at gas stations that have power to pump can run blocks long.

I'm getting more flickers and will post this and hope I'm still on later today.

Keros and Didi...if you happen to check in, I'm thinking of both of you. Keros, you got a lot more damage than we did. We had a tree top bounce off the house, but it didn't hurt anything. We lost most of our tree limbs last year, so not much had grown back to break off in our yard, but everywhere else, a lot down.

will post this and hope for the best!!

Pris

Hotline from Wales...Tuesday update.

I've had news from Pris via our friend's email. Things seem to be very slow in progressing. As far as I can gather Pris doesn't get her power from FPL. They are the main ones and are getting power restored. I wish I could bring you more positive news. I really do. Hopefully there should be better news soon. Berenice.