Summer, Sudden: Now and Later:

Just a late afternoon observation.DSC00931

It’s 5:15 pm and the sky just cracked and let itself loose.  Downtown, the day’s just ended for the workforce and I imagine the consternation: “Should we try to make it for the car, or stay and see if it lets up?”  “Where’s my umbrella?”

I’m sitting, snug and dry on my deep front porch, Jameson chilling (just one cube) in a heavy crystal glass, a thick curtain of water sheeting down all around me.  The sky complains mightily at some unknown offense, and the old, old maples and oaks throughout the neighborhood bend and brush the undersides of the lowering clouds.  Suddenly, the wind dies.  The rain drops straight and hard as a tropical deluge.

In the last five minutes the temperature has fallen ten degrees.  The cars passing in the street arc tsunamis of fresh water across the tree lawns along the way.

Five minutes more and the drama has settled into the humdrum routine of a summer storm.  The sky still complains, but at a distance, like a chastised child massaging its wounded ego after a well-deserved reprimand.

Church Bells Ringing, Rainy Winter Night, 1917

Church Bells Ringing, Rainy Winter Night, 1917

The rain has all but stopped, now, and the neighborhood droops like a Charles Burchfield* painting, the trees, eaves, even the parked cars dripping in a syncopated liquid patter.

A gnat has fallen into my whiskey, but I continue to sip it anyway, the alcohol having provided its antiseptic benefit.  One should not waste good Irish.

Bug in the Jameson

Bug in the Jameson

Tonight is supposed to be the height of the Perseid meteor showers. Not a chance for a view with this cloud cover.  I’m a little disappointed, but it’s been a sweet summer shower and there’s always next year.

A few ghosts of mist, rising from the cool rain silvering the hot earth, float across my lawn.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Here’s a poem I wrote some years ago, inspired by a line from a poem by Denise Levertov.  At the Window

  • * This Charles Burchfield painting is in the collection of the Cleveland Museum of Art


cartoonI’ve been worried about my consumption. No, not like Camille, Satine, Violetta, Mimi. Although the choking sensation of those tragic female figures is an apt metaphor for the feeling I’ve been having about the vast amount of stuff I consume, the leavings from which I throw away each week.

Tuesday is trash day in my neighborhood, so every Monday night I go about emptying the wastebaskets, consolidating the recyclables, bagging up the garbage and trash to put out on the curb to feed the next morning’s ravenous caravan of city trash trucks. And I am increasingly appalled at the size and weight of those trash bags. Trash

It’s just me.  Not a family of five.

Oddly enough, most distressing are the recyclables. A full grocery bag of paper; newspaper, advertising mailers, throwaway computer printouts, junk mail, deflated cardboard boxes from cereal, chips, pasta, etc. So much. Then there’s the plastic; shameful numbers of clamshell containers from fruits and vegetables, empty milk, juice, lemonade containers, yogurt, hummus, shredded cheese tubs, lethal-edged packaging cut and ripped off purchases at the hardware store, Target, elsewhere. Then glass; wine and salad dressing bottles, empty pasta sauce and jelly jars.  Cans from coffee, soup, stewed tomatoes, cat food.  And dozens of miscellaneous plastic tabs, fasteners and other petroleum-based detritus.  Not to mention Styrofoam! Again, it’s just me.  Every week.

I read somewhere that organic produce actually creates more plastic wrapping trash than non-organic food.  It seems that because organics are more costly to grow, and generate a greater loss when they spoil, the producers try to extend their shelf life with more substantial packaging.  Even trying to live a more sustainable life, it seems, you just can’t win the consumption battle.


Refrigerator note to myself.

I’ve moved twice in recent years, downsizing each time. I’ve gotten to a place where I am happy living with ‘just enough’ in many categories of existence. I don’t need multiple place settings for eight – or twelve, or every fancy kitchen appliance I may use once a year – or less. But after several trips to the Salvation Army, I still have more clothes than I can wear in a season.

So, what’s the answer?  I could buy all my fruit and veggies by the piece, rather than pre-packaged, get my nuts and gains and even coffee in bulk – but not cat food or milk. I suppose I can make my own salad dressings, pasta sauce, soups. I do some of that already.  I bring my own bags to the grocery, use both sides of paper for printing.  I think most of us do these things these days.  But still, there is so much to throw away each week.

We live our busy lives ordered in large measure by convenience as well as the structure of our disposable economy – and not a little bit of greed. We want and, can have, so much more than we will ever need. See my blog about the cereal aisle.

I am increasingly aware – and concerned – that our social order and our capitalist economy are both driven by a sense that unlimited commercial choice is inherently good.  Each trash day comes, and I’m not so sure.consumption diagram

Nothing New Under the Sun


4th of July in my neighborhood

Cleveland is preparing to host the Republican Presidential Convention in just a few days.  This opportunity has given the city the impetus to complete a number of infrastructure projects so Cleveland will shine in the eyes of all the out-of-towners.  Our brand spanking new Public Square is a hit, by all accounts.  But I’m not sure the re-designed bridges into the city will be done in time.  The Cavaliers’ championship got in the way a little when game six came back to the “Q” where the convention will be held, holding up the schedule for preparing the arena for the promised “show.”  The security zone for the convention will make it very hard for ordinary folks to get close to the action – not just protesters, but the locals who just recently fell in love with the splashy, family-friendly Public Square.

But down the road about five miles, in University Circle, the Art Museum recently put on a show that was as open as any kind of public event could possibly be.  Starting with Parade the Circle and ending a week later, the Museum’s Centennial Festival Weekend was filled, hour by hour, with open access to a dizzying schedule of creative performances and interactive events, topped off  by a grand, perfect-weather Solstice celebration and an outdoor Cleveland Orchestra performance.

I was pleased to be part of this Centennial Weekend  and, as I mentioned in a post a few weeks ago, participated as a member of Literary Cleveland, writing ekphrastic poems inspired by works of art in the Museum’s collection.  One of the works I chose was a painting by American artist John Rogers Cox, titled Gray and Gold.

Gray and Gold It is a work that has fascinated me for decades, with its surreal juxtaposition of nostalgic Americana against the menace of a pending storm.  In researching the work I learned that Cox was a member of both the Regionalist School of American scene painting (he was from Indiana), like Grant Wood, Thomas Hart Benton and Edward Hopper, and worked in the Magic Realist Landscape tradition. The painting was done in 1942, shortly after America entered WW II, a time of great patriotism and great uncertainty and fear.

As much as I thought I knew this painting by heart – I’d kept a very large framed poster of it for many years – I now had the chance, with this ekphrastic assignment, to study it in greater depth in the Museum itself.  And a detail that had escaped me previously created the impetus and inspiration for the poem I eventually wrote.  Two tiny white squares of paper on a telephone pole at the bottom of the painting spoke to me of how everything comes around again, and how the emotions and the polarization of this political season, while alarming, are not new.

You can read the poem, Crossroad, here.






All In, June 19, 2016

‘Tis the season of gifts.  Summer starts today.  Last night was the first ‘strawberry moon’ in 70 years – in my lifetime; full moon on the solstice.  And the Cavs are the NBA champs.

I am not a basketball fan.  My preferred sport is baseball – its timelessness, the absence of do-overs, letting the moment stand, the beauty and rarity of an unassisted triple play, the green of the grass in that bowl of space …  I could go on.

But I am a Clevelander and how can I not be a fan of the Cavs at this moment when they gave this city a spectacular, redeeming gift.

I have always championed my city – even in its darkest days.  I have defended it on airplanes when the guy behind me got vocal about ‘having’ to come to Cleveland for a meeting.  Smiled smugly when staff from the Rockefeller and Ford Foundations left Severance Hall after a Cleveland Orchestra performance shaking their heads in admiration and saying “I’ll never hear Schubert played like that again in my life.”

And though I have not been a follower of basketball, I have been keenly aware of the community impact of this game at this moment in my city’s life cycle.  We are on the rise – this time, I believe, for real. So the promise – the hope – of finally putting our 50 year long sports disappointment to rest was important to me.  And so I watched the game.  Rather, I flipped back and forth between the game and whatever was on PBS, because I am a wimp when it comes to being a witness to potential disaster.  (I can’t watch figure skating or gymnastics in the Olympics for this reason  either.) But I watched the final moments of Game 7.  I felt I owed it to this amazing team – and in a way, to LeBron, to stick with them to the end, no matter the outcome.

I will make no attempt to comment on the game itself – that would be foolish, because, so many others have done such a beautiful job of it. In fact, I have always been impressed with how stunningly beautiful and moving much sports writing is.  Take the essay “Is this Heaven?”  in this morning’s Times by John Hyduk. As a rabid fan of just plain, good writing, I must say that there’s a lot of sports writing that touches the human in us as profoundly as that of any other genre. Roger Angell, of course, Jonathan Schwartz, Roger Kahn and John Updike as well, to name a few on the national/international level.  But local writers have their day too; Bill Livingston and Bud Shaw often write stunningly evocative columns.

And if you are a fan of baseball and beautiful poetry, I recommend Steve Brightman’s chapbook, ‘In Brilliant Explosions Alone’ published by Night Ballet Press.  From the Press’ website; It is a “breakdown of the 2008 season of former Cleveland Indians pitcher Jeremy Sowers…it is a chapbook about individual struggle with expectation, the desire for success in the field in which you show talent, and about how others perceive you in that struggle.”

Well, this is more than I intended to write this second day after the glow of our Cav’s great gift to my city.  I couldn’t restrain myself from adding my kudos and my excitement to this moment though.  I’ll just end this brief post with two baseball poems I’ve written – one a haiku. Read them here: Aria  and Benediction.


Ekphrastic Celebration

balloonsMilestones should be celebrated.  Graduations  – ‘tis the season, Solstice – coming up, and birthdays.  For art lovers in Cleveland there’s a big one of those happening right now. Our illustrious Art Museum is 100 years old this month.

I don’t normally use this blog to promote things, but since I get to be a teeny, tiny part of this great celebration, I am taking a liberty. And my part has a lot to do with the ‘paying attention’ focus of this blog. During the Museum’s Summer Solstice weekend coming up (June 25 and 26), the good folks there have invited local artists of all disciplines to come and showcase their work for the public – inside and outside the Museum.

I will be there Saturday as both a local poet/artist and representing Literary Cleveland, a new organization dedicated to “serving writers and readers through a collaborative network of services that inform, advance and elevate the literary arts for the benefit of all in Northeast Ohio” according to the mission statement.

My task will be to compose ekphrastic poems, inspired by favorite works of art in the Museum. If ‘ekphrastic poetry’ is not a familiar term, I will tell you that ekphrasis is from the Greek.  It is a form of rhetoric that attempts to bring the experience of an object to a listener or reader through highly detailed descriptive writing.  Ekphrastic poetry is as old as Homer’s description of the shield of Achilles in The Iliad.  It has become an established poetic undertaking, with poets responding in verse to their experience of a work of art (usually) in another medium and most often a work of visual art.

For this event I will be paying close attention to some of my favorite works in the Museum and to my own experience of them.  I’ll try to translate my experience into poems which I hope will honor the artwork and resonate successfully as creative efforts of their own.

So, I will be at the Museum, in a tent somewhere around the lovely Wade Lagoon, Saturday, June 25 from 10:00 am to 1:00 pm, working on my poems.  So far I’ve chosen two pieces to write about; a painting, Gray and Gold, 1942  by John Rogers Cox (American, 1950 -1990) and an ancient, ‘flame style’ Japanese cooking pot from the Middle Jomon period – about 3,000 BC.  Here’s the images.  Gray and Gold

CMA Jomon Pot

If they turn out well, I’ll post the poems after they are done.  Come visit if you can.  It’s free.

How To Sweep A Garden Path

garden pathPerhaps you know the story about the Zen master and the student, whose task was to sweep the garden path. Again and again the student washed and swept only to have the Master say it was not done properly. Finally, when the student was sufficiently confounded – and the path totally sanitized – the Master reached up and shook a branch and let a few leaves fall where they may on the stones.  The task was not to erase nature from the path, but to appreciate and make room for its contributions to our lives.

* * *

This morning, the hollow-reed plaint of a mourning dove, rusted trill of a redwing blackbird and the high, chittering glissando of finches quilt their calls in a syncopated patchwork of sound. Cardinals, robins, jays and wrens race along the invisible highways in the air above the lawn while the squirrels flex their bodies like furred muscles around the trunk of the tall cedar behind the house.

I’m sitting on my backyard deck in the hot-sun, cool air of an early May morning, watching spring arrive; everything pushing up, leafing out, letting go with abandon. Almost perfect. Almost.

Beneath the lively scene, underpinning the warm embrace of the sun and breeze, the faint odor of my resident skunk persists.  It’s gone, now, but not as I’d expected it would go – trapped and removed, to be released elsewhere, or humanely (I hoped) euthanized.

I thought I was being so clever – dusting the deck with flour for several days to track its coming and going so I could block the gaps after he – or she – had departed for the evening (see previous post). I thought I was being so clever.

DSC00639An urban critter-trapper laid baited ‘have-a-heart’ traps around the deck and reinforced the blocked entrances, except one where he affixed another cage. If the skunk was still under the deck, this would be its escape route where it would surely be trapped, he said, though he warned it might take a few days “if it’s trap-savvy.”

For weeks there persisted a mild, skunky odor around the deck. But we caught nothing. The odor faded then for a few days until one morning – 3 AM – I woke to a powerful and sickening smell. I knew instantly what had happened.

The deck was already part of the house when I bought it, so I had no idea how it was constructed. Although we’d left the skunk an escape route, it had settled in a section under the deck that was blocked from that exit.  We had trapped it in and it had died. Its fur was still glossy and soft when the trapper removed it from its nest under the deck.

If I am honest, I must admit having a descending order of tolerance for my yard’s co-habitants, with skunks at the bottom of the list. Still, I have remorse over my actions, however unknowing, that caused this painful end to a small life. It reminds me of a beautiful poem, Snake, by D. H. Lawrence in which the narrator regrets the pettiness of his reaction to a creature which, upon reflection, he recognizes as having its own beauty and nobility within the realm of its ‘otherness.’

* * *

finchesTwo days ago my resident house finches left me. It was a Saturday morning and I was in my customary seat in the living room watching the male and female busily feeding their chick in the nest they’d constructed in the wreath on my front door (previous post). But they kept hopping away to perch, chirping loudly, on the chairs on my porch.  Back and forth, nest to chair, while the chick stretched and flapped its tiny wings, chirping back.  This exciting display went on for a good quarter of an hour. Needing another cup of coffee, I left my post for a few minutes, and when I returned – no chick.  It had found its way out into the world.

Baby finch in nest through the screen door.

Baby finch in nest through the screen door.

I confess to feeling a bit bereft.  The finches had become part of my everyday.  I felt privileged to be a small part of their lives and to be so close to this little bit of nature, even though it meant giving up access to my front door for a few months.

I left the wreath with its nest in place through the week-end – just in case anyone came back, but there were no visitors. When I finally removed the wreath,  one tiny, unhatched egg lay at the bottom – pale blue, with a touch of fuzzy down stuck on. I’d read that house finches often use the same nest and can have up to three clutches a season, So I found a high, protected spot for the wreath  out of the human traffic pattern – again, just in case. 


Finch egg, dime and Cheerio.

* * *

The trick, I think, is to figure out how to live with nature – not against it. So hard to do both at the global level but also on the small stage of a suburban back yard. Last week I put in two small raised beds for herbs. I put up a fence and attached mylar ribbons to float in the breeze. Whether these measures will discourage deer, rabbits, chipmunks and birds I cannot now say. But I am preparing to accept that one morning I will look out my kitchen window and be greeted by a bed of headless herbs. If so, I may re-plant – or not, and try to remember to accept letting the leaves  fall on the swept path however they will.


Gratitude and Regret: Notes from the Sketchbook

The older I get the more regret I have about opportunities missed to learn about my mother.  She is an enigma: who was she at heart, and how did she come to be the person whose influence must be playing out in me in ways I will never understand.

My Dad would talk about his years in school, his first jobs and his time in the Army during the war, but my mother never spoke about her own upbringing, never used “When I was your age …” examples to scold or instruct. She was a private person, keeping thoughts and feelings to herself.

On the Model A Running Board

On the Model A Running Board

I know now that she was a strong and independent woman – the only mother among all my childhood peers to drive a car (a Model A Ford which she could repair herself) and work full time while we kids were growing up. She knew her way around a toolbox as well as a cookbook and a sewing machine, and she managed all the household finances. But I did not know that any of this was exceptional in the suburban June Cleaver post-war of the 1950’s. Now, after she has long passed and I am at leisure to reflect on my own life, I am often wracked with regret at what I never asked.

What started this latest reverie on my mother? Readers of this blog know that a while ago I was fascinated with the book H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald. In this remarkable memoir the author references an earlier book on falconry, The Goshawk, by T.H. White. I was excited at this connection because T.H. White has long been a favorite author of mine.  That is to say The Once and Future King has long been a favorite book of mine.  I re-read it every five years or so.

DSC00597What really surprised me, however, was the incidental mention by Ms. Macdonald that White also wrote a children’s book, Mistress Masham’s Repose – a satirical fantasy about Maria, a clever, independent, fearless girl of ten in the erudite world of British history and manners, elevated,  archaic speech (with Many Capital Letters), persecution by evil Governesses – and camaraderie with Lilliputians; a book my mother gave me when I was the same age as the heroine.  Who gives their 10 year old child a biting satire filled with obscure phrases in Latin and references to Gulliver’s Travels and British pomp and circumstance?

She also had given me a beautiful, illustraed boxed set of Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass for my first Christmas.  I was three and a half months old at the time. The flyleaf dedication and date –  so many years before I would ever be able to read these books – has long fascinated me. What was she thinking, or hoping for me? And why did I never ask her about this?DSC00600

My Mom worked all the while my younger sister and brother and I were growing up, and my Grandmother came to live with the family when I was four or five. So, although Mom taught me to read at an early age, it was Grandma who read to me while I was still young. But Mom supplied the library. There was a beautifully illustrated, oversized A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson which may well have whet my appetite for poetry. I can still remember that book and its iconic illustrations with an almost physical pleasure.  There was The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales; a thick volume full of the fanciful, often gory cautionary parables of western European folk lore, but also many tales of female cleverness and power. Grandma read these over and over and I loved them.

I’ve come to recognize now, that my love of reading, my early belief that girls could be as independent and clever and boys, plus my love of elevated language (which has become the bane of my efforts to be a contemporary poet), were shaped in some way by my mother’s reading choices for me; books full of stories about clever, adventuresome girls, sophisticated, dangerous, exciting and brilliantly imaginary worlds, told in complex and creative language.  No Pat the Bunny or Velveteen Rabbit for me. It was Alice, Maria, Gretel …  and “Jabberwocky,” which I can still recite from memory to this day.

In my pre-teen years there were long summer days spent reading – Mom in her chair, me in mine.  Weekly trips to the Library and home with armfuls of books greedily read in tandem through the warm afternoons and evenings. One of my fondest memories is of Mom, cup of coffee and cigarette, permanent fixtures on the end table next to her chair, and a tower of books on the floor that reached up past the arm.

Later, there was the quarterly Reader’s Digest condensed anthology series of current best-selling novels – where I first read To Kill a Mockingbird (1963) and so many other modern authors. In the mind’s eye of my youth, I still see the gold-lettered volumes lined up on the shelves beside the fireplace in the living room.Reader's Digest

Why am I telling you all this? Well, this blog is about “Paying Attention” and this is precisely what I did not do when I had the opportunity. Now late in my adult life, I am suddenly dumbfounded by how ignorant I have been about my mother’s influence on my own reading and writing life. I am struck by how little I know about why she chose to put these books and not others in my path.  As grateful as I am for the gifts I am only now beginning to understand she gave me in her private, unspoken way, I am also saddened and embarrassed for myself that I did not have the awareness or the maturity to ask her about them and maybe learn a bit about what made her who she was, when I had the chance.

I suppose that many of us who have lost our parents have these regrets.  But recently, in discussions with friends related to this, two insights bubbled up.  The first was that rarely are children curious about their parents. It is a part of the natural distancing that children must do as they separate their identities from their parents to not only be un-curious, uninterested in who and what their parents are or think, but often become rebellious in that process as well.

The second bubble emerged in a lively discussion with other artists about the value of keeping a sketchbook. As artists we sometimes make casual sketches, or as poets, notes of things that strike us at a moment, but do not blossom into a fully realized creative effort. It is not until much later, upon reflection and perhaps the acquisition of increased skill or maturity, that the spark that first struck us finds fertile ground and can be grappled with productively.

I think it is the same with reflecting on our parents.  Perhaps we weren’t curious enough as children to be interested in them and what they were sharing of themselves – a fault we can, I think, forgive ourselves for.  But the regret comes when as adults, we realize that we could have leafed through our sketchbook of childhood memories while our parents were still with us to use our mature curiosity to learn about them – and about how they shaped who we are.

Maybe this is just wishful thinking.  Maybe, even if I were the most skilled of interviewers, my mother would never have been able to share, to open up, perhaps even to understand herself the why of what she did for me.  So I am left to wonder and grapple in what ways I can,  and to be grateful if puzzled about who she was.

Here’s a poem from my chapbook, Coming to Terms that’s sort of an illustration of my relationship to my mother.


NOTE: I must thank Ellie Strong of Strong Bindery here in Cleveland for restoring the box for my ‘Alice” books.  She is a book lover and restoration expert extraordinaire.  Should you need her services for any of your own over-loved volumes, you can contact her at (shared with her permission).

Of Finches, Forsythia and Living With Wildness

DSC00621Like many homeowners, I like to adorn my front door with a wreath of seasonal celebration: pine cones and holly for winter, something autumnal for fall.  In March, while roaming the aisle at Michael’s, I found a wreath of imitation forsythia woven through a circle of bare twigs. It spoke to me of the messy but heartening emergence of spring growth from the seeming dead of winter.

Forsythia is my favorite early, early spring flower. I used to cut sprigs to force the blooms until my cats started to make a twice-given gift of their yellowness in liquid pools on the floor, the rugs and once on the bedspread. So hanging this artificial twiggy wreath of sunny joy outside the house, where I could see it for weeks on end through the glass of my front door, seemed the better choice this year.

Another great joy of spring is bird song. The wrens, robins, titmice, and chickadees, even the raucous blue jays and crows, twittering up the early morning air create a restorative aural tonic my spirit drinks up greedily this time of year. However, the confluence of these two joyous harbingers — the forsythia door ornament and the spring vigor of the local birds — has created a dilemma. finchesA pair of tiny, extremely lively birds has begun to set up house in the bramble of the wreath on my door.

At first I thought they were merely scavenging twigs from the wreath to make a nest elsewhere. Fine with me.  Happy to provide constriction material. Plus, it was lovely to see them pop in and out so close at hand as I drank my morning coffee. They seemed not to mind my watching them and were not even bothered by my cats’ predatory stares from inside the house.

But this morning I noticed, in the now slightly denuded area at the top of the wreath, that the birds were bringing sticks to the wreath. They had hollowed out a space and were building a nest right there, under the protection of my porch, against the window of my front door.DSC00612

Taking a step back, now – from their first appearance I had been struggling to identify the birds.  I am not a birder, although I do have some favorites I can recognize instantly by sight and sound: redwing blackbirds, chickadees, robins, of course, and cardinals.  Hummingbirds and owls are rarer – the latter sometimes heard but rarely seen. But I was unsure of what these were.  My first thought was the common wren.  Both birds were brown, but the (I assumed) male had patches of red – his head, chest and at the back above the tail – visible when he spread his wings.

Definitely not a cardinal.  Too small, no crest. I thought maybe some kind of sparrow, or thrush. But I happened to have a copy of Birds of North America and so started searching. But no, sparrow was too big and no red coloring. Thrushes were also too big and robin-like. It took a while to find them, but on pages 316-17, there they were – the Red Finches.  The picture of both the male and female house finches were perfect representations of my little house guests.  DSC00609

So now that I know who my ‘squatters’ are, what to do?  Two choices, and you can probably guess what they were: move the wreath now, while there’s time for them to start a nest elsewhere, or . . . refrain from using my front door for however long the gestation and fledging timeframe is for these birds.

Okay. Yes. I know.  The first option makes the most sense. But I am seduced by the opportunity to live in such close proximity to these wild creatures. I may be foolish and courting disaster for them (and maybe heartache for me), but my comings and goings, plus the activity of the mailman and the FedEx guy seem not to have phased the pair so far. And, I have a perfectly serviceable back door which I use more often than the front door anyway.

I did have one concern.  The wreath swayed mightily in the recent late-March winds. I worried that the nest or the eggs might not survive in a storm. So while the couple was away gathering more twigs, I quickly rigged an anchoring system – plastic fishline guy-wires looped through the wreath and secured to the clasps holding the screen door in place.  My fussing seemed not to have deterred the pair.  They came right back to continue their domestic engineering project.

As I write this, the pair are zooming back and forth from yard to nest with bits of wrinkled detritus, and the female is shimmying each new twiggy addition into place with her breast and and tummy.  Quite the animated, jiggy lap dance, as the nest grows almost before my very eyes.

I’ll keep you posted on what I hope is not a naïve and arrogant human interference in this small tooth and claw circle of life.  Meanwhile, here’s some facts about house finches.

  1. They are not native to the Midwest. Some New York pet dealers imported them from California illegally as cage birds, then set them free to avoid prosecution. They quickly adapted and now can be found throughout the U.S.
  2. They mate for life – as do many birds (swans, albatross, hummingbirds, owls, to name a few).
  3. They are vegetarians.  I know!  No bugs or worms.  Just seeds.
  4. They usually nest about 10 feet from the ground in twiggy shrubs but often choose hanging planters or door wreaths!
  5. Incubation takes 12-14 days and the chicks fledge in a mere 11-19 days. So I may get my front door back by early May. However –
  6. It is not unusual for a pair to produce two or more clutches a season. So I’m planning now what to do about the wreath after the first clutch – if it’s successful.

DSC00611I know I am being selfish in wanting these creatures to be part of my life.  They are wild things – however beautiful and entertaining they may be. So I must reflect on the work of writer and poet Mary Oliver, whose skill in framing this fascination with wildness but keeping it in persepctive, is a writing touchstone for me.  Here, from my bedraggled copy of her  New and Selected Poems, Volume One, an excerpt:

Lonely, White Fields (first published in New Poems, 1991-92)

       Mary Oliver

Every night

the owl

with his wild monkey-face

calls through the black branches,

and the mice freeze

and the rabbits shiver

in the snowy fields-

and then there is the long, deep trough of silence

when he stops singing, and steps

into the air.


Read the full poem Lonely, White Fields Mary Oliver







Skunked! Chapter 1

skunkI saw her first one fall evening a year ago. She waddled through the garden, hugging the fence line, slunk through the gate, across the drive and into my neighbor’s bushes.  Nothing like Disney’s suave Pepe Le Pew, or even the classic, glossy-furred black and double-white striped image familiar to us all.  No, she had a single horizontal stripe across her shoulders and a tiny wisp of white at the tip of her tail. She was bedraggled and dirty and the mass of her black fur seemed a burden to carry. An unlovely, pitiful sight.  I felt kind of sorry for her.  A few days later she made her presence known in the skunk’s inimitable way – in the middle of the night.

I’m a pretty handy and self-sufficient person.  I like to take care of things myself as much as possible. So, on to the internet and “How to Get Rid of a Skunk.”  I knew she was living under my deck, but didn’t know where she got in.  Taking the web’s advice, well after dark I sifted a thin layer of flour across the deck to capture her tracks as she came ‘home.’ It was unlikely to see her again, coming or going. DSC00577It worked!

I saw paw prints and the sweep of her tail captured in the sifted flour. But it was late in the year and the snows were upon us. I didn’t want to trap her in under the deck, and decided to wait until spring to block the opening. Researching the gestation period for baby skunks, I decided that by July she and any offspring would be nocturnally mobile – out at night.  So I waited and  spent a July night blocking that opening and every other one I could find. Pat-on-the-back! No noxious odors the rest of the summer.

Since moving to this lovely, inner-ring suburb of Cleveland and into my charming, 1920’s bungalow on a tree-rich street, I have enjoyed the wildlife that I encounter each day.  A small herd of deer sometimes sleeps among the trees at the back of my yard.  Two injured does have made it through last winter and this. DSCF4726 I see them limping on three legs, but still able to jump fences with the grace of ballerinas.  I have seen and heard owls. Birds of varied song flit from bush to tree, animating the air with chips of color.  The squirrels taunt each other and play manic games of tag, chipmunks scamper and veer like radio-controlled toys and the rabbits munch the dew-washed grass unconcernedly. I’ve seen an opossum and a raccoon and a few mice as well.  Hawks soar above the huge trees each day. The food chain is well supplied.

I am content for all these creatures to share my yard, knowing that I am really the interloper. I accept that the deer will eat my plants and the chipmunks will burrow beneath the stones of my walk and am willing to do what I can to discourage, but not harm them. As I said, I am content to share with all—save one.

There is a saying, “Man plans; God laughs.”  Its early spring now, and she’s back. Last week I got another distinctive wake-up call. Surprisingly, twice that week I saw her returning, about 6:45 AM, when I’m on my second cup of coffee and staring out my kitchen window.

So, with a blessed run of dry, sunny days, I tried the flour trick and it worked again. DSC00576-001She’d found a new way in.  Hoping to discourage her from setting up house again, I piled bricks in front of the new opening she’d dug at the base of the deck. But perhaps you can guess the measure of success.

The “call” came again last night, at midnight.  This morning I saw her trundling up onto the deck and watched her disappear under the steps—where I was certain there was NO WAY she could get in.  When I investigated, I saw she had pulled back the rolled-up chicken wire I had stuck in an open space under the steps.

Social media can be a good thing.  As I checked my email, there was a message from a neighbor on my Next Door  news feed talking about skunks.  The neighbor had called a live trap removal service which caught 16 skunks and a groundhog over two weeks!

Self-sufficiency aside, I’ve decided there are some things better left to the experts.  Stay tuned for chapter two. Meanwhile, here’s a lovely poem on the subject  by the late, Nobel Prize winning Irish Poet Seamus Heaney.  (Apologies for the double-spaced formatting.  I haven’t figured out how to change that for poems in WordPress yet.)

The Skunk  Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)

Up, black, striped and damasked like the chasuble

At a funeral mass, the skunk’s tail

Paraded the skunk. Night after night

I expected her like a visitor.


The refrigerator whinnied into silence.

My desk light softened beyond the verandah.

Small oranges loomed in the orange tree.

I began to be tense as a voyeur.


After eleven years I was composing

Love-letters again, broaching the word “wife”

Like a stored cask, as if its slender vowel

Had mutated into the night earth and air


Of California. The beautiful, useless

Tang of eucalyptus spelt your absence.

The aftermath of a mouthful of wine

Was like inhaling you off a cold pillow.


And there she was, the intent and glamorous,

Ordinary, mysterious skunk,

Mythologized, demythologized,

Snuffing the boards five feet beyond me.


It all came back to me last night, stirred

By the sootfall of your things at bedtime,

Your head-down, tail-up hunt in a bottom drawer

For the black plunge-line nightdress.


3:37 AM …

… and the deeply cratered southern lunar highlands have slipped below the upper edge of the skylight in my room. The rectangle of bright light from the full February moon has been sliding up the covers of my bed and now moves onto my pillow and into my eyes, waking me.

I estimate that the slice of skylight I can see from the angle of my bed equals not quite two of the moon’s diameters. I decide to watch the bright beacon descend on its westward trajectory as long as I can keep my eyes open.  I manage the task, watching the moon crawl slowly down through the spidered tips of the trees in the back yard. I can actually see it move.  Which is thrilling.  By 4:45, nothing is left but a soft glow at the bottom of the frame emanating from the now-hidden moon. I am tempted to go downstairs to watch it continue its journey, but I know from that lower angle it will be lost in the tangle of trees and the houses on the street behind my house.  So I go back to sleep. DSC00585

I’ve always been confounded by the movement of the moon. It’s never in the same place night after night. I recently took a wonderful class at the Natural History Museum, All Things Moon, and learned a lot. The moon moves approximately its own diameter each hour against the background of the stars – or a little more than .5 degrees along its orbit around the earth. It takes about 27 1/3 days for the moon to complete an orbit while the earth keeps spinning/rotating. 360 degrees divided by 27.3 days = 13.2.  So the moon rises and sets 13.2 degrees to the west each day and moves .5 degrees against the stars each hour of the day/night.  There’s a reasonably clear explanation of it all here, but it still makes my head spin.

Does the moon stun you, as it does me?  As long as I can remember I have been fascinated with it. Some years ago I wrote a poem that tried to capture that stunned feeling and it was chosen in a contest that was part of a local effort to put poetry on city buses.  Here’s the bus card that was produced.  DSC00526

The artwork was done by then Kent State Design Studio student Alexandra Charitan. I was a little upset that the image of the moon was reversed from what we see, but also learned from my class at the Museum, that photographs taken through certain kinds of telescopes reversed the image. The good thing, though, was that the big red lips ended up exactly over the Mare Nubium (Sea of Clouds) mentioned in the poem; the dark basalt plain in the southern hemisphere that I always imagined was the singer’s mouth.  Here’s the poem:

Night Song
The moon, sudden as a door slam,
rang the night awake.
The Aztecs saw a rabbit there.
For me, a singer croons.
A lunar anthem sounding
from the cloud-less mouth
of Mare Nubium; its tone
the perfect ‘A’ of Mozart’s clarinet.

Interestingly, since I wrote that poem I don’t see the ‘man in the moon’ singing anymore, as I once did.  It’s rabbits every night. What do you see?

I don’t know why I am so fascinated with the moon.  It just seems an impossible, magical thing, hanging up there in the sky.  You’d think that, with all we now know about it the romance of the moon would diminish.  But for me, it’s only grown.

Through the All Things Moon course, delightfully taught by the Museum’s deeply knowlegeable Shafran Observatory Manager, Clyde Simpson, I learned just how unique and symbiotic our Earth-Moon system is. In the massive collision of another planet (appropriately named Theia, in Greek mythology, a Titan goddess and mother of the moon goddess Selene), into our own 4.5 billion years ago, we acquired our mighty heart of iron.  In return we blasted and spun off fragmented elements of our crust which coalesced over time into the shining rock, locked in its orbit around us each day.  We are, in fact, geologic twins, or at least siblings.

Our world and life as we know it would not be possible without the companionable influence of our moon. The fact that it is moving away from us a tiny, tiny bit every year worries me.

“The Moon continues to spin away from the Earth, at the rate of 3.78cm (1.48in) per year, at about the same speed at which our fingernails grow.”  Dr. Maggie Alderin-Pocock

Read about it here.


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