A Spanish Dance

You will find her in a garden,

in Andalusia,

Dancing the dance of Spain.

You will find her absorbed in the breeze,

Where the scent of the orange blossoms reign.

With sensuous fingers and hands,

As if grasping a ripe pear,

Gently, they trace her curvaceous form,

Moving high, into the air.

The arm undulates, to the ground.

Invisible fruit is released.

Mournful eyes of the dancer follow,

As her head inclines.

This is Flamenco,

A Spanish dance.


Dedicated to my friend María, from Galicia,

who TRIED to teach me to dance Flamenco.


“When I am dead, my dearest” by Christina Georgina Rossetti


“Twilight” Photo by GRB

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

Christina Rosetti

The Beauty of Imperfection

In my youth, I made this calligraphy, “Dust of Snow”.  My mom guided me in the process. Her love for the poetry of Robert Frost naturally influenced my choice of words. Having saved the original, she handed it over to me later in life.  I cherish it for posterity. Beautiful in all its imperfection, it reminds me of who I was, and the person I grew to be today.


The Cistern

I followed the force of Love…

to the cistern,

Sitting high on the hill.

Underneath the windmill,

Which creaked in the breeze.

Its stone and brambles,

And eerie depths,

lured me in like a child falling into a well.

A place, where sticks and leaves fall to dwell.

Upon walking through snake infested weeds,

Plucking flowers on my return,

I made a bouquet for she who loved me.

No matter how far,

no matter how near,

no matter how often…

I climbed the hill to the cistern.