All the Lines of Her Face

Sligo- I have joined a writer’s group. We meet in the Yeat’s memorial building with books so dear, nobody has been let in for decades. As I sit, I wait. I yearn to sniff the books locked behind the glass. I meet my cohorts, four, 40-50 year-old writers. I write my poem in the spirit of showing up, but I let a man read it aloud. Tonight, I read it to you.

I skate along the jagged peaks of my mind.

I skate for you, searching for that familiar song.

I skate in places I should not go, tempt me.

I skate for my mother so she can cheer me on.

I skate for my brother, his fears released.

I skate in and out, and up and down.

I skate. I could skate forever.

I skate to a cafe for a nice cup of tea.

I skate, so I breath deeply. My breath is your breath.

I skate until there is no warmth in my hands or in my feet.

I skate in the forest through the trees and I listen.

I skate through the wind, through the rain.

I get on the ice.

To skate.

Poem meet portrait. The more beauty within a person, the harder it is to capture them. A piece of her soul, her energy lives here with me now in my little place by the sea and we listen to Ray LaMontagne’s debut album and drink red wine and do all the things that good sisters do. Some critiques say that you can’t paint a portrait from a photo because you cannot capture the person’s essence. Well, they can go away. Others say that the real painting is found in the palette which in some strange abstract subconscious alternative universe, is the waar.


Looking forward to St.Paddy’s, a national holiday that is celebrated around the world. The Irish get the award for best traveled, best sense of humor and for having pride without imperialism.

Currently listening to

First Aid Kit “Ruins”