Thanks to Ron Harton

I enjoy a visit to this site site with a cuppa, and meander through the many writings.  Today I’ve got a new poem publishedat


Posted in Poems

Calling All Sleepy Heads

I’m privileged to have a poem published in the brand new emag (available free online) at SleepyHead Central, a wonderful website to visit for sleep health and support.  The ‘zine is a new venture, and there is loads of info on the site .







Posted in Poems

“Bless me Father, For I have ….”

Bless me Father,  for I  still have visions of fish bones.

The spectacle of fishbones stuck in my throat,
 robbing me or my family of the ability to breathe,
 with the offending bone growing larger by the second.
 This vision sent me to church on St. Blaises’ Day with great urgency.  It urged me into the confession box 
so that I might also have communion as extra protection,
 along with Saint Blaise, to protect me from a death 
caused by fishbones in this instance, stuck in my throat.

In early memories dad carried me to church, 
and I was two or three years old. Dad had explained about Saint Blaise.  I remember the candles crossed at my timid neck as I knelt
 and breathed in a sigh of relief, sure to be safe for another year. 
I worried that my mother wasn’t with us, her not being Catholic, and hoped 
my fervent prayer would extend the blessing and protection to her as well.


Gravestone in  the Glencolumkille church yard, Donegal.

Now, the truth is, I sat down to write a piece about Brigit, both Goddess 
and Saint. Brigit has more fine stories and followers than you could shake a stick at 
and far more than St. Blaise, who turns out to be Armenian bishop who was martyred, and lived
 roughly a few hundred years before Saint Brigit was in Ireland as a saint. Personally, I find this 
interesting, as I’m half Irish and half Armenian, and here haven’t I split the celebrating and thanking between them, always. One bringing hope and protection, the other to guard my Irish throat against the many hidden fish bones lurking in our suppers. This is a link that will take you to information on St. Blaise:

Now, in a happier tradition for myself, with Brigit, I enjoy having some seed packets ready for planting. I’ll say a prayer over them, and light candles.  I’ll give the wood stove a good cleaning, and set a fine fire. I’ll imagine the first stirring of life in the seeds, although it’s too early for planting here, aside from a few things begun indoors.  I sit comfort of the fire, feed it birch so it burns brightly, and make a bit of music  to honor the woman who crossed over party lines to work both as Goddess and Saint so powerfully.     This is a link  to a bit more information:

Welcome to my home, hearth, and blog,
  Brigit. And give my best to St. Blaze, as I’ve always thought of him, as well.

Posted in Brigit, Goddess & Saint, Clencolumkille Donegal, pagan celebrations, Poems, seasonal celebrations, St. Blaise

Tracking, Reading the Landscape


I was walking to my car when I noticed these tracks, somewhat fresher than the squirrel tracks that ran in the same direction . The fox circled a tree trying to find a meal before running across the lawn back into the forest. I searched for an object in my pocket that would help show the size of the track, and found this card.  When I put it down next to the fox track, I was reminded of how often I’ve taught children to track  words when they are beginning readers.

I thought of how we can learn so much about our environment when we learn how to read it better.  One of those techniques is tracking. In the North Quabbin area I’ve learned tracking from Paul Rezendes and David Brown, and going out into the woods with them is a delightful experience. Both kinds of reading give me shivers of delight.  There’s nothing better than a good book, unless its going into the woods, or following a stream, and finding evidence of those that share our environment, be it squirrel, bear, or moose.

I work with Louise Doud of the  Literacy Volunteers in the North Quabbin area. The Literacy Volunteers of Orange/Athol  is dusting off and is set to grow. There’s a search on for both kinds of volunteers, the volunteers who will be trained to help people learn to read, and the people who want to learn to read. The office space in the Athol library, and will serve the greater area. Reading literacy, whether it be in the forest and field, or using a book, or learning to fill out paperwork,  is an important way to improve our lives in many practical ways.  It can also add to our creativity and imagination to enrich our lives.


More information on tracking programs with David Brown can be found at


a href=””>Variations on a Theme</a

<a href=””>Variations on a Theme</a>

Posted in, Poems, tracking | Tagged ,

Good News from Galway

I’ve got some poetry in the inaugural issue of AutoPilot, out of the old country, Ireland.  A thanks to Brian Bingham… Find it on stateside.IMG_0933

Posted in Poems

Mid January




Unrelenting cold
pushes through each crack
housebound between the woodpile and couch
I aim the space heater to the back of the cabinet
so it warms the pipes on the outside wall
I cut my compost into chunks
lay it on the snow with old apples to feed the hungry
driven to my door in the full moon’s light

The radio is on for company
I hear about North Korea first
then President Trump’s bigger button
I remember crouching beneath desks at school drills
head tucked in         dog tag on          when I was a kid
Cuban missile crisis
now we send cruise ships to Havana
maybe one day North Korea will welcome cruise ships too.


I was lucky enough to find tracks that led into where they burrow under the snow to continue along, hidden by a foot of fluffy white.  In this cold, these were the first tracks I found in a week.  Everyone is staying put. Including me, for the most part.  The snow is so fluffy that when I tried a sled ride, I was covered in a tall blanket of snow, aside from my head rising above from the sled.  I’ll try again today, with this new snow; it’s heavier.



Getting used to something

I’ve gotten used to the sounds
deep in a winter night,
the loud crack of ice from the brook,
a sharp ping of the wood stove
reaching some new temperature,
muffled tumbles of a smoldering log,
the creak of floorboards
as if someone walked quietly.

Downstairs the refrigerator motor hums,
the water heater readjusts.
What is shifting inside this house with me,
I wonder, content, then roll back to sleep.
The snow loosens its grip on the roof
slides with a grand woosh,
louder than any wild animal out there.

IMG_2452 2.jpg



Posted in Poems, winter cold


Posted in response to Wednesday photo prompt… This very quiet angel is slipping out of the window at Saint Anne’s Church, in Dublin.  Shhh—-  What do we know about falling/fallen angels, anyway?  Diving towards the dark green heart of the earth. I’ve  spent time with this one often enough to have a lot of wonderings heaped up, should we ever have a conversation… Falling out the window? A little tipsy? Quietly leaving because  there as now so man good little restaurants in the area?


SilenceSilence”>  This post linked to WordPresses photo prompt, Silence.

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