July 29: My Brother, Poet Sister, Birdlight

Santiago and his brother fish . . . 

I wish I could feed the fish, he thought. He is my brother. But I must kill him and keep strong to do it. Slowly and conscientiously he ate all of the wedge-shaped strips of fish.

He straightened up, wiping his hand on his trousers.

It's not surprising that Santiago feels a certain kinship to the fish.  They are both, in a way, old men of the sea--Santiago above, the fish below.  They are siblings of water and salt.

Today was the birthday of one of my best friends.  A sister in poetry.  In a lot of ways, she's the yin to my yang.  I tend to darkness in my moods and thoughts.  My friend runs to the sun, physically and spiritually and emotionally and artistically.  We text each other new poems frequently.  Her poems are full of sunlight and flowerlight and birdlight.  Mine are . . . not.  Yet, we hold each other up through difficult times.  And we sing each other in joyful times.

Today, I went to an artist/poet reception for a poetry broadside exhibition.  I saw many close poet friends and listened to them read their beautiful words.  My sister in poetry was there.  So, we ate chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies, drank some flavored waters, and soaked in the poetry around us.  It was a perfect way to mark the occasion of the day of her birth.

And I felt uplifted, as I always do when I'm with her.  We know each other so well.  She has seen me through some pretty rough times, and I hope that I've been able to do the same for her.  She is facing some struggles right now, being the child of aging parents with health problems.  Because she works in healthcare (as I did for almost 25 years), she and I have similar reactions to these kinds of situations.  We hold onto hope, but we also deal with the reality.  In our friendship, we allow each other to celebrate and grieve.  Without judgement.

Being with my friend for an hour or so this afternoon was like taking a deep breath.

And that was Saint Marty's blessing today.

September 14: Best Time, Wedding, Matt Gavin Frank, "For Avery," New Cartoon

"Did you have a good time at the Fair?" she asked as she kissed her daughter.

Fern nodded.  "I had the best time I have ever had anywhere or any time in all of my whole life."

"Well!" said Mrs. Arable.  "Isn't that nice!"

Fern spent the day with Henry Fussy, playing the carnival games, riding the Ferris wheel, sharing cotton candy.  She has become more than a little girl who's content to sit on a stool in her uncle's barn and listen to animals talk.  By the end of Charlotte's Web, Fern has moved into a bigger, wider world.  A world where Henry Fussy is more interesting than her pet pig.


You'll forgive me for not posting yesterday.  My niece got married on Saturday, and I was swept up in the festivities.  I played the pipe organ for the ceremony, and then there was the wedding reception.  Friends, family, salads, cake, and dancing.  By the time I got home last night, I was pleasantly exhausted.

It really was a lovely day.  Seeing two young people so much in love fills me with hope.  The world is in good hands if my niece and her new husband are any indication of the future.  Weddings really are about taking a chance.  Choosing love over cynicism.  Forging a new family, new home, new life in a time that is often ruled by confusion and chaos.

My niece was beautiful.  Her groom looked as if he was a star about to go nova with happiness.  So much joy surrounded me yesterday.  It was impossible not to smile and laugh, dance and clap.  There are few times in life when it's OK just to surrender to goodness.  Yesterday was one of those times.

Saint Marty has a poem about love from Matt Gavin Frank today.

For Avery

by:  Matthew Gavin Frank

For all the loving, love.  Like a hanger
with blue wool on it.  Like a blue sheep

mad with sickness, at the moon
for turning colors.  You bear the burden

of reward.  It weighs about four pounds.

Sometimes, the world hides itself behind
the patio furniture in the way-back

of the garage, the big-armed chairs you will,
one summer, improperly stain, puddling

the patio purple like old murder.

For all the new, renew.  Like the library
book on birdfeeders you will desperately

want to save a dollar on.  Like a recipe
for Harissa, or the child who hates

Harissa, and because of this loves you.

Not because of this:  the

stains at your collar,
the spit-up formula smell ringing

your neck with premature lemon.  That special
way you hang your shirts, carefully, to mask

their heartlessness.

For all the hearts in this apartment, sing
circus songs to a newborn.

Confessions of Saint Marty