A Story of Abundance


journal page – 9/23/08




Where the pulp lifts its germ and the sludge of beauty sighs,

where the leaf pulls the branch to the breathy earth,

where the rind cracks and buds rust into petals,

where the clove steams and cinnamon bark spits out cinnamon air,

where roots sweat and the earth boils in curds of steaming mud,

where the stem draws up the seed and holds it like a lamb to the sun,

where flowers rest their animal heads,

there, full throated, limp with seed, lush and smiling is



To come upon her you must journey through the rains,

and sleep through a night of fish smells;

there must be a dead man in a hot room,

there must be a basket of figs and plums on the pier,

there must be no new ship in the harbor,

there must be the sound of flowers falling upon flowers,

there must be no children swimming in the salt pools.


Where the Flamboyant spills into the vulcan dust,

where the wild pig chews up the door frames,

where the leper kneads his bones,

where the sun is stuffed with guns,

where the water flows like honey from the tap,

where black flies swell in the gecko’s translucent belly,

where these are, there is

Vegetable-Life: The Sultana of the Vine,

The Goddess of the Harvest Gone Bad, The Spectrum Swallower.


In an ointment of wild saps, ripe fronds and mosses, tumid wheat,

and bareley, Abundance pours down over the head, heavy with pollen

and in the puce interrogation of the harvest

the intellect sprouts leaves.


Ned Gorman (1929 – )

Another Day


journal page – 9/16/08
The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.
– Joseph Campbell

Back in the Day

Although I have nothing new to share, this week’s Inspire Me Thursday prompt reminded me of two very, very old journal drawings that feature period-correct clothing styles (and bad habits…). Can you guess the year of these drawings?


Still to Be


journal page – 5/29/08

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!
That’s what it said
as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain –
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.

Mary Oliver (1935 – )


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