You..because sometimes, it just isn’t enough to say I am missing you.

“If I never see you again I will always carry you

on my fingertips
and at brain edges

and in centers
of what I am of
what remains.”

― Charles Bukowski, Living on Luck

Siegfried Sassoon – The Death-Bed

He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped
Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls;
Aqueous like floating rays of amber light,
Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep.
Silence and safety; and his mortal shore
Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.

Someone was holding water to his mouth.
He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped
Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot
The opiate throb and ache that was his wound.
Water-calm, sliding green above the weir.
Water-a sky-lit alley for his boat,
Bird- voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers
And shaken hues of summer; drifting down,
He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept.

Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward,
Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve.
Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars
Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud;
Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green,
Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.

Rain-he could hear it rustling through the dark;
Fragrance and passionless music woven as one;
Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers
That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps
Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace,
Gently and slowly washing life away.

He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain
Leapt like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore
His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.
But someone was beside him; soon he lay
Shuddering because that evil thing had passed.
And death, who’d stepped toward him, paused and stared.

Light many lamps and gather round his bed.
Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.
Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.
He’s young; he hated War; how should he die
When cruel old campaigners win safe through?

But death replied: ‘I choose him.’ So he went,
And there was silence in the summer night;
Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.
Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

I took this picture recently on a trip to Scottsbluff, Nebraska.  This was taken just north of town, off of Route 71 North.  The Walt Whitman quote I used was in my head this entire day, and when I saw this tree, and the grasses that surround it, I knew the quote and image (if I could get the shot I wanted), would be perfect.  Well, it is pretty good — not perfect, by far, but it’s been years since I tried to take “better pictures”.

Click the image to view full size



How to live a life


“The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews
Not to be born is the best for man
The second best is a formal order
The dance’s pattern, dance while you can.
Dance, dance, for the figure is easy
The tune is catching and will not stop
Dance till the stars come down with the rafters
Dance, dance, dance till you drop.”

~ W.H. Auden

Such a favorite of mine.  Read his works all afternoon, and soothed my own soul.

Another favorite….

“Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.
You must travel it by yourself.
It is not far. It is within reach.
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know.
Perhaps it is everywhere – on water and land.”

~ Walt Whitman,  Leaves of Grass”



My son, the poet..


Wow…my son, the poet.  And yes, he gets that from me :D

7 Ways to See Dreams

by A. F.  Piniella
To perceive a dream is neither with eyes nor touch,
Tis the specters within and speculations untold.
Madness clouds such irritable misunderstandings,
And in our vivid imaginations we discover unity or unrest,
To which reveals the unwanted has been, and “oh” so feared will be.
However solace can be found in such doings,
Giving sight to unwoven complexity, and a desire to by no means wake from such respite.




the air i breath smells of yesterdays vodka
and the putrid scent of snubbed out marlboros

the drawn curtains hide me from the world
the unplugged phone keeps people at bay

i don’t want to view the world
but make it dissolve in my glass of 80 proof

but nothing falls away; nothing dissolves
your face is on everything my eyes slide over

i grab my glass partner, which is almost empty
dancing around my apartment to angry music

the cello is too sweet, the acoustic too lovely
but harsh loud angry electric plays my hurt so well

no longer close, your hand is again your own
no longer close, your eyes close and i scream

pablos’ words no longer apply, only mansons angst
my sweet ceylon now replaced with fermented grain

and the fullness of my heart when you were in it
has been smothered by the loss of your love of me

Michelle Piniella – 12-27-2009