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Tag Archives: blessings

Blessed*

24 Friday May 2019

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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birds, blessings, father, heron, look it up

They nest every year in a pine tree the next house over.
Fearless. Curious.
One dusk I saw five of them on the branches, then they flew off, long legs trailing.
But one stood on the roof peak, tawny legs, tan roof, beak before the breeze. Its crest feathers and remiges flowing back, and I can’t decide if it looked like a dragon or a princess…




*yellow crowned night heron (Look it up, as my dad would say)

Blessed Commotion

29 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Aztec art, birds, blessings, commotion, life, Michael Shannon, music, season, the Doors

gray morning 5:30
take it slow
purple ink on my writing finger
scribbled notes on junk mail
some important message needs decoding
something about Friday melanoma (again)

Michael Shannon sings with a band
I think he wants to be Jim Morrison
an Aztec frieze of fearsome teeth and feathers
neck bent, back bent, knees bent
hearing the secret, being the ceremony
sweat
becoming
apart
receiving
transmutation connection
high-five.

what feathers can I be on this soupy morning?
mmm. I shall wear a blanket of all of you,
an Aztec frieze of fearsome teeth and feathers
that I plucked when you invaded the sparrows nest
brown brood barely able to fly hiding on the shed nearby
neath the tree some might call a weed but full of green
shade and safe from blue jay, osprey
cardinal witnesses the catbird wanting to infiltrate
and the raven–I heard the raven’s feet touch the lamp
when it landed and croaked, wanting fledgling meat
vulnerable, but he was late to the show.

feathers for my blanket made of attempted murder
a witness, an empty nest,
red, blue, black, brown, white
Coffee on the way to the job, I’m late (again)

Generations of Metal & Thank You’s

04 Sunday Jun 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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blessings, family, grateful, Iron Maiden, joy, music, Sanctuary

Taking a moment to acknowledge my yesterday, a long day, but a great one.   I looked out the hotel room window last night, curtains open just a bit for some light.  I was wrung out from headbanging for 2.5 hours and shouting myself hoarse, so I committed my body to the sketchy sheets of a king bed touching memories, hoping I wouldn’t forget them this morning as I drove home.

Thank you to Sanctuary, the Iron Maiden tribute band, who put together a pre-concert meet and greet at the Hard Times Cafe, complete with t-shirts and heaping plates of delicious nachos.  You brought old friends together and we made new ones complete with class picture after the gig was done.  Thank you, Rob, for donning the giant Eddie shroud once again so everyone could get their picture taken with you.  Rob, you make great memories for us, and I’m glad you’ve been a part of what’s become a Sanctuary tradition.

I suppose I should say thank you to Iron Maiden, for they are the reason we all became friends, the reason we come from near and far, congregate and hug and sing.  Yesterday as I stood in the tavern watching Sanctuary play, I looked around and saw people of all ages, shapes, and stripes. Looked at the younger ones who are here with their mom or dad, I felt like the night should be called “generations.” Maiden keeps playing, we keep returning, and the music/vibe will live on through the kids. Well. I hope, anyway.

Shifting gears to the lawn, which is the back end of an ampitheater (shed)  venue.  I guess I should be grateful I even got a lawn ticket because the place was sold out.  This was my first Maiden show on the lawn, and you know?  I rather liked standing barefoot in the cool grass, the moon shining overhead.  Thank you, Kent, for keeping me company during the opening act, a band I had no desire to see but they proved themselves to be tight musicians. Not thrilled by their shtick, but like you said, everybody’s gotta have one.  (Still not gonna buy their music, though.)   It was nice chatting with you, and how you randomly found me out of 30,000 other bodies I have no idea. I didn’t steal your purple sneakers as promised, so you’re lucky.

Thank you, two nameless teenagers who were more interested in dry humping during the opening act. First time for seeing that, I must say, and I have seen a lot of things. Little girl, you gave quite a show on that blanket on your back, three knuckles deep in your pie, and your boyfriend getting into the act.  You made a lot of guys happy watching you. Perhaps the world will become a happier place if more of us came in public? Who knows.

Thank you, nameless young father who brought his 4-year-old to his very first concert.  I noticed that when your son, Bear, had enough during the Maiden show you and he curled up in blankets and went to sleep. Thank you for putting your son first. It gives me hope for our generations.

Thank you, two guys who stood next to me during both bands.  (You shall remain nameless as one of you did something he kinda of knew he shouldn’t have and wouldn’t want his name broadcast.)  It was a pleasure meeting you and watching your banter, the product of a close and long friendship.  Thank you, Mister X, for allowing me to watch you as you experienced your first, and possibly last, mushroom trip while seeing Maiden.  I got to see your journey, and yes, it WAS beautiful. Thank you, Mister X, for being concerned that I was alone at a concert, aghast that Kent “left” me to take his place down in front, no matter how many times I told you, it’s OK, I go to shows by myself all the time!

Thank you, Iron Maiden, for playing a tight show.  Nicko’s drums sounded better tonight than I’ve heard in a long time (though… the guitars are still a little fuzzy here and there.)  Bruce, your energy and enthusiasm unflagging as always. Thank you for acknowledging the fans who came from other countries to see you, as they always do, pressed together down front, and reminding us in banter and song that we are all “Blood Brothers,” a family.

People who I would not like to thank, which probably has no place in a “grateful” post, but oh well! To the trains who trundled past and blew their horns not 300 feet from my hotel room three times as I clung desperately to sleep…to the person who thinks it’s a great idea to charge $5 for a bottle of cold water, to whoever designed that “parking lot” — that gravely bottlenecked rats maze a rat couldn’t find its way out of, and to the merchandising team who wants me to pay $45 for a t-shirt…. SUCK IT!   (And as an aside, I’m betting more than half those people behind the wheel were not able to be designated drivers.)  *yikes*

Back to grateful:   I don’t know how you did it, Kent, being down in the front (pit) area to finding me in 30,000 other people as we’re walking through the concourse, but whatever it was….  thank you for helping me find my car in that ridiculous parking lot.  Next time I will be more diligent in noting where my car is on the grid, but your company was appreciated.

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, thank you 2001 Lexus for getting me there and back again.  You have been a faithful, reliable prairie schooner, and I couldn’t have done it without you — or the the man who helps keep her steel wheels on the rail.  Thank you.

April 17

17 Monday Apr 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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blessings, evolving, sunrise

What a difference “__” makes.  That variable is subject to debate for me. It could be time, unplugging, sunlight, warmer weather, winds shifting from north to southwest, mending fences with a neighbor, the departure of the bad energy downstairs.  Or it could be the determination, the want/need/fight, the will to sleep through the night and arise at peace with the world. All of the above.

I am better today than I have been in some time and am relieved.  There is still much work to be done, but at least I feel ready to begin (begin again) and again.  I forgot my blessings and address them again today in a rising sun that reflects the blinding yellow paint on the building next door.

I slept with a full belly. I slept with the windows open. I slept with hope for tomorrow.  I slept. And now, it’s time to write.

Blessing Stew

30 Thursday Mar 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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angry woman, blessings, bones, marrow, sin, thoughts

Hot orange sunrise peels back my eyes. Sweat soaked skin meets cool air when I pull the covers away.

I lumber from my cave, and what is this? A pile of bones heaped on the floor.  They are mine. A fine, greasy mess I left for the maid.

I cracked open my bones and let all the good stuff out, those seven deadly sins flittered about, and I tried to catch them but they slipped from my fingers.   I wanted to marinate them and make this refuse a stew.  What better way to heal an Angry wound but to sup the marrow from which it came?

Come back here, you rascals, I exclaim, putting my seven deadly sins back in their box. Naughty things, useless things, helpless things that only want a little recognition, struggling to get out, but I silence them.

Yesterday I cracked open my bones and watched the sins fly out. Last night I slept with them all.  Today I will observe, perhaps interrogate and see which goes into my pot first. When I am ready, I shall call it Blessing Stew, because you can’t have blessing without sin.

Roy Walked In My Dreams

14 Saturday Jan 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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blessings, Butch, chickenhawk, dream, friend, Roy

Oh Roy…you were in my dream last night.  Why?  How? How long has it been since I heard your soothing baritone?  Seen the trenches of your forehead, your dark, bushy brows, rolled my eyes at your deadpan humor?  Too long, and too long.

I heard you in my dream, Roy, saw you just as I left you, a quiet smile and gentle heart.  How is it we trained in the martial arts?

Roy, you were wearing a light blue t-shirt and what looked like silky Adidas track pants.  We greeted each other in a parking lot surrounded by buildings, maybe dorms or dwellings of some sort.  You were smiling.  You were speaking, making those subtle hand gestures, telling your tale. I never spoke, and though I cannot make out what each word was, it had the same rhythm and cadence of a man who was telling a good story, one that had a funny (or wry) punchline at the end. Other people came to meet up with us, but I don’t recognize them.

All I know is that when I woke this morning I was in awe of how real it felt, then feeling so blessed and happy to hear your voice again. How can this happen?  Why did you come to me? Was this just some random electrical confabulation my neurons assembled while my body was down for recharging?  How could those neurons make me remember every detail of you, as if we were both really there, and more importantly, why?  What do I do with the memory of you, who left us long ago?

I recall me and Butch discussing dreams, and for a man with all his faculties he made me wonder (happily) when he suggested that maybe dreams were real. Alternate realities. It was something I needed to hear in that time of my life. Here was a man I loved and respected, his feet firmly on the ground, but he suggested to us that dreams could be real?  Whatever the means of your revelation to me I feel blessed to see you, Roy, and hear you, truly hear you, like you were standing by my shoulder like we used to.  I’m not sure what to do with you, but I suppose it will come in time.  For now I will feel sad that we can’t conjure who we want, when we want, in our dreams. For now I will be grateful for another moment with you and keep all my dream channels open for any who will come.

Omaha Graffiti

19 Friday Aug 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Baha'I, blessings, death, faith, graffiti, Journey, life, Omaha

I stand in your shadows when I write. I stand in your shadows when I read. I measure myself by those mental yardsticks and know I’ll never crash to the bottom in you, any of you. But you, sir, took it to the next level.

My words tend to be grainy and delayed, selling the promise of a poem and little more.  When I read your words I feel like a five course meal at a five star restaurant wearing sweatpants, sleeves dipped in red sauce. I feel like throwing in the towel. But I read them again and there comes a swelling dare, like swimming beyond the breakers, daring some thing to swim past my skin, brush my leg, make me wonder, but keep going, it’s out there!   Your words dare me to keep writing (but I’m still not gonna rob liquor stores with you, which is really the same thing, isn’t it?)

You say you’d forgotten that beach exists, the city obliterated water from your memory. I say the city can’t take nothing away that you didn’t want to let go.  You get to make your life as precise, blurry, fractious, secret and perfect as you want it to be, like the figures you sketch on train rides home.

Your PKDick mind never stops. I could hear words flurrying, flickering, battering, infernoing the whole way out to Omaha and back, so I would point past your nose and grunt things like, “Look! River! Mountain! Field! Mist!” I wanted you to stop. To see a land where the plates and the glacier said “You will not end here: You will fold and ridge and rise and landslide, you will be covered in greens and generations of deer and owl will fly from your sides. You will glisten red and wet in sunrise and bow down broken cold in gray winter knowing it will pass and you shall gleam again.”

I stood before a pine coffin in a far-flung section of the cemetery.  I came to help you say goodbye to a friend in Omaha. A hawk flew overhead. Bees played in the low, dry grass. Sweat trickled down our sides with our tears. I listened to a song and a prayer for the dead in a faith I’d only just learned about, Baha’i; the word is beautiful.  I like making graffiti on smooth, cool bathroom walls and how much I wanted to put my pen into the soft wood and write, “Rest In Peace, Friend” though I did not know him.  The pen grooves would have felt satisfying, and it was a hard urge to resist.  Maybe that’s all writing is to me, after all?

Final scattered notes:  Remember when exit 91 was closed?  The Arch.  “Yeah, well anything looks pretty when you stick a blue light on it,” she said, bitterly. Your magic box, world ending hot sauce, a final fresh vegetable meal I will make again and again.   I have notes on the couple sitting next to us in the museum café that I hope she never sees because it’s not flattering a’tall. You lost in a painting you didn’t particularly like. I may never drink coffee again due to world-ending heartburn, and I wonder what your 53 pages look like today. Have they multiplied, conjoined? Divided? Where do you go to write now?  I will never drive by a Starbucks without thinking of you.  Thank you for allowing me to be part of this journey.  I am blessed because of it all, and I will try to honor and continue the blessings.

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