Monday, April 15, 2024

thoughts walking


polar mas a sul
lunar mas a oeste
onde há água
e sal
saltar, saltar, saltar
como um peixe
como uma mosca apanhada pelo ventosul pular 
uma explicação em espiral
um azul viral

polar but south
lunar but to the west
where there is water
and salt
skip,  leap, jump
like a fish
like a fly caught in the wind

a viral blue
a spiraling explanation









haze hills inscrutable
discovery of impermeable

language is not a competition
the landscape of the foreigner
is one alone
in light, solar, a darkness, a night

a língua não é concurso
a paiseje da estrangeira
é uma sozinha
em luz, solar, um escuriso, uma noite


Wednesday, April 10, 2024


 walking to

shake off

winter dampness

a slow mind

a kind of stupor

I rise from

walking to

leave the constant


the fugues I play

to drown it out


walking towards something

that I reject

and so walk somewhere else



to remember walking

city roaming

without aim

you were there 
in another room
in another room
the pain
I woke
you dead
ten years 

estava lá
noutra sala
noutra sala
a dor
tu morto
dez anos

Monday, April 8, 2024

num sonho
uma voz falava
constrói uma nova vida
água no chão
a chuva
a chuva
como mil
votos de felicidade


in a dream
a voice spoke
build a new life
it said

water on the ground
the rain
the rain
like a thousand
good wishes

Friday, April 5, 2024

songbirds attack

a hungry hawk

doves awake know

the smell of cat


I watch the young gulls grow


pushing up 

cupped-leaved nasturtium

soil-speckled lobelia

cosmos rising 

a slender net of sway


stay a little longer, jasmine




I cannot bear the constant talking

but I do

I find the quiet inside, again and again

I miss the still trains of Tokyo, Osaka

eating alone out, in silence

walking, greeting neighbors in few words, politely


o riudo não é mais,  mas para mim é menos

menos mundano, menos cheio 

do que o canto de um pássaro, o miado de um gato

save the nest

scuttle the fish

prune it

kick it

can it

cant it

Sunday, March 31, 2024

 Em abril águas mil


Tree slippages -

pin oak    shadow   dry field weedy   duff   loess 


Alliances of
Disputes about
The route of the dissenter
The limits of language
Aren’t the limits of love
Garbage and Golgotha
Did the apostles recycle,
pick up trash

The end times align with the beginning
I for one 
cannot tear them into separate messages
Oh, and what about the loss of birds 
the urgency of the fishes?

Quake signs.
Animal residual resistance
Senescence is coming.
Nothing was ever without consequences
but led ourselves into thinking so.
What is more interesting than optimism, more prescient than fatalism?
We fogo on.
(Even if it’s only and always indecisive)
No figs on the trees but under the duff mushrooms.
No birds in the sky but under the straw thawing ice.
An emmigration of environmental protections.
Assonance of Ashoka's Dama
Manga comprida.
Dama Buddha’s longo

Aspects of interstellar intelligence have reached us.
Intimations of mortality, immortal beloved, is life itself,
interstellar and grateful.
The brambles - consciousness.

Cinzento vente
Oh e
Deixei e

Mama hen and black white chicks hiding in bramble's consciousness.

Beyond the pink apartments
old men and young men without sandwiches or dogs
have great faith, great doubts.

Approach them.

An angel lives on my roof.
apelido é já
Por aqui sei agora. ou vou
Te espírito e em da casa ele estava
A sonho ou sombras ou ambos

Can I find order in my house? 
Do I need to go back 
to that place in my mind where I am mourning?

The small thing is, even though it doesn’t make sense.

You are not a child.
The burned books
Returned to the fish.
Green as earth or water (copper) and for air in holes
Those lost pieces of books are
playing with plastic, glass on the beach.

Almost hypericum nearly nepenthe.

There are many moments over many years that have become a long moment of feeling the world, like an hour during a child's summer day.


joaninha, joaninha
sem a cauda
ainda um dragão
com asas de fogo
uma corpa cor de sangue 
salpicado de cinzas

joaninha joaninha
uma caçadora
uma vingadora
ver vermelho
vejo vermelho
quando te vejo


ladybird, ladybird
without a tail
still a dragon
with wings of fire
and blood-coloured body
sprinkled with ashes

ladybird ladybird
a huntress
an avenger
see red
I see red
when I see you

Saturday, March 30, 2024

a high shuttered window

has a twin window

glass patched with tape

lets in light

as rain

feeds the roof

rampant with fern and polypody


Stone bones

grand abandoned homes

The rich have disappeared,

as will the cardboard walls

holding blanketed bodies.

It's in the dog's eyes,

all of it -

such loneliness





Thursday, March 28, 2024

 Andrea Maria from Clavicórdio

"I like to think that my hatred is a kind of mysticism.
It's not a totalitarian hatred, spread without care 
or devotion, but a humble, somewhat hypocritical, 
contemplative hatred, filled to the nostrils, like a saint, 
with a faint rotten aroma and dried blood.
I know that to hate is to still be in relationship. Refusal 
is still a relationship, like the father who abandons his 
son to save us. And I believe wholeheartedly in the son
 mixed with the cross."
Ka: Dar Oakley in the Ruin of Ymr  john crowley 
I had lost my faith, as the church would say it, though I think the reverse is just as true. In fact I’m not sure that faith was ever what I had. I think I was not capax Dei, in Augustine’s phrase: I had, and have, no capacity for God. Living in the sacred time you didn’t really need it; you didn’t even need belief. All you needed were five senses, a sacerdotal language, and the solemnities of repetition. - John Crowley

w a t e r w o r d s

 Several words for bodies of water changed meanings between the old country and the new. 
In England a pond is artificial, but in America it is natural. Creek in British English refers to an inlet from the sea, while in American English it describes a tributary of a river. An English watershed is a line or ridge separating the waters that flow into different drainage areas, but in America it’s a slope down which the water flows, or the catchment area of a river. Americans added the meaning of a small stream or brook to branch and said fork to refer to one arm of a river as well as a fork in the road. 
- Rosemary Ostler 2023 from The United States of English-The American Language from Colonial Times to the Twenty-First Century

a poem, repeated

 To whom it may concern, Mr. Kirala's intention is to accelerate the process of making a beautiful tiger, and he is good at it.


unconformity, a line  that separated time 
radically different rock formations, 
layers of finite

Siccar Point
three men and no end
cement works at Dunbar
and the Muirs away
and sere
concrete weirs
here and there
where no fish stay
no children among the grasses
deep time passes
leaves and island for a lake
so deep it’s first in freshwater size
and rarely frozen
surprisingly clear down 8 meters
and found there thomsonite
of lonely
Morton Outcrops

a caminhada

a caminhada (the walk)

steps are lines of sight
one foot down two feet forward
or pause
to see
to remember
and then continue


os passos são linhas de visão
um pé para baixo dois pés para a frente
ou fazer uma pausa
para ver
para recordar
e depois continuar

Eu nunca estou sozinho
Estou sempre sozinho



a r t e

Cá estou eu (h e r e  am I, here I am)  


projeto um  -  uma visão da vida


uma folha de ouro

um velho cão dourado



o mar Báltico

sicómoro empedrado

uma enfermeira a fumar


a vision of  life

one golden leaf 

an old gold dog 



the Baltic sea

cobbled sycamore 

a nurse smoking


projeto dois - folhas e tableau 

Thimble-sized gold book of margaritas or margaridas 
ou Margaret’s goddess of bloom without pluck, 
fucked by another religion and beheaded

Ana Ann Anne - barrens (barren women) and after 
why you are more than blood or bloodline

Natural histories -
I prefer Juana Alipay’s de Machado Worthington 
to  what?
A pill in a bottle
A pleasant legend as many like Grimm are neither natural nor history

Lucretius  Pliny

projeto três -filmes

What’s the skinny?Assets bought and sold
Most unassuming ant richer than that

Boats barquinho the river inland
Susana Monsó philosopher on grief

Directed to see
A house centipede  
Over stained glass

Light on sand
In shadow
In hear

Sixteen absences
The heartrecedes
An afterword

projeto quatro - coisas

An exhibition of flag poems each inspired by a word an artist in the exhibit provides



t h o u g h t s


A kiss
that wishes to be 
an expression of freedom,
away from the safety of partnership
I go into old age 
an Alcott Jo that
chose her own ending
Start to or first recognize
your shadows, you said

What makes me see

The difficulty of long sickness
the heart in disrepair,
weary of nothing but exhaustion itself

To be, truly,
and as a solitary
is the joy.
Deserved access to your mind’s eye
Interesting interruptions

Wind is accessible 

light at the end


as it ends

slips under

as it ends 

into such disarray 

that its ellipsis is 

a sloppy summary of day.

Still, it stores unseen greens

to come, or come again.


night wind broke the marble

but not the bat, lonely, lost,

lodged under the rolling 

shuttered door

hanging nearby

more refugees, dark shapes.

Midnight brings a bird to the window

and an animal creeping along the sill.

s t o r m

a gull falls from

salt-altered air

as warnings shift

yellow to orange,

becomes part of

coastal foment



time stutters, small wet bursts of minutes


that have been pushed, crest.






have lost the locus of time


air underwater 

as the gull,


disappears into

fuming spray, 

wings bent, 

and mewling.




Thursday, March 14, 2024


(fuzzy, forming)

thought of

(ought, want, could)

when I wake

make omurice

mourn river eel

wrist pain means rain

fish out of water

I couldn't kick the eel

não há coragem
eu não há couragem

a brown eel

in road shoulder sand

I couldn't kick the brown eel

so close to the river

so far from the river

uma vida lá
Lá em baixo, no rio
e uma morte
uma morte no ar
I couldn't kick the brown eel
dead in road shoulder sand
into the green shoulder grass



Wednesday, March 13, 2024






friends in



eggs (who are sheep)

then creeping warm





boy with ball

all small things

eight stories high

I give thanks for


Thursday, March 7, 2024


Tonight the inevitable 
creeping into my bones. 
às vezes
ao meu lado
by my side
need boundaries




Wednesday, March 6, 2024

vidas e mortes 2


Já não estás aqui.

Tenho saudades tuas.

Apareces de vez em quando num sonho,
ou como uma memória dentro de algo,
ou na minha mente quotidiana,
como uma palavra que raramente digo em voz alta.


You're not here anymore.

I miss you.

You appear from time to time in a dream,
or as a memory inside something,
or in my everyday mind,
like a word I rarely say out loud.



os andorinhões regressaram,
as joaninhas, 
e as pequenas abelhas pretas.
the swifts returned,
and the small black bees.
O jasmim num frasco faz-me companhia enquanto escrevo.

Jasmine in a jar keeps me company as I write. 


Tuesday, March 5, 2024

Long friendships change. Some slip back into time quietly, quite naturally, create a mutual silence 

that grows comfortable over the years.

 I prefer this, of course.

But this is not always so.

I've had the pain of letters unanswered, 

felt cruel words that, aware of my secrets,

knew exactly where to cut.


But perhaps it's all part of the animal we are, that can choose to ease or hurt a heart.

Tuesday, February 27, 2024

vidas e mortes



wet brown camelias 

have fallen upon green grass -

death, new life, lamplit



the drowned lizard I found

carelessness or weather's toll -

do you care, lizard?



Memorizing this

silence, a garden, spring rain

time to plant again


the fly

even a fly's death

seems inconsolably sad -

here such a short time.



Spring's come, sun, but cold

I remember one I lost -

has it been ten years?


Monday, February 26, 2024

what to


in place

of space

days fill

with broken violins

and damp stones.

I believe I need

their weight


remain here,

outside myself.

you are now able to breathe 


Tuesday, February 20, 2024

o barco dos sonhos
não é o barco dos sonhos?

long nights unslept

kept awake by small impurities

the not good enoughs that haunt

and play

stay under eyelids

and fall out at two am


Saturday, February 17, 2024

p o l e c a t


Grandmother told stories.


With tips of her fingers,

she imitated

ant, spider, inchworm 

climbing our arms

until we could name 

the lives upon us.


On summer afternoons

when settled round the picnic table

in the shade of the swing oak 

she'd narrate us safely into woods

under the moon

where  her voice would prod and hiss us up trees.


These, she'd say, are the dark pines where the polecats play.


We'd imagine them paused

claws in bark, 

a deeper blur blow as they hunted for meat.

Know to stay away from them, 

grandmother would say

they are witchy 

keen to make mischief





Some people say that they're seen as a symbol of an upcoming productive and fruitful period in life. 

Gale (Ancient Greek: Γαλῆ, romanizedGalê, lit. 'weasel, marten' pronounced [galɛ̌ː]) is a minor character in Greek mythology. She was a very skillful witch.


According to Aelian's On the Characteristics of Animals, Gale was a talented witch who dealt in herbs and potions. But she was extremely lascivious, and had abnormal sexual desires. For this Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft, turned her into a small, "evil" (in the words of Aelian) animal bearing her name, gale (a land-marten or polecat).[1]

Thus the animal became one of the most commonly associated ones with Hecate. Martens/weasels were thought to have magical potency in ancient Greece, though not necessarily of the beneficial kind.[2]

Gale's name shares an etymology with that of Galanthis, another mortal woman who was turned into a weasel at the hands of an angered goddess.[2]


Sunday, February 11, 2024


The olive jar slipped.

Saw salt water and fruit 

plash among smashed glass,

sands of which I'll find for weeks.

Clean, chamomile-scented,

kitchen floor tiles

show motes of dark dirt

flung under the door 

fleeing high winds, more rain.

Thyme-seeded soil, 

lost to soft mold,

enters the bin bag too.

My hand's unsteady,

worn by the storm, 

saddened by seed death.

I take a breath,  

tie up the trash, 

pull on boots,

pocket keys,

go out.


I need sun, but the rain's won.








Thursday, February 8, 2024

Amanhã regressa o mau tempo, ele disse, que se prolongará por vários dias.

Eu digo que nenhum tempo é mau se eu estiver vivo. Vivo, cada dia é um bom dia.
I am grateful for the shutters, 
flexing and shuddering in the howling wind. 
I thank the rain pouring weight into pots and soil, 
making stable my small high plots of earth. 
Dearth of cares when the weather is this. 

Sampling sound. Can rain murmurate?

Can my closed-in rooms hum as hives do?
The eucalptus sway under white, and I think
you are bamboo now
imagining their tall trunks 
clacking like snow geese
Lone gull
hovering in the midst of it all
young by the color of its feathers
gorgeously ebullient -
Vivo, cada dia é um bom dia.

Tuesday, February 6, 2024

There is peace

that persists in small things -

warm spring earth stubbled green,

a quiet neighborhood schoolyard after

midday play ends,

a cat asleep in the sun.

All things ordinary are hard won

yet often invisible. 

I sometimes think

we are animals afraid of


of an everyday indivisibility.

Is it possible to stop fidgeting,

for even a brief moment?





I am changing the garden,

rearranging, potting up

grasses and succulents,

and spindly geraniums

that smell of citrus.

The trees are pruned, and soon

the lavender.

The planters wait for flowers, to be planted

among onions, chickweed, and 

struggling alyssum.

The terrace smells of laundry and salt.

My mind reaches into the soil,

pulls out hurt,

worry, white paper -

so few words.

The swifts return.

Among gulls,

a brave bee

sees my trees 

eight stories up.

entry of


won over

cold by noon,

dropping at four -

more cold


When days 

into nights

were sleepless, 

full of unease,

thoughts unpaused

flowed as rivers do

in early snow-melt spring,

things askew,



sound thoughts turned


An herb draught drunk, a pill,

and now 

with calmer, earlier, sleep

I rise with the fog.

Three nights unknown.

Dreamless fissures.


Saturday, February 3, 2024

Wednesday, January 31, 2024

 If your world is very small

you seem very large

but if the universe

in its expansiveness


small is

a star

so far away

 that's all


so much more

than before


But I guess


will return

Sunday, January 28, 2024

I found it today

the Febros

running dark 

through bottom land 

a dirt trail beside it

roads of calçadas

and houses perched like herons along it

I walked 

got lost

to my surprise

my eyes

remembered how to 

return to solitude

that house streaming light

as you open its door

Saturday, January 27, 2024


fierce winds

endless winds

and rain


she says 

as razões para viver continuam a ressurgir


In Um Rakuba, a third within are children

In Kutapalong,

some drown in monsoon rains


There are more.

Say the names - Kakuma, Dadaad, Za' ateri. 



He'd guessed as much,

that she was south.

Was it Rafah? Khan Younis?


He had to let her go.


When the shelling resumes,

a gifted translator

jobless now


for her children,

memorising their misery

in four languages.

Wednesday, January 24, 2024


I shoo seagulls into the air

into the warm bright sunlight.

I am grateful.

The lengthening days

the long quiet hours ahead

are enough.

Is this peace?




Monday, January 22, 2024

Yemanjá comes in with the rain 

in from the sea, blesses

my body, 

thick with water and salt.



Sunday, January 21, 2024


(more than anything)

I believe

that I am real.



My joy doesn't

need me.



I delight in old remnants

that are ridiculed as rags



I am hurt by the hubris

that kills children


Saturday, January 20, 2024

P e a c e

















After the cold rain

the bumbles are again

creeping in and out of the rotten stump, 

visiting low lying heather.

Brood and death

are their daily lives.

They're a community

often tested by stress -

internal power struggles,

bee hungry hornets,

humans that see only empty lots 

where they've had family plots 

for generations.











 small poems



c left

clef t








vinte quatro ovos


um galo castanho


Friday, January 12, 2024





We're not lost 

in leisure

nor John Clares

worked to the bone -

I'd call us

river stone,

clearly worn

but still here


Flannery and Eudora





or twice

with sound

Wednesday, January 10, 2024

the particular


then again

lost in  it


umbilicus   mundo 


the appearance of

Monday, January 8, 2024

the walk 2

the walk
a caminhada

steps are lines of sight
one foot down 

two feet forward
or pause
to see
to remember
and then continue


os passos são linhas de visão
um pé para baixo 

dois pés para a frente
ou fazer uma pausa
para ver
para recordar
e depois continuar

Nunca estou sozinho
Estou sempre sozinho

Sunday, January 7, 2024


hours of sun -

greeted by a lizard

a podengo

the meow of a peacock.



horas de sol -

saudado por um lagarto

um podengo

o miado de um pavão.

the walk 1

the walk



still on a sidewalk

veered under

an overpass and then again


cobbled, asphalt.

Old shoulders.

Cinders pocked

with rubbish.

Without a destination

other than to surprise the eye

I pass plants

called wayward

or weed.


Calla palustris

Wild tobacco


without gardens, 


In neighborhoods around them, 

caverned stumps

clotted with bumble bees

knees white with pollen.


Persian ivy

bristled bare where rusted fence intersects pole and stone -

these all wrapping land that began cultivation centuries ago.



I know each earthen plot on earth has a story.


Common milk thistle


and thistle again

wherever a home once was.


Groundsel swallowing lawns and pasture.

Woad and weld,

close by, dyers plants,



Swedish ivy

strangling pear,

past fruiting.

Scrambling gromwell

blue motes

navel wort,

old stones.


plangent too


returning home





uprooted limão

and sorrowful marmelo

too late

too early 

to fruit

More the physicality of 

moving through

where you are are

blank and back

So many pages left, events remembered, left unwritten, due to what? I want to say the cold, but that's an old excuse, cave-borne, and doesn't quite say it, relay the extent of the mind blankness, the creeping self-doubt and overwhelming course of personal  events, bomb ticks, I've felt .  Vanish'd sight.

But you do go on, until you don't.

Afterthoughts ought to come in, and begin you again.

All losses are restor'd, and sorrow's end.



When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight;
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.


Sunday, December 31, 2023


Woolf called it “street haunting” 

Sophie Calle, whose celebrated career began the day that, out of boredom, she began secretly following people in the street whom she had chosen arbitrarily

Suite Vénitienne 

Flânerie, the great war reporter Martha Gellhorn told Victoria Glendinning, “is as necessary as solitude: that is how the compost keeps growing in the mind”.

This is a kind of micro-reporting, telling the world not what happened at a meeting between generals, but how much a loaf of bread mattered to an architect and his children.In her dedication to exposing misery, Gellhorn turned flânerie into testimony.

many words undone

but one 

seems to always remain,

or two -

you are grateful for that.





Friday, December 29, 2023


Aqui jaz um grande poeta.
Nada deixou escrito.
Este silêncio, acredito,
são suas obras completas.»
(Paulo Leminski, La Vie en Close)

"Here lies a great poet.
Nothing left unwritten.
This silence, I believe,
are His finished works "
(Paulo Leminski, Life Close)

Tuesday, December 26, 2023




but love




I am overwhelmed

by my



a solitude that resembles

the breathless


of  a running child.



I let it go




solitude -


of which

surround me

like spent flowers

Monday, December 25, 2023


as far as

I can see


a deserted street


in the

cold dark 











yoi (drunkenness) he (place) fushi (notable place)  

no (possessive)tokoro (yadori-inn) wa koko (individual) ka (?) 

basu no hana  (lotus flower)

Is this the inn of drunkenness ? lotus flower

Is this the lotus flower where the drunkard is?

Is this the place to get drunk or is it the lotus flower?


gi di na weyn' di min
we are all related to each other 
o nado da pata emite um brilho brilhante
O pato enjaulado não faz nada.
Depois, a andar, a nadar ou a voar
ela torna-se
um instrumento
de luz
the paw swimming emits a brilliant glow
The caged duck does nothing.
Release her!
Then walking, swimming or flying
she becomes
a luminous
of light


redundâncias de discurso

Recitar narrativas
Ter pronto um pequeno livro de contos memorizados
para usar como armadura
para proteger
o seu coração 

Recite narratives
Have ready a small book of memorised tales
to use as armor
to protect
your heart 


"We can change the pest by not making it the last chapter"




 simply looking

shuttered life open

optioned also


with or without


Saturday, December 23, 2023


My mother told

how the smell of an orange

at Christmas 

delighted her

so rare there in the snow

when America was poorer


but really

there were many oranges 

somewhere else

a not uncommon fruit

or fragrance


(matter out of place)

her daughter


accustomed now 

to avocados

passion fruit

cannot name their season









to presumption

I also sing an ode to


the unused,

an obsolete

Transistor radio 

held to my ear

once indispensable

I  recall


necessary at all 


or  a beloved  object 



At ten 

you jumped with

at seventy


to tie the terrace bench to the wall

against the winds

you know are coming


Friday, December 22, 2023

no more

no more

no less

than this

how small one life

not difficult to describe

in fact, a chorus of sounds

repetitive, not entirely original

not wholly elegaic


unexpectedly punctuated

by  a joy


not entirely revealed.






Thursday, December 21, 2023

 first full night's sleep in ages

that feeling

of surrender


beyond resistance

Waking naturally at six

with a thirst

for water and morning

Wednesday, December 20, 2023

it's all ground down into dust

I pine away
for spruce
yellow and spilling sap
on the hill
above my terrace 
eucalyptus are
leading closed lives
as immigrants do
while all around them
garden plots nudge
girdled cork
the wind distorts 
the lowing pines

as sycamore lining streets
are sheared like sheep
willows, willows
where are you?
the norfolk spines
and palms full of weevils
are camelia crowded dells,
vine-strangled, ghosts
I search along
a stream
for willows
finding few
but knew tamarisk
would be here
and poplar
wiping away nostalgia
I return to Porto
to be sweet gummed
and ginkoed



Tuesday, December 19, 2023


Minos' daughter

led Theseus to


the Minotaur

her half-brother

John Virtue

Eddie Tay

they influence me







I pray that even I 

a foreigner

who pushed herself

to live across seas

far, far away

isolate but never alone

may send breath

back into you

words, words

my home

We are all related, we are all related, thank you, thank you, the good life



An epistemic bubble is a social epistemic structure in which other relevant voices have been left out, perhaps accidentally. An echo chamber is a social epistemic structure from which other relevant voices have been actively excluded and discredited.


an echo of




breaking glass

the past






have begun

each one




flight of

the ordinary




a person

a planet

a star




Tuesday, December 12, 2023



no parque


flores caídas à volta da camélia



wet from rain

old blooms ring

the camelia

a circle

of brilliant pink

beautiful and dying

in the fading winter light

Saturday, December 9, 2023

 Gimikwenden ina?

 Do you remember

that even smashed it's reassembled.

Someone bring the glue.

You, too, glue yourself together.



“The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.”
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie 
I showed you the word.
You said 
It's just a word. 
Words don't mean anything.
Have you no respect for the letters, one following another, that have to hold so much?
Gimikwended ina?
I took the tablets I made to commemorate
and struck them down. 

What right have I to that word?
It rarely snows here,
so my tears will have to fall like rain.
My tears here are equally cold, but without their white-starred complexity.
I simply weep here, a salty sea
for every one and thing suffering everywhere.
I don't want to be your relative, family of man, 
said the sheep.
You are a family full of murderous intentions, arrogant and ungrateful.
Leave us be, 
said the clouds.
We aren't interested in your revelatory self-reflections.
Calma, calma,
said the far-off stars.
They are each briefly bright before they dim to nothingness.


Tuesday, December 5, 2023

grutas, gritos
ruínas, risos
sorrisos sórdidos


sob os soluços
somos sempre

um coro de cores


caves, screams
unite us
ruins, laughter
lift us up
sordid smiles
make us 


under sobs
we are always

a chorus of colors

 Long ago,

I made memories

to help me through

that  never really 

made me safe.

Those I've lost,

tossed them

on a fire, with 



mean friends

and cruel men.

I'm sure I'm not through.

More fires to come. A winter's worth of flames! 








I notice

as I age


the spaces within

begin to fill,

not always 


I find




The uncertain nature of life


to nudge death,


Yet my own


small bird,


takes flight,

never surrenders.



Friday, November 24, 2023

looking at dawn

wind in the eucalyptus

blue hills, colder vale


se ud ved daggry

vinden i eukalyptustræerne

blå bakker, koldere dal


ao amanhecer

vento nos eucaliptos

colinas azuis, vale mais frio




Boys beating up math teachers 

an old Danish professor

a young woman prone to gaming and music



Sickness makes me stay at home.

So I fix the things I thought I couldn't

a broken blind

a leak

as I seek to still.

Then, after quiet,

I fill up again

with listening.


Pain in right ear

clearly bruxism again

as I grind my way out of worry

for a nephew hospitalized

or the madness of friends

I remind myself

these cannot endure

the returns of

the web, the orbed egg sac


the wavering vee

of swans
Zoropsis spinimana
I hope to find another 
As I watch little orb mother
near the sill plants





















Sunday, November 12, 2023

Hairy Rose Beetle

 Tropinota squalida

hairy rose beetle


Crudely painted plaster saints

on folding tables wait -

so many of them!

An old woman prays aloud,

a plea to Saint Rita,

as I trace

mould on the door,

creeping down to the floor

from the water-stained nave.

Friday, November 10, 2023

thoughts, november

What this life listens to - how much terrible noise we humans make.

















w i n d   p o e m  - V i l a  d ' E s t e


early winter storm

nothing rigid will survive

so I strive for bent

flex, arc, crook, curve, bow and now

spring back after, unbroken



in the house

I am outside


N o v e   a n d a r e s

9 nono             não existe

8 oitavo           céu lindo

7 sétimo          cães e pessoas barulhentas

6 sexto            uma aparição
5 quinto          silêncio  

4 quarto          ou cozinhas
3 terceiro        música do outro tempo

2 segundo       afirmação de boa vontade 
1 primeiro      dez mil passos
res de chão    grutas e sepulturas


lua e arvore

 Dezasseis luas já passaram e ainda não consegui sair de sarashina.

438 Basho trans. Joãquim M. Palma

At Obusate I will fall

with no one there at all

even the moon

can't see 

me a tree 

in an agony forest

migrating north

Wednesday, November 8, 2023

 "Didn't leave much, did she? Not much for a life, is it?" - Vera S6 Ep3 Pt2


The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story. - Chimamanda Adichie


Laotzu might even have said: The wise man is without bones, like water. - Byunh-chul Han, Absence



Saturday, November 4, 2023


 on this night of fierce howls

help me get through

what's being swept into me

the idiot that I am

has locked herself in a room

seeking refuge

but in reality starving for a silence

away from this wind

that never stops howling my name

Friday, November 3, 2023

wall, walk

Campylopus introflexus Heath star-moss

Polypodium cambricum, the southern polypody, limestone polypody, or Welsh polypody, is a species of fern in the family Polypodiaceae, native to southern and western Europe where it grows on shady rocks, near the coasts of the Mediterranean Basin and in the mountains of Atlantic Europe



Tuesday, October 31, 2023

Wish my stone sills

were bone dry

On the floor

a damp cocoon -

wet beginnings,




 self like unsealed stone

leaking through and into

my interior

a bit damp




live daily

taxed or lax

one before two



There isn't any other space

but this one





Wednesday, October 25, 2023

One brown cocoon

deflates, lifeless



I am not afraid of death

but of that circle in hell, poverty

its endless waterwheel -

a relentlessly inefficient

extraction of the soul 


Sunday, October 22, 2023



n a u f r á g i o s  Cabeza de Vaca            1542 

i n t e r l i n e a r  Haniel Long     1936  1944 1972

Para proteger a ociosidade que amo
Cercar a inação com muros contra o mar

Abafo o som das ondas
com auscultadores silenciosos e reclinado,

observo os céus
viajando pelas constelações

To protect the idleness I love
I surround inaction with sea walls

I muffle the sound of the waves
with silent headphones and reclining,

I watch the skies
traveling through the constellations


breve sol

Minha vida é um feixe de luz
que tenta pesar
uma sombra
antes de desaparecer



My life is a beam of light
that tries to weigh down
a shadow
before disappearing

Mais a rima

montões, pilhas

recuperar o que é descartado

to be with experience

to see as normative

uncomfortable feelings

paying attention to

uses, applications


O meu casaco/ My coat

um casaco
feito de
peles e penas
que pensei ter perdido.

Agora estou
feliz por o ter encontrado.

fotos a preto e branco dos
os mortos e eu digo

todas elas
cabem perfeitamente
nos bolsos
deste casaco.

O casaco colorido
pertence a outra pessoa.

Este é meu,
realmente meu,
um silencioso
e reconfortante
vacas leiteiras e pardais.

I found
a coat
made of
fur and feathers
I thought I'd lost.

Now I'm
happy to have found it.

I show you
black and white photos of
the dead and I say

all of these
will fit perfectly
in the pockets
of this coat.

The colored coat
over there
belongs to someone else.

This is mine,
really mine,
a quiet
and comforting
milk cows and sparrows.

sonhando com o barco feito de dentes