Gato Negro

Ode to an inexpensive but nice Chilean Cabernet (they have a cool website too).


Gato Negro,


On my front porch Friday evening




My neighbor from across the way opens a can of… PBR?


Friday night.

Layoff has rendered my Friday evening null.

Though tonight is soft, mild, sweet.


Gato Negro,


Saturday smiles from here.

Seductively a weekend still peers over the horizon.

A shared Summer scent,
Mesquite grilled BBQ & sweet corn.



Another can is open.

Open wide.

Gato Negro,


“April is the cruelest month…” TS Eliot

Yes, April is National Poetry Month.
I wrote this last November, now that spring
is here I’ve decided to give it some sunshine.



Springtime in Space


The point is not lost on me
in the vacuum and permafrost.
I know spring will not touch
this frozen shore.

Heart you have and guard it well,
in a moment of sadness do not dwell.
For you are a favorite son.
You are also a lock. A key. A door!

Open your soul in the frosty kiss
of a winters night.
So near to my heart you are,
yet so far from my sight.
And your name is a love
that I cannot fight.
Irony is, you are the one
who gave me the strength
and the right.

Through your eyes
I know wonder and grace.
Under your feet the world has
become a small beautiful place.
Soon your footsteps
with my own I’ll trace.
Together, apart we’ll pass
the springtime in space.

The kids are alright!

I fell in love with a boy because he was wearing a button that read ‘Fuck This Shit’. It was High School English Lit. class, 6th period. Our instructor took the sentiment personally and ripped the button from his shirt. This boy and I had been *just friends* up until that day but after that I was definitely crushing on him. Okay, he was tall and had a pair of devastatingly blue eyes but it was the rebel thing that really did it for me.

High School is now long since past and my figurative love vs. hate knuckle tattoos have faded into memory. Or have they? A few weeks ago I went to hear a Ska band. I know what you’re thinking. Pork pie hats, skinny ties and dark suits, me too. We would both be wrong. These were kids. Punks. Beautiful punk kids! Only a true case of arrested development such as myself would find teenagers furiously moshing, stage diving or passed out so endearing. I loved the club, the music, the audience –
I loved it all.


Since that show I’ve been asking myself, why do I feel so at home in places like this club? Amongst a congregation of the disaffected. Surely I should feel lucky. I have a career, a great family, some money saved and good friends. I am a woman and I am free to go where I want, do as I please. I live in Southern California a veritable playground from the desert to the sea. It is the land of plenty and convenience. On most days it’s a cozy enclave of diversity and acceptance. The legendary Lotus Land. Still, I wake up most mornings thinking ‘is this all there is?’. Maybe you do too.

It’s in me. My DNA. Van Morrison has a song Melancholia. In it he sings about melancholy as a condition. Not just a passing emotion to be cured or gotten over but a state of being. Not seriously depressed or mentally ill, just an enduring sadness with an undertone of angst. So many years I’ve hidden these feelings. Put on a happy face! Growing up I was made to feel wrong, even guilty about feeling blue.

Now I’ve made the decision to embrace my melancholy and disaffected angst.
Ha! Maybe I’ll even revel in it. So thanks kids, you’re alright!