Work, Wine, and Wonder

Monday Morning Musings:

“Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting. It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals, that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse. As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armor themselves against wonder.”

–Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game (1963)


“Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That’s all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth

I look at you, and I sigh.”

William Butler Yeats, “A Drinking Song”


I spend days writing,

then sighting and fighting

others’ dreadful prose,

I dream then,

want again,

wonder and poetry–

a moonship sleeps through time

dreaming of a glowing goddess

cool, with diamond eyes,

from her starry throne,

she lets a storm moan

and I,

seeing lights from the sky.

watch as mist sprays

plays melodies on garden stones

dances in the light,

a thousand fairies



I spend days writing,

then sighting and fighting

more dreadful prose,

I watch a morning sparkle and gleam

and dream of conversing with the birds,

how it would be to sing their songs,

flowing thoughts and soaring words?

I wonder of what my slumbering cats dream

(perhaps nothing is what it seems).

Do cats and dogs, do cows

as they graze under the boughs

understand the birds’ songs

moo in harmony, sing along?


FullSizeRender 132

I spend days writing,

then sighting and fighting–

again, that dreadful prose!

And I wonder

why is there such hate

that negates

joy, hope, and reason

that seasons

life with tears and fears?

Why men would rape out of boredom


and why a woman,

or a man,

need to be taught a lesson



What lesson has been taught?

That someone has been caught or bought?

that life is fraught,

so do not dream of what you could be, or brought

about with books and words and second thoughts?

I wonder who could hurt a child,

can their minds ever be reconciled—

the dreadful deeds and daily doings,

the demons in their souls?

no controls, no goals

lives brutal and bleak

do, die, never speak.

Do they never dream of a goddess glowing

her tresses silver and flowing,

or wonder how to converse with a bird?

heard their songs in morning air

happy to be alive, aware?

Where does the wonder go?

Does anybody know?


I spend days writing,

then sighting and fighting–

yes, more of that dreadful prose,

correct the errors, insert a phrase

(my eyes glaze)

then I wonder—

isn’t it time for some wine?

so we go, sit near grapes in the sunshine,

enjoy the beauty of the day


as chatter and music play

in waves around us.

We drink wine,

red and luscious

(no, don’t rush this)

loving it,

loving you

I lift the glass to my mouth

I look at you, and I sigh.

wonder how and why we found each other

created two astonishing daughters

enjoyed days of blues skies and laughing waters,

realize I have found the music and the poetry

in life, in you, in birds, and trees

And though I cannot sing with birds,

I can wonder, dream, and write these words.



31 thoughts on “Work, Wine, and Wonder

  1. And so the mind ruminates. I too look at the actions of people sometimes and wonder how such a thing could ever come to be. ( Ok, every day actually.) We are lucky in so many ways. Here’s to cats and birds and moons and stars and the humans who share our lives…(K)

  2. I will be so relieved when you are free from the clutches of “sighting and fighting
    more dreadful prose.” Fortunately you have cats and birds and husband and wine to balance out some of this craziness.

    To the wonder of life!

  3. CATS!!!!!!!!!!! They light the spirits, for sure. There is a poem in Doll God about a murderer, and to write that poem I had to inhabit that the mind of a cold-blooded killer. What I discovered is something akin to boredom–a dullness and deadness of the spirit that feels like boredom where the afflicted will do anything to make himself feel alive. SCARY THAT.
    Are you finding any of that in the rape stuff?

    • Thanks, Luanne. I will have to go back and look at that poem.
      I was reading an article on what they call “streamlining”–gang rape in S. Africa. Men will plan to rape a woman (sometimes the girlfriend of one of them) out of boredom or to teach her a lesson for not behaving the way they think she should. It’s chilling. And the bus driver in India who thought the woman who was gang-raped (and died) on the bus was asking for it. And Brock Turner blaming his behavior on the party culture at Stanford. . .

  4. Ha! I loved how you ended your lovely, wondering poem with wine. 😀 The fun and joyful photos say it all…. “When holding wine makes me wonder…. why I ever want to hold anything else?”

    Aw, your sweet cats!

  5. What incredible synchronicity — I am currently reading “Mozart’s Starling” (by Lyanda Lynn Haupt), musing on exactly the same thoughts–conversations with birds, and, in Haupt’s words, the notion that “the earth and its beings are extravagantly wild, full of unexpected wonders. It is time to turn from our textbooks and listen to the birds.”

    This is a lovely poem. You capture so beautifully the things that ground us in love, that help us live in a world that is sometimes so horrifyingly unlovely.

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