Mourning the loss of Kim Bridgford

Kim Bridgford died yesterday at the age of 60, of stage 4 cancer.  She was diagnosed in March, and so this cancer killed her quickly... as a cancer survivor of invasive cervical cancer, I would like to know what kind of cancer this was. Not that it would do anyone any good.  Cancer continues to be a cruel illness,  mysterious even as we know so much more about it than we know of COVID19.

She was a wonderful , gracious person, and this is a big loss to poetry world.

Here is a poem she wrote about Emily Dickinson.  Thanks to David Katz, who posted it on his blog:

In the sixteenth week of the Quarantine

Art    "Backyard Quiet"  by Katheryn Stott Buxton



I share these wise observations from novelist and friend Josephine Humphreys:

How we move ahead.This plan is not for everyone. 

It's just the way we two old people see the future unrolling before us.

Things are not going to get better for a long long time. Years. Things will be getting much much worse. We will not see a return to that condition we used to call "normal." 

So we will each seriously guard against depression, anger, fear, disappointment, etc., and we will even more seriously guard each other against those things. We'll help family and friends guard themselves as well. We'll look for new ways to connect with people, nature, music, literature, dogs, ideas, justice, history, art, vegetables, memories, wit and humor. And we'll have fun along the way.

Art by Daria Petrilli

Just some captivating images

Great Spangled Fritillary     -   I have seen two in my garden!

Art -  Pool with two figures  - David Hockney      Wish I was in it

Art - Tim Storrier -  The Passenger, into the Evening



And a poem by Richard Wilbur:

June Light

Richard Wilbur - 1921-2017

Your voice, with clear location of June days,

Called me outside the window.  You were there,

Light yet composed, as in the just soft stare

Of uncontested summer all things raise

Plainly their seeming into seamless air.

Then your love looked as simple and entire

As that picked pear you tossed me, and your face

As legible as pearskin's fleck and trace,

Which promise always wine, by mottled fire

More fatal fleshed than ever human grace.

And your gay gift—Oh when I saw it fall

Into my hands, through all that naïve light,

It seemed as blessed with truth and new delight

As must have been the first great gift of all.

There is a road

In the midst of the continuing virus and now the murder of  George Floyd and subsequent protests and then the riots, and the continuing chaos caused by Trump,  here's a song from the Grateful Dead that captures me today:

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Would you hear my voice come through the music
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they're better left unsung
I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again
Let it be known there is a fountain
That was not made by the hands of men

There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall you fall alone
If you should stand then who's to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Jerome J. Garcia / Robert C. Hunter

Ripple lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc, Universal Music Publishing Group