Chickens and Violins

Photo on 2018-04-17 at 11.18 AM #2

little white rooster
stands so proud

throws back his head
and howls real loud

violins play
as feathered bodies
begin to sway

one by one
they all huddle around

not a single beak
producing a frown

no wings flap
no horizontal spread

no bobbing
of  little heads

calm and adoration
the chicks are showing
for this creation

filling the corner
of the coop

standing quiet
no one stoops

eyes and ears
all opened wide

feathered chickens
filled with pride

music adoration
has begun

for these chickens
are having fun

violins and cello base
seems to touch
their inner grace

Photo on 2018-04-17 at 11.26 AM 2

Today’s experiment was to sit in the coop with the chickens and discovering what would come of it, in terms of writing. It’s common for me to have the cd of Angele Dubeau – La Pieta playing on my laptop.
I walked in with my little stool and sat watching them hassle about trying to figure out why I was just sitting since the eggs had already been collected and they were already fed. The smallest is a white guy is a rooster and he started to do his stuff showing me who was really the king of the coop. I decided to video him and his voice and then take photos.
When I flipped my computer open the music started. Within minutes no one made a sound. More came in the coop and they all gathered in the corner with eyes open and heads tall, ears aimed in my direction. They were listening to the music!!! I photographed them countless times and they did not move. Some of their heads began to lower and I realized that they were so relaxed that they were falling asleep. I could not believe it.

I then decided to put on Glen Gould playing some Bach and they slowly started to wake up and start cleaning their feathers. This was fascinating and could be the start of something. Possibly sitting in more chicken coops hehehe. Who knows.

This is what happens when you have storms hitting the countryside.




“Let’s​ All Get Crazy”



Lately, I am becoming aware of mini-universes that we all cohabit with.

I, therefore, bring to you the world of the washing machines.

Yes, you may look upon these boxes of metal parts sitting in some obscure room in your home only as things of convenience, when in fact that might be the furthest thing from the truth.

 Years back when I threw my clothes in the washer and walked away, I walked away from witnessing some interesting things.

Like the sounds that clothing makes when shushing about with gallons of water.
How different clothes makes different sounds.

Oh, I know you think I may well have lost it
but I ask you
when did you last sit and listen to the machines?


Laundry time has become an exercise in the development of the creative mind, and a release of conforming allowing the outrageously kookie to be explored.

First of all the uncomfortable chairs which had to have been installed so you can’t get comfortable.
There will be no falling asleep in these towers of pain.

I have my book, of which could or could not grab my interest.

It’s obvious they often don’t compare to the sounds of the machines and how this activates my mind.

I have come to the notion that machines do have personalities and they do relate to each other and have fun.

This is demonstrated in my drawings today.

Their names have been withheld to protect the innocent.

sometimes we just need to give our heads a shake and see what comes up, or down.





What is there to say
that has not been said so many times
till our mind goes numb
knowing something will happen does nothing to ease our sorrow

First, your body feels relief from months of tension
then you wander about looking for something lost or misplaced
it’s not a button or a book or keys
it’s something so much more
your husband no longer needs your care, your time, your love
you will be told time and time again
we all knew it was coming and he is in a better place

but what of your place?
even if you have enjoyed total freedom with your love
you will still look for the other half
parts of you feel open and raw
only time and the sea breeze will heal your wounds 

many may want to rush you
wanting to see a smile on your face
a new step in your walk
people are afraid of grief
afraid to touch it or be near it
sorrow is a stage of love
true, we do not want to live forever
with our feet in the wet sand
but only you can say when its time
to shake off the grains of sand from beneath your feet
to cleanse them in the ocean
to feel refreshed enough to live on
for you my dear friend


A feather falls from the sky

no one ever wonders why

two hands reaching

touches a blue flake of light

floating but never falling

music created by a breath

pure sound 

not manipulated 

not contorted 

essence of a soul

one that was needed

one that was rewarded

two hands open in the sky

giving comfort to one that’s died

blue flakes floating high

till they disperse into the sky

no one truly knows why

till its time for us to fly

someone else will reach for us

when our feather falls from the sky

flakes of blue falling

will tell us why

Life is but a feather falling from the sky


april 9 2018 ©

I find its good to hear music while I write.
I often find it easier to write in poem form for difficult times.






if only, it would rain

so I may lie next to a piece of tin 

and hear each drop speak words that soothe

feel the water float into my skin

waves crashing in my ears

cooling the fire in my eyes

if only, I was a pebble

moving with the breath of the ocean


my grey skin being polished by its touch

if only


sad reality

to wake and feel disoriented

like being woken harshly from a sleep

the eyes open, but the mind searches

body feeling heavy and unsure

happiness feels gone from movement and heart

only moments of relief exist

thundering sky calms this drop of water

hearing and watching the ocean breath

slows the blood rushing through my veins

pulling me to a former life, time, existence 

what is memory

surely not just the recital of words that rhyme

tasks learned and repeated

faces with names embedded

routes and things we have been told

what then of memory

a memory of creation, single cells

memories of times erased through evolution

are they the free radicals that drive us 

to write dots on waves to sing 

to simplify words and never let go of that thing we feel

to paint for oneself  so we can remember

to sit by great bodies of water, and feel love

to embrace the blessings of the clouds, and dance in its tears

to accept the idea that we did not always have skin

we may not have always breathed air or walked upright

we may have journeyed in the sky beyond our milky way 

what I do know and feel is that we possess a complex mind and heart

so if I feel kin to the waves that crash upon the rocks

who is anyone to tell me I am wrong

april 2 2018

© tamaya