Monthly Archives: February 2014

Toasty: Corgis

Toasty, 6x6 Oil on Canvas, Sold

Toasty, 6×6 Oil on Canvas, Sold

Here’s a poem about imagining a different life, a life that is potential in yourself, and projecting it onto a relative stranger as the “longed-for someone” .  Alas, so true.


I’m sitting here reading the paper,

felling warm and satisfied, basically content

with my life and all I have achieved.

Then I go up for a refill and suddenly realize

How much happier I could be with the barista.

Late thirties, hennaed hair, an ankh

or something tattooed on her ankle,

a little silver ring in her nostril.

There’s some mystery surrounding why she’s here,

pouring coffee and toasting bagels at her age.

But there’s a lot of torsion when she walks,

which is interesting.  I can sense right away

how it would all work out between us.

We’d get a loft in the artsy part of town,

and I can see how we’d look shopping together

at our favorite organic market

on a snowy winter Saturday,

snowflakes in our hair,

our arms full of leeks and shiitake mushrooms.

We could do tai chi in the park.

She’d be one of the few people

who actually “gets” my poetry

which I’d read to her in bed.

And I can see us making love, by candlelight,

Struggling to find words for the ineffable.

We never dreamed it could be like this.

An it would all be great, for many months,

until one day, unable to help myself,

I’d say something about that nostril ring.

Like, do you really need to wear that tonight

at Sarah and Mike’s house, Sarah and Mike being

pediatricians who intimidate me slightly

with their patrician cool, and serious money.

And she would give me a look,

a certain lifting of the eyebrows

I can see she’s capable of, and right there

that would be the end of the ineffable.

— George Bilgere


No Hunting

Yellow Lab with pheasant

No Hunting, 6×6, Oil on Canvas, $100

This is our Labrador, Saxon, posed by my husband after a hunt.  Saxon was young then.  Today she is very lumpy and arthritic; she hobbles to the door and off the deck into the snow.  She is still the most virtuous dog I know, always striving to please, tolerant of having Pugs wrestle all over her bed when she’s trying to get some sleep.  Her character informed my older Pug’s character.  The first year we had him, it was a near run thing whether we’d keep him, but he adored Saxon and gained goodness by association.  With the younger Pug, it’s still a near run thing.

We’ve had more snow fall this year than any year I can remember since moving to Wisconsin.  Here is a poem about snow from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:


Out of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare,

Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

Silent, and soft, and slow

Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

In the white countenance confession,

The troubled sky reveals

The grief it feels.

This is a poem of the air,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

Now whispered and revealed

To wood and field.