Photos for January Stones and April PAD 2012 property of M J Dills (exception 1/16)







Monday, September 29, 2025

Ten Distinct Smells

As instructed in my prompt, I went for a walk (accompanied by my little Penny Lane, of course) by the bay in Edmonds and the ferry terminal. I thought finding ten distinct smells would be tough, but discovered, once I paid attention, it was easy peasy. Paying attention; always the hardest part of any assignment, regardless of its nature.


The briny water is, of course, the first scent to astound the senses the moment I step out of the car, either tugging Penny along or barely keeping up with her pace. The ocean scent is one I welcome, bringing me memories that go long and far into the past, moving me right up into the present. 

Digging for clams from a very young age at Copalis Beach, summer after summer, getting our limit of 15 clams per family member per day, then having to eat them all winter long in various forms of recipes my mother so lovingly tested on her three guinea pigs, Dad, my brother and me. With many other changes his birth would allow, we quit those family adventures after my younger brother was born. I need to save those details for another story and hope I'll have a chance to get to it one day. 

Other memories this scent instills are boating, camping, beachcombing at Dash Point as a kid, and in the early '90's at Shark’s Spit on the BC Peninisula, with many places up and down the timeline and coastline. From the Atlantic to the Pacific, north to Alaska and Massachusetts, South to the Caribbean and the beaches of Mexico’s Riviera, the salty air of Denmark.

Perfume! Almost an assault while walking along the strand, yet pleasant in its own way… motherly, sisterly, womanly. Patchouli quickly creates an image of a long-ago boyfriend of my daughter. Although I don’t know if Travis actually wore patchouli, whenever I smell it, he comes to mind, a young man who embodied the spirit of a ‘60’s hippie more than the originals, with his long, tangled hair, penchant for radical politics, and riding his bicycle up and down the steep hills of Queen Anne.


Someone lights a cigarette, and I cross the path where the atmosphere changes so immediately that brine and perfume are wiped out in a sense of love and hate. I cannot stand the smell of secondhand smoke, and yet, and yet… there are times when I get the scent of that freshly lit cigarette, and it brings back the days of my own personal addiction. I had a lot of affection for my little kit of Marlboros and lighters. I kept a carton in the freezer and opening a new pack was akin to a distinct euphoria. I miss it... in my dreams. I know what smoking did to me; it affected my lifelong health. If I were ever to pick it up again. It will kill me. It's been 20+ years, and I can't believe I loved it as much as I did.


Coffee, as we walk by the espresso bar, where people are ordering lattes and such, along with ice cream and pastries. Nothing clings to the air quite like coffee brewing. I started drinking coffee when I was about 4 years old, in a tiny cup with its matching saucer. I still have it to this day, a baby shower gift from one of the Danish ladies I grew up with. My first coffee drinks were mostly hot milk, with a little coffee to flavor. As an adult I varied between drinking it black and undiluted, to absolutely destroying it with cream and sugar. I drink tea now but occasionally love a cup of well-prepared coffee. My Danish grandmother pressed upon me how important it was to always have the pot on, ready to welcome visitors. I’ve missed that treasure of a woman for 59 years now; I was 17 when she passed. I've never known anyone to make people feel as welcome as Myrtine Grove did. 

Ah, the odor of sunscreen. Coppertone from those early days of bronzing and bubbly skin, and years later the pink-tin-bottled stuff we sprayed on my grandkids. I had an allergy to parabens and UV filters that burned my skin more than the sun ever did. I eschewed sunscreens and now we’ve learned the spray remedies weren’t too healthy either, giving kids respiratory reactions. 

I get depressed at summer's end when my skin turns back to its natural glaring white, after tanning naturally to a golden brown.

Kiawe burning (pronounced kee-AH-vay); kiawe grilling of salmon especially. I never smell Kiawe without recalling my first encounter on the streets of La Conner, Washington. We used to drive up there, wander the galleries, drink and eat too much and stay in fine places like The La Conner Inn, Hotel Planter, and Wild Iris. The Tulip Festival that started in the mid-80’s was often a draw for us, as well as the migration of snow geese and trumpeter swans. The streets of La Conner still smell like Kiawe, especially when tourist season kicks in. In later years, we boated up the Swinomish, and coming through the passage, I sniffed the air like a dog for that familiar delicious smell. 

Meat, beef, or steak, which is different from the above Kiawe, in the sense that there is a distinct odor to a fire lit under red meat, and the spices and herbs that entice the appetite. These odors permeate the air from the many restaurants in Edmonds and the waterfront we walk. I love my steak and, as recommended by my doctor, eat steak about twice a month. I rarely order it out, as I can do real justice to a Porterhouse or Ribeye all on my own and it's a lot cheaper, too. Red meat is a complete protein and provided essential amino acids to repair and build muscle. It's a rich source of iron, zinc and Vitamin B12. 

My fondest memory of eating steak is Las Vegas, a few years ago, with my youngest daughter, when we sidled up to a bar and ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. It was a self-taught lesson in having whatever we wanted and at the moment we wanted a heavy pour of pinot noir and a filet mignon. Each.

Broken ferns. They give off a very specific scent. Green, earthy, the forest floor, scattered with the detritus of the eroding and waste of the forest, the darkness of a walk in the woods, all the sounds that accompany... creaking timbers, multitudes of insects singing, thumping, tweeting, whistling. Birds: goldfinch, sparrow, junco, nuthatch, stellar jay, and owls aroused by the invasion of domesticity. I grew up surrounded by conifers and was either marched through fern laden woods with my dad or the Girl Scouts. 

Mixed in with all these smells, I come upon, or it comes upon me, the humid closeness of Ariel, the detergent that is so prevalent in Mexico. A family walks by and the softness of this clean and hugging scent brings me back to my Lavanderia Pulpito, the drop-off/pick-up laundry I owned in Puerto Vallarta. Many years ago. Someday a story about that, too.

My dog goes with me just about everywhere. Sometimes she smells like me; the lotion I’ve just put on my hands or the squirt of perfume I sometimes wear. Penny Lane, my 6-pound chihuahua-mix, loves her baths in the kitchen sink and for a couple days following, she smells of clean doggy shampoo. But usually... she has her own smell, something like a mix of buttered popcorn, vanilla, and cheese. Ha! Sounds awful, doesn’t it? It’s so perfect, you have no idea until you give her a cuddle.

So, there you have it, the acute recall of the olfactory sense. 

Part of this assignment is to describe the "barren patch in my own backyard" and what I would fill it with (anything I want.) My barren patch is the sorrow of loss. It clings to me all the time, though I keep it well hidden. What would I fill it with if I could? Mostly the babies I lost, I think. If I had a child for each time my womb began to fill, I'd have eleven sons and daughters. And... a complete family would fill my barren patch, something I've felt robbed of, even as hard as I tried to create a whole and thriving unit. 

As we age, losses build up; you never get used to losing someone, especially the young ones. I have lost people who are still alive, and that's the hardest. Maybe I'll go into this in some later blog. That's enough for today.

These isn't fancy writing, just words pulled out of one of the five senses, a writer's best friends. 

Thanks for reading.

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Thursday, September 18, 2025

76




The number has multiple meanings. It’s a Lucas number, which is similar to the Fibonacci sequence, howeeever... not being a math enthusiast, other things come to mind for me:

Significantly, especially these days, is the Spirit of ’76, the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Last June 2024, I was in Philadelphia, where that amazing treasure of history was signed by the esteemed Founding Fathers of our Democracy. 



There’s also 76 Trombones (The Music Man – Meredith Wilson), where Harold Hill does his best with the townspeople of River City, Iowa, to help them visualize their children playing in a marching band to dissuade them from the pool hall and inevitable juvenile delinquency. 

76 gas stations get a pass, because who wants to think about gas prices these days?

 
John Stanley, John Carl, Margo Jodyne

September is a month with a lot of meaning with birthdays in my life. Many friends, including two, share the day of my birth.

My brother was born on September 9, three years my senior. 

My first husband, John Stanley, two years older than me celebrated on the 17th, the day before mine (he usually forgot mine, one of the casualties of that marriage.) 

My husband, Breeze, passed away on Sept 11. And, of course, that date is unforgettable for everyone. 

Breeze

September 21 marks the last day of summer/first day of fall, always a tough time for me, having had too few walks on the beach, lazy days in the sun, dips in the lake.

Thank you for all the birthday good wishes today, counting over a hundred so far and it’s not quite noon, as I write this. I am blessed.

Onward. There are things to do, places to go, people to meet. No matter the age, I will always be young at heart (as long as I avoid mirrors and reflective windows.)

Thanks for reading

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Monday, August 25, 2025

Am I Foolish?

This came about from a writing assignment. I need to get back into blogging. This is a good place to start.

Am I foolish? Sometimes I act the fool to learn. I let someone think I have not gathered all the information I need about some certain subject and then I let them school me. Do I then, in turn, school others? Yes, indeed, I do, and my fault is to always make sure I have my data correct. Because… we are living in the age of misinformation. Or disinformation, if you will. But what I learn from others... that's what I carry with me. That's what allows me to weigh decisions, opinions, attitudes.

This past week I walked by sea and lake water. These feet are old, and legs not as steady as they once were. In the past, able to climb around like a wiry primate, I am slowed down and must pay attention now. My little dog wanders aimlessly at the end of her leash and I am also responsible for her. A huge responsibility for a six pound dog. Watching my step and being aware of my surroundings is a huge task.

The access at Richmond Beach is not an easy one; I am on private land apparently as I approach a small sea wall (not small to me) and setting my dog down, I find footholds and things to grab onto. I step over, on and around large pieces of driftwood that heavy storms have shoved towards the shore. My dog waits patiently until I am stable enough to grab her off the wall, where she patiently waits.

This is not a task for closed eyes, but we do find a log to sit on and there we meditate, eyes closed, her in my lap and trembling at the noise of the incoming tide, the ferocious water crashing on the rocks. The smell of brine, that noisy tide, the cry of gulls overhead. This is peace for me.

Foolish is not the girls down the beach, barely clothed, sipping their wine, smoking cigarettes and dashing in and out of the water. This is the opposite of foolish; it is living. It is finding the moment, the place in time and space, the memory of a day. Just as my dog and I are doing, balancing what we can do and what we need to be cautious about. The sky turns pink, eventually crimson and then the waves are creeping closer to our feet. The girls down the way grab their blanket, towels and belongings and we listen to their whoops and cries as they laughingly make their way to higher ground.



I’m taxed to share who I teach and who teaches me. I have tenants who I am not just a landlady, but a counselor, a shoulder, a friend. There is a ten-year-old girl, of whom I am in charge on a thrice weekly basis. I do learn from all of these wise souls. This last Sunday at the lake, I brought a newfangled disposable grill, with coals that would be ready in 20 minutes. We were excited to roast wienies on it and had all the fixings, buns, mustard, ketchup, pickles. We lit it and I put the timer on for 20 minutes. It died. 
It was a terrible death because it took with it the hot in our hot dogs. My 21-year-old granddaughter Mila worked for an hour with that damn grill. She does not give up easy. It was a disappointing outcome, but a great observation for me. I admire her consistent persistence; she’s had it from the beginning. I’m not one to give up easy and can be like a dog with a bone, depending on the situation, but Mila makes me feel like a slouch at times. That’s a good thing. Learning from those younger than us might be a struggle for some older folks. 
I love that I am surrounded by young people who can teach me.  



Thanks for reading



 




Sunday, September 3, 2023

Cascadia Postcard Festival - PoPo 2023

It's time again for August Postcard madness! I love the PoPo to close out the summer months and thanks to Paul Nelson for introducing me to this poem-a-day event, so many years ago. I now have a bulging shoebox of postcards from all over the world, postmarked with endless Augusts.

Poetry is an opportunity for me to not just express myself in free verse or poetic forms, it helps with my prose writing, to keep the juices flowing and spark the imagination. I also have the chance to share postcards collected from estate sales, galleries, museums, bookstores. There are those I have a hard time parting with, but keeping them in my blog, I can always see them and know where to find them! Apparently, according to my count, a couple went missing and I have no record of them, so it you received a card from me that isn't here, please let me know.

Some of these poems are inspired by the postcard that delivers them; others are the result of spontaneous inspirations. I made a couple of my postcards this year and plan to do more next year. There is a slight amount of editing, but these postcard poems are mostly in their original form.

Thanks for reading.


                                                      HIS MAMA'S EYELINER


It was his mama's eyeliner
Then he learnt to buy his own
Tender twelve-year-old fingers plucking at a cheap tinny guitar
A magic sound matched with an angel's voice
Singing praise to God, rolling holy
'Til the music shook him to his soul
And he shared it with the world
Guns and other stuff came later

(About this postcard. This is an Andy Warhol painting that currently hangs at Seattle Art Museum. To learn more about Elvis and Andy, Christie's has a great commentary on the 22 Warhol Elvis pieces.)

 ~~~

DAUGHTER OF DAUGHTERS


   You, daughter of daughters:
I have stood on your sacred earth.
Held your holy dirt in my hand
while it slid from my palm
like history passing.
I breathed into my body your ocean smell, 
like the heaven you hold in your hair.

~~~

A WORLD FULL OF BEGGERS


We lost everything
Thanks to your clever 
Genius Financing
and a 
poison that invaded your Blood, Spine, Brain, Lungs,
Every
Thing.
And left us emptyhanded
in a world
full of beggars.

~~~

THE WAY YOU ATE YOUR EGGS


I never made fun of the way you ate your eggs.
You drunk-cried more than anyone I ever knew.
I told them to not mock you.
I wondered why 
all the sorrow?
We shared mornings, 
phone call check-ins, stupid jokes, 
and the train card game.
You left me gaping. 

~~~

X MARKS THE SPOT


X marks the spot
You are here
Close your eyes and
acknowledge
Invasion
unholy insidious enduring indefinite
Be Brave
Allow your tears to fall

~~~

FLOWERS WAITING TO BLOOM


Do you know the songs unsung?
Are they circling round your skull like 
a wreath of flower buds, waiting to 
bloom, waiting to
blow away gloom, heralding a day
we can embrace with fragrant glowing strains? 

~~~

WHEN WE COULD REALLY DRINK


We had the Pink Door, in a smokey alley, with the scent of salty air misting on the autumn night. So many nights, drinking when we could really drink. Music that never crowded the language, and asking when will late friends ever arrive. Before closing, taking the Tarot card reader seriously, wanting every word to be the gospel.

~~~

21


He was half his life old in the photo. 
21.
Who knew that 19 years later, 
his life would be over?
I miss him 
though he never knew me. 
And now I am almost twice 
the age he was 
and he was gone. 

(On seeing a photo of John Lennon in Paris at the age of 21. 
Stardom was just a dream around the corner.)

~~~

AGING


Such a disarray of clothes, 
on chairs, 
the foot of the big bed, 
draped over the hamper, like old men, 
vying to escape. 

Framed photos on any horizontal space;
then there are those
 in my own original customized 
stacks and piles. 

Poems left open on pages 
of forgotten books. 

Dishes in the sink. 

Who will remind me 
to feed myself?

~~~

GIRL ON HER WAY TO NEW YORK


There is no map to guide you in your journey of innocence, 
destination known, 
unknown. There is no treasure, 
no ring, no fortune within sight.
Be your own advisor, 
navigator, 
captain of your ship.
I'll be waiting on this shore, holding 
my pride flag, the fabric of faith. 

~~~

LET'S GO FOR A RIDE


let's go for a ride
you be the groom
i'll be the bride

we'll stop in a bar
shoot some pool 
and
drink beer from a jar

we'll pause in a field
and stare at the stars
knowing our fate is sealed

if we have a kid
we'll teach them about 
l o v e
tell them the truth
about everything we did

~~~

FURY


Just before midnight, my adult daughter came to my room and took me by the hand 
to the big windows out front where the rain hammered and the wind tore 
causing rivulets of angry foam that bubbled down the street, as the sky BOOMED with thunder, metallic lightning streaks and our gaping wide faces peering into the raging night, which was over as quickly as it had begun and I said to her "fury, honey, that's fury."

~~~

THE MOON


Tonight, the moon followed me.
She's waning, as am I.
I left her hanging there,
In the plum-colored sky.

~~~

ALOHA


Oceans of tears
Skies full of firefall
Lonely souls sift through tides
Settle on millions of grains of sand
Moaning in the night
Weeping in the morning light
The loss of 
foresight
history
wonder

(Aloha is a Hawaiian word with many meanings, ranging from love, peace, and compassion to pity and grief. It's commonly used, especially by visitors to Hawaii, to mean hello and goodbye.)

~~~

CRYING LADY ROCK


Oceans of tears
Skies full of firefall
Lonely souls sift through tides
Settle on millions of grains of sand
Moaning in the night
Weeping in the morning light
The loss of 
foresight
history
wonder
Your ashes find their way to my garden
Your smoke covers my eyes.

(This poem just wasn't finished but had already been sent on its way. This is version #2.)

~~~

9/11


A deep hole
Goes so far down
We don't know where it ends
Buried there are
laughter, songs, photos 
in worn wallets,
wedding rings, 
favorite socks and ties,
Manolos and Hush Puppies
Lost goodbyes

~~~

MARIA


Now three years and more gone
I still see you there in my mind
Old messages and pics pop up on social media
and meet me with a stab
How can I go back to Garbo
and sit next to someone
who isn't you?

~~~

MAYBE NEXT YEAR


Time ate away the summer
And I didn't get a chance
to pick the blackberries
and make you a 
Birthday Pie
and aim for reparations.
You
sent photos of sunsets
(what does that even mean?)
but no shared burden of a weary load.
Time waits for no one
but
Maybe next year.

~~~

AFTER THE CASINO CLOSED


After the casino closed
Lights spelled out a partial name, 
some blinking yet...
on
off
on
off
Hanging onto pipe dreams
Testing a faulty resilience,
Hollow hope and sticky coins
Beg gamblers for a homecoming.

~~~

HISTORY IN THE MAKING



"A criminal enterprise 
of breathtaking scope."
For those of us who managed 
to survive a pandemic 
somewhat intact,
the firehose 
of daily revelations
causes reservation 
to even contemplate, 
let alone 
ask 
"what's new?"

~~~

SEQUOIAS


Sequoias, like strong women
grouped together,
weeping willows 
firs and pines,
shoulder to shoulder.
Ancient-speak
holding hands
with firm ground,
embattled daughters 
conquer galaxies.

~~~

MY TATTOO


"And so it goes," 
she has permanently marked 
upon her arm. 
Perfect details. 
Bees 
we share,
as if there wasn't anywhere else
to declare
devotion and trust
than a forearm.

~~~

SHE WASN'T A FRIEND OF MINE


She wasn't a friend of mine,
She was someone I'd run into
When out at the bars,
We always had a rapport.
Her laughter
had a following. 
I wish I'd known her better.

~~~

NEW YEAR'S 2016 P-TOWN


It was icy cold.
We overdrank and underslept.
The best part was watching 
the Uber prices rise by the minute,
as time
got closer to midnight.

We bundled up and walked the mile, 
arguing about Ole Miss
Surely you remember.
You handily beat me at very game 
with a smirk and another lesson in satire.

~~~

I'VE HAD HOUSES


I had a villa on a cliff in Mexico that overlooked the ocean, backlit by a jungle where cicadas pierced the dusky light, reminding me of the choir of amphibious creatures who lullabied my childhood in a house so secure and safe, that sleep was rarely interrupted, while I dreamt of my Queen Anne home of the future with white fences and unlocked doors.

~~~

GOODBYE


It doesn't mean 
what I want it to say
Have a good bye
By the by
By the time you get there
You will only be concerned with Hellos.

~~~

NOT MY JOB


To lend a hand 
to be of assistance, 
cause those entitled 
to exhibit silent resistance, 
heavy loads are borne 
by the remaining few 
who toil 
for mere existence. 

~~~

WHEN MY THIGHS WERE BEAUTIFUL


I walked on beaches 
with a towel around my waist, 
Never projecting into the future 
what old legs might looks like, 
how healthy I was then, 
how strong. 
It took decades to love my thighs 
and myself.

~~~

PRICE TAGS


The thing that costs the most 
is not always the best 
The biggest is not always the brightest.

Why leave a price tag on
to prove a hollow point?

~~~

I SPOKE TO YOU


I spoke to you
I whispered in your ear
(I said I love you...")
You forgot who I am
I called you 
on the phone, 
texted, 
emailed. 
I never gave up. 
love 
you.

~~~

THE ACTORS' HOUSE


This house was surely haunted
when I lived there in the late 60's 
Now it is my thoughts 
that are haunted 
when I find it driving by, 
searching for the past.
I sit across the street and stare,
Hearing my own haunted howls 
of anguish. 
Nothing spared. 
Never shared. 

~~~

END OF THE DAY


Sometimes I make my bed 
At the end of the day
Then I undo it all 
and climb under the covers, 
sorting limbs, 
like a dog, walking in circles, 
looking for the perfect spot. 
Smoothing pillows 
and ending the day 
on a perfect note. 
Resting, 
dreaming, 
hoping.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




Monday, August 28, 2023



I'm very excited to share the release of my new chapbook with Bottlecap Press! These poems have been years in the making and the real deal is finally here for you to hold in your hands.

The Nail Set is a collection of heartfelt poems about previous chapters in my life, when rooms were bigger, life was longer, written over a period of time pertaining to events that are connected, speaking of joy, sorrow and sometimes terror.

I am so proud of this work and pleased to share it with you. Please buy it now at https://bottlecap.press/products/set

THANKS FOR READING!!!!