Saturday, November 28, 2015



Silver light and purple shadows,
Artemis is hunting, hunting;
Faintly I hear her bowstring singing,
The echo of fleet footfalls in my heart.
I gaze across where leaves
Move silver shadows upon silver columns;
I listen and hear nothing,
For high above, the moon
Hunts silent in the silent night, 
And leaves no footfall.

Saturday, November 7, 2015


Fireball (November 7, 2015)

Where there had been only night sky of a dull black, sprinkled here and there with faint stars, there was suddenly light.  A glow that appeared over the west, held, and did not fade.

It was silent as the night itself, a swift presence that arced high over the desert.  At its center was a core of light that burned rapidly larger.  More swiftly still, a haze of light flared out from that center, forming a huge cloud as though the light itself were burning up the night sky.

It was silent and, but for the expansion, nearly motionless.  At the center a hard, brilliant light, clearly the substance afire, and all around it was an increasing glow that spread to take perhaps a fourth of the western sky.

Then the central core shrank a little, and a little more.  But the light cloud increased - a light and a haze and a smoke in which all the stars had been lost.  The core faded back into it, and still the haze hung there and expanded further, its light the main thing in the sky while Orion quietly took possession of the eastern heavens unchallenged.

After what seemed a long time, it was clear that the light cloud itself was diminishing, just a little.  Then a little more.  It dulled.  It shrank, folding back into the night, leaving a large glow that still held the eye.

Far below it a streak of light appeared, vertical near the horizon.  The streak also hung, hung, silent in the sky.  It was much further away and had no center visible.  It faded.  It was gone.

The large glow faded also; it became only a ghost of its own burning, a light as though the moon were shining through a haze of clouds, only there was no moon.

And the sky drifted back to the night stars.

Monday, August 31, 2015


A little form of death
Seen in the lamp's gleam:
Back braced upright against the house wall,
Head erect and tongue a-quiver,
Dry whir of a studded tail
Against cement;
With glut of death in a 
Three times distended belly;
Diamond-backed and diamond-headed,
With gleaming eyes that only thought
Of death.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

The Tale of Petie the Pigeon

This is Petie... the young pigeon on the left in the picture.  Some days before this picture was taken, Petie tumbled out of his nest into a flower pot.  His(?) wing feathers were still not long enough to rescue him from this predicament, and he remained there until Bella the dog let me know there was something strange flapping around inside the flower pot.

My sister and I went out to extract Petie.  We tipped the pot so Petie could walk out, which he did.  But with his baby wing feathers he still could not get back up to his parents and his nest.  Instead, he wandered around the patio saying something that sounded very much like, "Petie, Petie," which is how he gained his name.

Eventually, Sarah and I decided something more needed to be done.  Bella could be trusted to leave Petie alone, but Betty would have been much too fascinated by a young bird flapping disconsolately around the patio, unable to fly.  It was high time to let Betty out into the yard, and there was no sign of Petie finding himself a refuge.  Instead, he would walk toward Sarah when she checked on him, mournfully telling her, "Petie!"  He was all too clearly asking for human help.

The ladder was brought out to the patio and set up beneath the nest.  I carried out a good-sized box to ferry Petie back up to the roof.  He was already standing in the vicinity of the ladder, happy to have us coming to his aid.  I knelt down near him, expecting a struggle, a flapping of young wings and scrambling of feet to escape.  But no, Petie let me come right up to him.  I put my hands around him, pulled him toward me, and tried to ease him into the box.  Then there was the anticipated flapping and scrambling.  It was clearly aimed not at me but at the box.  Petie did not want to go into the box.  Not at all.  Hands were just fine.  Not a box.

In the end I simply lifted the trusting young bird in both hands, lifted him well above my head to Sarah on the ladder.  She in her turn lifted him above her head, up, up to the roof and his nest.  At the last moment he gave a big scramble and jumped onto the roof tiles.  Home at last!

A little while later we could hear and see that Petie was once more being fed and properly taken care of by his parents.  During the following days we kept an eye out for Petie, worrying when it became clear that there had been a nighttime raid on our pigeon population (probably an owl) and later when we had a terrific deluge of rain.  But Petie apparently survived both disasters because there was always a particularly dark young pigeon that seemed tamer and more intelligent than the rest.  A pigeon that would stay around and cock his head to listen to us when the other birds flew away.

The picture here is of Petie after his wings were fully fledged.  As you can see, he is asking Mama (or perhaps Papa) for food, and by this time he could follow them around the rooftop to press his demands.

These days he is on his own in matters of food, but we find that there is still a dark young pigeon that looks down and listens to us when we talk to him.  A handsome young pigeon that seems surprisingly tame...

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Knitting for Weaving

knitting a backstrap, amy myers photography, weaving, knitting
New project in hand...

This is a swatch to check gauge for a small knitting project which will hopefully prove the start of a much larger project, namely, a strap for a backstrap loom.  I have long wanted to do some weaving, and my attempts to work with a rigid heddle loom mounted on a floor stand have been only moderately successful.  I prefer, as a rule, to use my hands rather than a machine (hence my 15 + year love affair with handknitting), and a backstrap loom appears to be my next step.  We shall see...

A knit strap may or may not work.  I'm not sure whether it will be firm enough to handle the tensions placed on it.  This swatch is being worked in double-stranded worsted weight cotton to ensure a firm fiber, and in a simple K1, P1 seed stitch to reduce stretch to a minimum.  My first swatch, worked in garter stitch, was too bulky.

The swatch is being worked on US #10 needles.  At present, it would appear to be at a 2 stitches per inch/3 rows per inch gauge, but it is not quite complete.  I am debating a gentle wash to full the yarn in the interests of firming it up a little more prior to use.

Yarns are a combination of natural and bleached white.
knitting a backstrap, amy myers photography, weaving, knitting

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Griddle-cooked Flatbread

flatbread, recipe, griddle, cooking, stovetop

Griddle-cooked Flatbread

3 C bread flour
1 t salt
1/2 t sugar
1 t instant yeast
1 C warm whey (or water)

Sift flour into large mixing bowl; stir in salt, sugar, and yeast.  Make well in center of dry ingredients and pour in liquid.  (I had just made farmer's cheese and had some whey on hand; recipe can instead be made with warm water as usual.)   Stir, drawing flour mixture into liquid gradually and working with mixing spoon and fingers until all is combined.  Turn out on lightly floured board.  Knead thoroughly till dough has a satiny surface to the touch.  It will be slightly wrinkled.  Place in lightly oiled bowl, turning to coat dough with oil.

In warm place, alow to rise two times until very light, punching down between risings.  Turn out and slice dough into twelve pieces.  Form into balls and roll into 6 inch rounds on lightly floured board.  Brush excess flour off loaves (this is important to avoid too much flour scalding on the griddle).

Brush griddle with oil.  Heat.

Grill flatbreads over medium-low heat, turning once.  When turned, press to flatten if desired.  Cook until done; breads should be lightly browned and cooked through.  Serve warm.

Makes 1 dozen  6-inch loaves.
flatbread, recipe, griddle, cooking, stovetop

Friday, August 7, 2015

The Cactus Flowers and the Bees

amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran, journal, of a thousand things
Three blooms were open on the wild cactus (Ferocactus emoryi) today.
amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran
Each bloom is a jewel in itself.
amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran

amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran
They are protected by a host of thorns.
amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus thorn, sonoran
But the bees do not care about the thorns.  They are there for the riches deep inside these flowers.
amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran
They were busy burrowing deep into the blossoms, their bags full of pollen.
amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran

amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran

amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran

amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran
I never could catch them quickly enough as they burst back out of the depths of the stamens.  But one was kind enough to pose for a few moments.  Here she is.
amy myers photography, desert, ferocactus, cactus flower, sonoran, bee, journal, of a thousand things

Friday, July 31, 2015



There is naught but honour a man can save
When the little ship founders beneath the wave;
Embrace the waters that slay whom they lave,
Or defy their strength lest you die their slave;
Though the end's still death with never a grave,
And only God sees the coward, the brave -
At his throne we have still our honour to save.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Inspired by Greece

ceramics by amy myers, photography by amy myers, oinochoe, pitcher, earthenware, unglazed

Oinochoe-type pitcher with trefoil lip and pulled handle, unglazed earthenware fired to Orton cone 05

ceramics by amy myers, photography by amy myers, oinochoe, pitcher, earthenware, unglazed

ceramics by amy myers, photography by amy myers, oinochoe, pitcher, earthenware, unglazed

ceramics by Amy Myers

Thursday, July 16, 2015


Sonnet to the Moon

Oh gracious Moon, that lamps our silent hours,
Embodies Night's kind benison of light,
That treads the path blazed when the sun is white
But turns it to a bliss of star-filled bowers,

What have you seen of love and of delight,
And brightened joys with silver moonbeams fair?
What have you seen of sorrow and despair,
And strove to soften grief with silver light?

How often have I longed your gentle silver linger here?
Give me your blessing, Moon; the heavens pale and Day is near.