Miss Pelican's Perch

Looking at my World from a Different Place

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Breakfast Company


Lox, cream cheese, bagel–
a common brown house sparrow
my sole breakfast guest.



ljgloyd 2013


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Blogging Goals

underwood typewriterThe Daily Post asked today: “When you started your blog, did you set any goals? Have you achieved them? Have they changed at all?”

My goal when I started this blog a year ago was to make a fresh start in a daily writing practice. I don’t post everything I write daily — oh my goodness, I would not do that to you.  I just post the reasonably unoffensive stuff I produce.

Over the course of a couple of months I found myself using this space to experiment. As I explained in a post a few weeks ago, I explore a variety of genre and media in a frequent and consistent practice.   And this has become a stated goal.  If you look at my “About”, you will read this:

Miss Pelican is a writer and artist who actually spends more time opining about the world than actually writing or arting.   This blog is a way for her to get out of that habit by conducting experiments in words and images. 

So I guess I can say that I quickly found my blog’s goal and have not deviated much from it since then.

I don’t know whether this a good thing or not.

ljg (c) 2013

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Hands: Gathering Stars

Today’s prompt from the Daily Post: “Photographers, show us hands.”

gathering_stars small“Gathering Stars”

This is a construction from manipulated photographic images which depicts my interpretation of a qigong movement with this name.  (I found this video that shows this exercise: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDiBtm2ACWs )

ljgloyd (c) 2010, 2013


I Won’t Be Sylvia Plath

moon jellies 2
There is a reason I cast poems about lacy-edged waves sliding onto slick sand
and why I write about singing night birds and coyotes skulking in the shadows.
I paint with words the image of moon jellies floating in an infinite blue void.

The teachers say I must write of things I know, and the thing I know best should be me.
The critics say look to the past, share the pain, point to the others who rent my heart.
The experts say a poem is good if tears and rage spill like blood on a butcher’s block.

I won’t be Sylvia Plath going crackers in a bell jar, or one of her
colleagues harping on suicide, and spinning her madness and agony on paper.
I would be Issa and Basho singing of sparkling dragonflies and plopping frogs.

I would be Li Po and Wang Wei crafting verses about trees and shards of moonlight.
I would be Robert Frost and Miss Dickinson finding beauty in silent snowy
roads less traveled and in the elegant simplicity of a homebody’s life.

There is a reason I fling poems about yellow-eyed cats, driving rain and hot coffee.
I will not assume that I should be the center of your universe.  I want to
find my world in that proverbial grain of sand and hitchhike on the backs of stars.

LJGloyd (c) 2013

Photo:  Moon Jellies in a Blue Void