I Miss My Dad

Take one if you miss your dad too.

Collage Is Collecting

All collages by JEF

The Zodiac, Reconsidered

Aries, March 21-April 19 – A lit match with legs, enthusiastically starting things (fires, projects, rivalries) and only later remembering that consequences are also a thing.

Taurus, April 20-May20 – A velvet-upholstered bulldozer: immovable, comfort-obsessed, and quietly judging anything that isn’t buttered, scented, or worth the effort.

Gemini, May 21-June20 – Two raccoons in a trench coat hosting a talk show in your brain, both interrupting each other and somehow still charming the audience.

Cancer, June 21-July 22 – A haunted Victorian teacup filled with feelings, offering snacks while remembering something you said in 2007.

Leo, July 23-August 22 – A sunbeam that learned how to pose, radiating warmth and drama in equal measure, with a standing ovation playing softly in the background at all times.

Virgo, August 23-September 22 – A benevolent spreadsheet that developed anxiety, here to fix everything—including problems that were perfectly happy being problems.

Libra, September 23-October 22 – A chandelier with opinions, gently swaying between choices while making indecision look like an aesthetic philosophy.

Scorpio, October 23-November 21 – A locked drawer that definitely contains something alive, maintaining eye contact while you wonder if you should be intrigued or afraid.

Sagittarius, November 22-December 21 – A philosophical cannonball, launching into the horizon mid-sentence and somehow turning chaos into a life lesson by dinner.

Capricorn, December 22-January 19 – A mountain in a tailored suit, slowly achieving everything while pretending it’s no big deal and side-eyeing your shortcuts.

Aquarius, January 20-February 18 – An alien anthropologist wearing vintage denim, observing humanity with fond confusion and occasionally inventing a new personality trait.

Pisces, February 19-March 20 – A watercolor dream that forgot its edges, drifting between realities with a poetic sigh and at least one imaginary friend who gives excellent advice.

I Miss My Mom

Take one if you miss your mom too.

"Coelacanth"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I have posted work by myself each Friday. This poem is an ode to a preserved ancient fish, thought to be extinct until its rediscovery in 1938, which was on display, hovering, fixed in a large tank of formaldehyde in a darkened room at the original Beaux-Arts-style Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco.

Coelacanth

so alone,
swimming in thick ooze,
covered with plates
but soft underneath.
seeing the bones,
feeling the complex
prehistoric structure
with my mind.
squeezed like a grape,
you will pop.
a head like a potato
or a fetus,
bloated,
white and dripping--
you keep a secret very well

©JEF 1987

"Bring Me The Heads"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I am posting work by myself each Friday. This one speaks about a world in turmoil, suffering inequality and injustice and violence, and a fracture in the ways of living in such a world.

Bring Me The Heads

Plates below us moving, grinding.
The earth is alive, serious, means business.

One city is underwater, another is underground.
Two views of the same world.
Neither of them have a chance.
This has nothing to do with myth or fiction.

I beg you to do something,
to create something, to step in,
slough off ribbons of time, of truth,
slice into our awareness, and if need be,
separate us like fighting children.

Of those who live above,
who would boil us, rip us apart,
make our hearts stop beating:
you send me to their cathedral
with these orders:
“Bring me the heads—”

©JEF 2010

"A Birthday Cake"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I am posting work by myself each Friday. This is a piece about fragility and feeling lost in a hostile place, far from comfort, far from safety...

A Birthday Cake

She got out the red Radio Flyer wagon that day,
she put on her shoes, white canvas sneakers with
thin rubber soles, very thin
and she put her child’s shoes on him, white canvas, thin soles,
it was his fourth birthday that day when they
set off, she on foot, he in the wagon, across the molten pavement
in this new place, so different from home, this land
of heat—fury heat, pain heat, so different from home:
the promises, turned out, were lies.
They set out to the market to get a cake
for his birthday, a small cake, all she could afford, with white frosting
and blue letters, Happy Birthday, they put the cake in the wagon
so he had to walk with his mother under a sun radiating
needles, so different from home, where they wanted to be, but
they returned the same way across the lava ground, so scorching it softened
the soles of their shoes and the cake in the wagon too, roasting the blue letters,
sliding, running, so they didn’t even say Happy Birthday anymore.
Not anymore. So different from home.

©JEF 2025

"Paul's Neck"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be posting work by myself each Friday. I wrote this poem forty years ago when we were still struggling for rights and visibility was crucial. After a period where things seemed to progress, we now find ourselves back in danger, struggling to retain rights that can be taken from us, struggling to avoid damage and violence...

Paul's Neck

Trained over five summers
at football camp,
your neck is hard and thick
like a side of beef.
My love for you
is visceral.
I can eat it
like raw meat.

Your Daddy’s rich
and your Ma’s good lookin’
and some day they’ll
speak to you again
but until then,
I wouldn’t cry.

One of these mornings,
we’re gonna rise up
singing the same song
and it will be louder than
any church organ,
louder than any
protest march.
How dare they say
our love is wrong
when your neck is
the kindest,
the saddest
of all.

©JEF 1986

St. Joseph's Bread 2026

I come from a large Italian family. My great grandmother arrived in the United States on the SS Europa in 1910 to marry a man whose family came from the same village she just left. By the time I came along in 1964, she lived with her son and daughter-in-law and as you can imagine, was already quite old and hard of hearing (a problem that runs in our family). When I visited, she would be sitting at an enormous oak table in the front room, a soap opera blasting from the television, playing solitaire. Although she spoke English, she retained a very heavy Italian accent and would lapse into Italian whenever she was excited or frustrated. And I never saw her in anything but plain black or dark dresses, the kind…well, the kind immigrant women wore in the 1920s.

She was of course a Roman Catholic and brought with her all sorts of feast days, observations, and traditions. But the most delicious feast day for us was that of Saint Joseph. There is a special kind of bread that is baked only on this day, Saint Joseph’s Bread or Panne di San Guiseppe. It is tender and sumptuous, more like cake but not sweet, more on the savory side. It was a treat everyone in the family looked forward to all year. I don’t know how many loaves my great grandmother would make but every family got one--she would bake all day and then walk to each home to deliver them in person...so today is the feast day of St. Joseph, the day when she would have delivered these treats.

Anise seed (a very traditional Italian spice that shows up in many national and regional dishes) is what gives this bread a subtle taste. Some traditional recipes call for the addition of golden raisins, but I will say that my great-grandmother never added them. While I am in no way religious (although I am a mystic at heart, which is very different!), I still enjoy this delicious bread.

St. Joseph's Day Bread

5 lb. flour
2 Tbs. salt
1 3/4 cups sugar
2 tbs. baking powder
2 tbs. anise seed
Combine these ingredients in a large bowl
Work in 1 1/4 cups vegetable shortening

In another bowl combine:
4 1/2 cups warm water
3 pkgs. of yeast or 3 tbs. of yeast
Dissolve yeast in warm water
Add 5 eggs, beaten

Add liquid ingredients to flour and shortening mixture. Mix well and knead on floured surface. Place in greased bowl and allow to rise until double in size. Punch down and let rise another hour.

Shape into small round loaves (should yield around 5), and let rise for 30 minutes. Traditionally, the loaves were small and could be made in the shape of a cross, bambino (baby), heart, beard, crown, or staff in honor St. Joseph.

Brush loaves with beaten egg and sprinkle with sesame and poppy seeds. Bake at 350* for 30 minutes or until golden brown. Cool.

3.17.26

I'll have a boxty and a Guinness...

Top to bottom: St. Mary's Old Parish graveyard, Cahir, Ireland; Roadside sign, Cahir, Ireland; Ben Bulben mountain from Drumcliffe, Ireland; St. Columba's Church, Drumcliffe, Ireland; grave of W.B. Yeats, St. Columba's Church, Drumcliffe, Ireland; Giant's Causeway sign, County Antrim, Northern Ireland; Giant's Causeway sign, County Antrim, Northern Ireland; Giant's Causeway, County Antrim, Northern Ireland; basalt columns at Giant's Causeway, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

All photos above by JEF


"Belfast Child" by Simple Minds
When my love said to me
Meet me down by the gallow tree
For it's sad news I bring
About this old town and all that it's suffering
Some say troubles abound
Some day soon they're gonna pull the old town down
One day we'll return here
When the Belfast Child sings again

Brothers, sisters, where are you now?
As I look for you right through the crowd
All my life here I've spent
With my faith in God, and Church, and the Government
But there's sadness abound
Some day soon they're gonna pull the old town down

One day we'll return here
When the Belfast Child sings again
When the Belfast Child sings again

So come back Billy, won't you come on home?
Come back Mary, you've been away so long
The streets are empty, and your mother's gone
The girls are crying, it's been oh so long
And your father's calling, come on home
Won't you come on home, won't you come on home?

Come back people, you've been gone a while
And the war is raging through the Emerald Isle
That's flesh and blood man, that's flesh and blood
All the girls are crying but all's not lost

The streets are empty, the streets are cold
Won't you come on home, won't you come on home?

The streets are empty

Life goes on

One day we'll return here
When the Belfast Child sings again
When the Belfast Child sings again

http://www.discoverireland.com/us/

http://www.simpleminds.com

Happy Thanksgiving 2025!

Once again, we find ourselves approaching a holiday season with darkness and destruction in the fabric of our nation. Such challenges make us look to what we have in our own lives, close to us, and cherish those people, things, and places even more. On this holiday of gratitude, let's give thanks for the things that make us good, strong, honorable, and loving human beings. Let's give thanks to the people who bring light and calm and love to our lives and to the world. Let's give thanks for the generous actions and goodwill in our lives--whether done by others or ourselves--that strengthen the fabric of humanism and the choices to unite, protect, and find value in this existence, and which can combat the turbulence, pain, uncertainty, and darkness. Hold dear these things and live up to these ideals for which we are grateful. Let's find value in ourselves and others, and express this gratitude in our intentions, deeds, and words. Let's be grateful for the value of the human experience, love, and life itself.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

I Miss My Mom

Take one if you miss your mom too.

I Miss My Dad

Take one if you miss your dad too.

Happy Birthday "Oh, By The Way" 2025!

Congratulations "Oh, By The Way," you are sixteen years old today!

Sixteen years ago, I had a dream in which I started a blog called “Oh, By The Way.” When I woke up that morning, I went to the computer and promptly started a blog called “Oh, By The Way.” Seriously--it was the first thing I did that morning, and yes, I often act out in waking life things I have dreamt.

"Oh, By The Way" is my digital scrap book of things I like, things I would share with a close friend and say: “Oh, by the way, do you know of this artist/clothing or interior designer/model/singer/actor/gorgeous man… or, have you seen this video/photo/film... or heard (or do you remember) this song/band... or, read this book/poem/inspiring quote... or, visited this place/ restaurant/ famous building... or, have you heard of this amazing new scientific discovery?”

Followers and regular readers: thank you so much! I hope you find this blog by turns fascinating, beautiful, interesting, moving, inspiring, informative, enriching, and uplifting. Welcome to the birthday party! This year I am virtually serving Julian Angel's Blueberry Cake with Lemon Curd with a glass of iced rose-matcha from Emily Laurae! Enjoy!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, "OH, BY THE WAY!"

We are not here long enough...

The Waning Days of Summer

Photo of the coastline at Pigeon Point Bluffs, Northern California on 8/17/25 by JEF

I Miss My Dad

Take one if you miss your dad too.

I Miss My Mom

Take one if you miss your mom too.

"Art"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I have posted work by myself each Friday. This poem is brand new after rattling around in my head for a few months and a few weeks of work, and I think it tells its own story. I hope you enjoy it.

Art

Did the makers know it wasn’t a game they made
but a life lived larger, out there somewhere
beyond the shelter of my bedroom, the house, our little town?
Christmas morning, 1970, stuffed animals, toys, and a box,
a treasury on post-cards: landscapes, portraits, still lives, portals
to different places and times.

Did the makers hope to bestow a gift:
the freedom to choose content, then form, or more radical,
the ability to choose form for its own sake?
On a round braided rug on a hardwood floor I studied
this collection of masterpieces I’d never seen
from museums far from the rug and my toy box,
learning to think and see in a new world,
an art-shaped world, an art-colored world, a world
of mansions and safes and movie-heists,
vast collections in hushed salons of
white, red, green walls on worn parquet.
A future event: I will raise my brush wet with pigment, touch canvas.
It whispers back now, “no journey is simple, but this one will be long.”

The slow embrace of a language, a joining with
arthritic sunflowers in a bulbous orange vase,
cotton candy angels floating in a sepia sky,
a dour farmer with pitchfork and mournful wife,
a green-faced barmaid in a raucous dance hall,
whips of black and white paint slashing a surface,
umbrella-ed couples on a wet cobblestone street,
a bleached cow skull on white sandstone,
a bright diner counter seen from an eerie, dark city.

I never learned their dice and tissue-thin pastel dollar rules,
they didn’t matter, I had no one to play a game with anyhow.
I didn’t yet know a future where I would weep in front of a
small, tenderly ordered bedroom in Arles with a yellow chair,
in front of a dizzying cascade into a pond of pink-purple-blue
water lilies rendered in rushed gobs of paint like cake frosting,
in front of a geometry of sunlight slicing through windows into an empty room
and feel the primal urge to use form color texture repetition symmetry
asymmetry the head the heart

©JEF 2025

"The Church of the Reindeer"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I am posting work by myself each Friday. This piece is about an encounter with the natural world that goes beyond nature...an encounter that is enigmatic, transcendent. 

The Church of the Reindeer

In a white clearing at the bottom of a hill three men
stand in a row, each wearing a hat:
a turban of fur, a crown of wood, a crown of ice.

Supplicants, officiants, the surrounding fir trees
bend, brighten, settle under gathering snow.
If the gloaming could talk it would say,
“I take this form because it pleases me.”

For those who have died in a dream, you are welcome.
For those who can feel their heart beats, you are welcome here.
For those who hear music where there is none, you are most welcome.
Keep your eyes wide open, but be still, frozen to the ground.
In this clearing the air is even colder, effervescent,
a rustle behind a branch, a visible cloud of hot breath,
it is manifest before you, flanks, muzzle, tail, fur,
topped with velvet antlers and boughs of pine.
It says, “I take this form because it pleases me.”

It ambles past, gently brushes each one with a tine.
It disappears at the deckled edge of this forest dream,
all this held in your mind just for a moment.

©JEF 2024