Eating Broccoli on the Moon


I wear the wind.

The wind changes me

from a tense figure

to a galloping gaucho.

The wind quiets

and I am a striding explorer

in the Valley of Many Voices.

I close my ears

and feel the swirling wind

transform me to a lone skater

spinning on a frozen lake.

I eventually fall

into the gentle rocking

of a boat going slowly

down a stream.

The wind crafts the story.

It costumes me and feeds me cues.

I shout into the gales

with joy.

I am moved

by their force.

I am freed

by their fury.

When the air is calm

I sigh

and rebecome


Dustin Duby-Koffman

2019 by Unrestricted Editions, Minneapolis, MN

Author’s Bio:

I am a poet and songwriter who has been communicating with a letter board or keyboard for about five years. I wrote this poem to express my longing to be free of limits. I hope others let loose and experience life in every gale or breeze. I find that writing is a good first step to becoming who you are.

March 28th, 2020


I would be very happy for you to share my poem. I am very glad you like it. I will check out your blog this weekend. I think it’s great that you and Owen have a joint project.

Please tell Owen not to despair. I also came to letter boards quite late. I still get angry when I make a mistake or can’t get my thoughts out as quickly as I’d like. My parents would like to see me type independently, but I freeze at the very idea. I don’t know why, but every new step is scary.

Owen might want to try sessions with Chris Martin for poetry writing. He got me started.



Eating Broccoli on the Moon, is available at or Amazon.

Advice from Professor Anliker

Pandora by Roger Anliker, Gouache

Thirty-five years ago I studied at Temple University’s Tyler School of Art, with a professor Roger Anliker.  When I knew him, Anliker was a petite man with jet black hair combed back from a pale and lined face. He smoked in class.  He seemed fragile, but highly intelligent and scary.

When I climb back onto that page of my history, I am standing in a large airy studio before a tilted drawing table, the rumble of an enormous ventilation system filling the air.  My miserable and vague charcoal sketch of a nude male lies before me, sans genitalia. I am hoping no one has noticed. Maybe the tilted table hides my lack of skill and bravery. I am new at drawing from nude models, and dreading the professor’s approach.  But Anliker stands beside me, a cigarette between his shakey fingers, and an enormous ash built up and dangling from its end. A few sheds of ash fall across the paper and he whisks them impatiently away. 

Whatever he actually said about my attempt at drawing is lost to my memory – but if he had said something clever or critical I am sure I would have remembered it. (I can still hear Stanley Whitney cheerfully using my first painting in his class as the bad example, “Ah, now this is a piece of shit.”) What I do remember is a sense of patience…and humor. Anliker (my class called him Roger) was the kind of man whose razor wit terrified junior classmen — some students called him “God” — but under the apparent arrogance and critical tongue was a kind heart.

Everyone deals with chaos on the pages of their lives, one way or another. And certain things Roger Anliker taught about drawing have armed me for arenas I doubt he expected. Though it’s true, he did cast a pretty wide net. He had no trouble presenting himself as a deity.

When you are starting a picture, Roger said, always make three models. Don’t just go with your first idea, he said. Come up with three ideas and choose the best one. This stuck with me. Chicken coop additions, strategies for fundraising, ways to talk to difficult people have all benefited from this counsel. So of course have my paintings and screenplay scripts. Christmas plays. Garden designs. Puppy training. My children can tell you that “make three models” has been an idea impressed on them, too.

Create three examples. Draw three pictures. Think of three possibilities. And choose the best one.

Roger had more to say about models. Always have a model, he said. Don’t draw from memory, from your head. If you’re going to draw an alligator, and you don’t have an alligator, find something that looks remotely like an alligator and use that.

He also said, ” If Grumbacher [sketch paper company] knew how large your painting was meant to be, and sold you a piece of paper exactly the right size for your drawing, that would great. But they don’t. If you get to the edge of your paper and you aren’t finished, then grab another piece, and attach it and keep going! Don’t allow the size of the paper to determine what you are creating.”

Thirty-five years later, as I am standing in my kitchen, making the morning smoothies, I suddenly remember those famous words. I am trying to think how to deal creatively with my son’s anger and unhappiness with his lot in life. He is stuck. We are all frustrated and stuck. How do we go forward?

Imagine life outside the confines of the page you see. Ignore the edges. Make three models. Throw out the two that don’t work. And go.