Dance of ants compiling sawdust, compels us to
Trample, mow, flee to the inviting woods. Our short
Caravan meanders, leans against boulder, attached lichen here
Crash down on leaves and rocks waiting for dark,
Bare stars, glowing mosses, a second light show that
Regales millipedes, azaleas, forsythia. Outdoor sounds
Jar us awake, it’s 2am, we rise in dew-sparkled clothes,
Veering through trees, over rotten wood and rock holes, a deer
Kicks a whip, or jumps, startled by late-night intruders mistaken
For hunters. You can’t know it now, but this night marks the
Epicenter of your youth, from which all events will emanate
Without outward boundary, but in three hundred sixty
Degrees. Bound into it all, bring that screwgee* low and inside.
First Letters represent those in attendance 11/13/2015:
*A Screwgee is a reverse curve ball thrown in baseball that spins in toward right handed batters from a right handed pitcher.
Sorry about the lighting on this photo. Just got excited to put it out there. “That’s a good one Bessie, I dare say.”
and the next one looks better than this shot too….happiness lately at the painting trade.
The background here is closer to salmon, and the deep maroon turned to purpley blue. What a phone camera (plus I no longer have photoshop).
The joy is that the marbling has returned.
Thanks for giving it a look.
One is David Snape:
Thank you sir for the plug.
This one is soon to be traded for a piece of incredibly crafted pine straw basketry by Renata Lader. Ooh boy.
The featured yellow painting is now in the collection (the family has aquired four ) of Laura and Luc (aka Luc and Laura).
What if you had a muse. The muse was constantly inspiring more art, more poetry, more investigation of the multiple aspects of life that you might have overlooked. Let’s say you had this muse for 1.5 years, and she/he was in your life as completely as possible, but then had to leave. How long would that use still inspire you? i’d say it has to do with how well you were inspired while together. Also, how strong the bond became.
The muse in my life will not vanish. She is just around the corner in my mind. Just an electronic click away, most times. and the type of friend, though we may not meet again for a long time, that will always inspire these words. I took a week off here, as I got busy with regular chores. Glad to be back. Hope to regain my blogster friends. Everyone I follow in here has inspired me to keep going in blogland, so thanks for the constant perks here.
Have a great week, enjoy your weekend (should you get one) and don’t forget how smart the children are.
Experiment on printed paper.
I rarely comment on the music I put up here. This one deserves a little explanation. It turns out I have fallen in love and I hope I do fall in love again. And I did fall in love a few times and had it not returned, you know what I mean? So the next time someone falls in love with me, it better be the one I love from afar, the one who already loves me, the one who will never let me go.
What can I do about geography? Circumstances do not ALWAYS make things work out. But, not for the same reasons Mr. Waits settles for more drink and not falling in love, and then he falls for the woman who is no longer in the room, at the end, rang a bell with me here today.
Combine that song with this one, the first on Closing TIme, the one the Eagles brought forward for him, and you have a chance to feel really lonely about the loves that are so far away. Don’t do that, just go give a hug to that one who matters, if you’re lucky enough to be with the EXACT RIGHT ONE.
are you from New York?
I thought I saw you
there in May
or June.” “No Shanghai
but I visited
Manhattan in June, maybe
you did see me there.”
This is how
the opening lines
are played in
his head, but chess is
simple compared to
He’s up, the ruse is
a refill at Foster’s in
Chapel Hill two days
home loss too…
But dude boy
is not about to lose this
one, no; cup
in hand he weaves through
tables, stops, pelvis
as she peers over laptop.
“Yes,” she says,
“Excuse me, are you
from New York?”
life. Even autumn
colors can’t pull us
The penalty for
is another round
of corruption, worldwide wage
A girl in
an engineer’s cap
wraps an afghan on
her grandmother, gets
Hip swerving golfer
a coffee shop with
fully clothed three hybrid: a
incongruent, mingle while
Wall Street adds
A hundred to the
Dow: record profits
obvious bias bestowed,
to owners of the
means of production.
Jesus is a Liberal
Jesus Christ would not be proud
To see religion in this state. (Virginia that is.)
TV evangelists preach a canon of intolerance.
Jesus never expected people to hate in his name.
Building amusement parks in homage to God
Makes as much sense as waging war for Christ.
A god who attracts such diverse attentions
Is not a nice god or even a holy god.
He must be the god of money, or,
The god of land acquisition, or, perhaps
Even the god of death. Now that should
Set bells ringing in your bible-belt ears.
The god of death destroys life and love,
The god of death is worshipped in Lynchburg.
This Poem first appeared in “the Muse,” Edited by Ilya Kaminsky, 1997, Rochester, NY
To Be Human
is to fall in love over and over,
to never give up on any of them,
to cry for the inhumanity, and try to
overcome all that surrounds us by creating
a closeness with those in proximity, both
geographical and philosophical. It is to
carry those loves in our heart, flooding our
minds no matter how gone they are. And
to put others’ needs first, understand their
flaws, work on our own so we can be
better helpers. It is to take it all in and
follow our dreams no matter how preposterous;
to pull apart another brown paper bag and
to write it all out, no matter how choppy.
So take my hand and make it all better
before I repeat the painful parts until
I can no longer act. To struggle past
obstructions and obligations, self imposed and
expected; to wallow in joy, build strength and
change what we can for the better. To live, to give.
Bright eyes dig up a question from generations ago:
You want to know why the wind blew us
Together, how our sons will grow, when we will
Meet again, where will we be as one again?
Training gives you the desire to examine cause and
Effect. Experiences about as wide apart as possible
Come at us, yet we harmonize, learn each other’s secrets,
Give what we know the other will love, provide
Sanctuary in a world spinning out of control for so
Many. This I offer to distinguish myself from regular
Men, be they handsome or young: a complete heart
With continued support, undying gratitude, massage
Therapy, attempts at cooking, quite a way with words.
I expect you to smile when we chat, remain a solid
Force, a muse for my art, the reason I will always
Yearn for more, forever the target of happy life,
Memories (plans?) and a fresh heart, made whole
By the time we spent sincerely swirled, sufficiently
Molded to continually receive jolts of good news,
Connected forever by this love, complex, alive, strong.
We’ve woven a web, you and I,
attached to the world, for no matter
how long, inscribed, though poorly, for
scant eyes, still, as bright a love aura as
has ever glowed, tightly wound around
our hearts, yet soaring miles above
Moodeung’s fog to warm cold February.
Sparks fly off a round-rock fire rarely seen
in these parts. We laugh, it feels like we
shouldn’t be here on a cold winter night,
just a few meters from trails so packed
during the day. This charge will never
leave. We’ve marked this space but must
go to where the stars shine, deer run, art springs.
Keep my heart in your brain, words in your hair.
Matched lifelong yearning bursts in my hand,
fluorescent. Quick, pack what you need, let’s
flee! live life in the positive zone, expand
what we enjoy together, bound by the luck
that brought us this far. Where to next?
The featured image today is one of 350 names attached to crosses of innocent people who died during the US invasion of Iraq. There is also the name of one US soldier in this artistic graveyard. That is the ratio that has occurred there, and prompted this vastly inhuman refugee crisis: 350 innocents for every one soldier dead. Oh. Oh No.
One cherry blossom detaches, falls, aSINGLE unit
allowing fruit its space, starting its new journey: island
to reflecting pond, orchard to cottage yard, daughter to
lover, enhanced by the wind, if even for only six seconds.
Transformed to long-boned genius, long-yearning adult,
considerate friend, purple-green plaid from soft pink,
tan suede boots from four-petalled bloom. Hikaru, as they
say in Japan, hits the town running, arms crossed, cradling
herself like the war-torn victims of Vietnam, but not
worn or torn, she flings enthusiastic youth toward
outstretched limbs. She captures herBEGINNING and future
simultaneously, shedding one form, embracing another,
sweating humid Spring, still awkward in this skin.
Descending unannounced, she moves among mere mortals
Spreading joy, quietly demanding obedience,OFFERING all
in exchange for all. Most cannot accept, choose an
easier, less complicated path; but those brave strong souls
Born from deep roots blessed metamorphosed
beings who join Miss Cherry soon realize, if for one day,
week, or lifetime, their lives will never be the same.
Eagle Pond Farm
October in New Hampshire means colored leaves for kicking.
Donald kicks a few heading into town for cheese.
He notices that the antique dealer, once again, announced
The coming of winter by changing his sign. It now reads:
“Driveways Plowed, Reasonable Rates.” The type of
De-evolution Donald appreciates.
Standard time ensures contrast, as autumn’s last bonfire
Sends a leaf-shaped spark into the air.
A simple way of life is free to walk around without inspection:
So Donald does. He checks out of Najur’s General Store
With Gouda and N.Y. Sharp Cheddar tucked away.
He climbs up the knoll then down the driveway to the farm.
He kicks a pinecone to the safety of the woods.
He exhales steam that quickly disappears.
He can almost see ice forming on the pond.
Donald in this poem refers to Donald Hall.
Blue bird in the air,
Golden boy delights.
Skipping stones without a care,
Singing in the night.
Seagull pierces silence,
The dawn is on the rise.
Fishermen are busy
Watching for red skies.
River wanders, digging earth
Weekend mongers slobber
Spilling pints of oil.
Red-skinned native stands,
A reminder of the past.
Spearing fish and digging clams,
Hoping they will last.
Blue-eyed boy walks on,
Determined to have fun.
Lonely lovers cry,
Searching for the sun.
written at age 15