A personal perspective.

These lavender wands are only five-seven inches tall, but in front of a fallen bench they appear bigger, more important. The rose branch? Smaller. I know these truths but I let the picture stand.
I smile at the disjointed lies formed in this frame.

A curator would call this "An assertion of strength by the weakest of elements".

A visual artist would re-position one or two elements to balance, to focus, to create a mood.
Words miss creating a meaning too.

The truth? I crouched to take the picture, and the focus changed. What did I want to capture? Not the rose branch, not the lavender pods, but the broken arbor bench after a storm.

The power of art to reach the heart.

I heard the phrase on the radio, in a song. "I hope you know", the refrain went, and my heart skipped a beat.  Tears followed, and lips trembled. I hope you know how much you were loved, I murmured to myself, speaking to my dead son.

What we don't say can cover volumes. We are filled with joy and sorrow and doubt and anxiety in a single moment, and what comes out of our mouths is barely representative of our status. I could use a cappuccino right now, I say out loud, meaning I'm thirsty for comfort, for a moment to re-assess, a moment to wipe the face, blow the nose, let the cat out and wander off in the woods. I want to shout out to the Universe, I hope you know too!

We  guess people's frame of mind when we see them, when we read their notes,  missives, jokes, comments on Facebook. How we shout constantly, yet no one ever hears the real us. We are glimmers of life in a desert, tiny signals, easily missed .

I envy the writers, the painters, the singers, the artists who are not afraid to lay their hearts out in small doses. They too are sending signals hoping we learn their truths: one brush stroke at a time, one note at a time, one phrase at a time.

Framed.

 A cage- fence- intrusion- inclusion-obstruction

passive,protective,distracting.

In or Out?

Free or Kept?

Marked or Not?

A tiny hole

in a vast universe.

All I wanted was a way for my Passionata to frame a lovely vista

Now, my cat thinks of it as her jungle gym.

His and hers.

ON our trip to San Francisco a week ago we explored the neighborhood around Fisherman Warf, right out of our hotel.
Top photo: Hubby watching boats, people...
Bottom photo: woman( my stand-in), watching the sea. Imagine that woman would have been me if I were not taking the photos.)

We are two coins, two goals, both needing what the other has. Each nourished by what the other craves:

He's enchanted by stores: Buys art, gadgets, machines.
I detect manipulation in stores, and walk in with a list, looking for my necessities.
He has machines and tools he will never use.
I stock up on consumables.

I sit in silence after all the activity of the day, contemplating.
He starts conversations with anyone, for hours, for no reason.
He moves without a destination, without a jacket, without a snack, anticipating new corners.
I need a reason to move, pack extra layers and nuts and fruit, armed with a map.
He's nurtured with all things that  radiate human accomplishment.
I'm nurtured with  things that are simply there, in the wind, in the forest.
He'll eat at a new restaurant, savoring a new menu in advance.
I prefer old haunts, reliable places where the food is predictable.

Our children? They have inherited both sets of traits!

Once she skipped.

Someone showed her drawings found in her mother's house.

Always a house

and a chimney

and a big tree on the west side

a tall one, in full bloom

with an expansive orchard on the south side

fruiting in season

grass lounging in green

birds flipping shadows in the breeze.

A little girl skipping out the front door,

coloring the sidewalk with her shadow

pigtails and  skirts

billowing in tune with her singing.

She skipped, Skip to My Lou! She lived a fairy tale life after all.

Living under water.

Blood hides 

among parts

behind parts

threatening to

 spill out 

at any moment

from encountering a tiny

 rose thorn.

A small trickle of the Colorado

gouged  mountains

and etched new planes.

The universe floats on the waters we spill.

Good intentions.

Should I tell you?
Please do!
You won't be shocked? Cause, it's hard to tell if you are really here.
What? Wait, I'm ...
O.K. Some other time when you have time, and I have time...
Quick, tell me now.
Are you sure?
Sorry, I'm o...f....f....f.

Heck, read my blog if you want to know!

Poetry of Loss, #3

I have officially stopped traveling to Wishland  

with its ribbonned packages 

and smells of favorite fluff

like anise biscotti

and steamy coffee mugs, and creamy concoctions

created for my pleasure. 

I now wake with a hunger that has no name

for that rare occurrence

when the earth tilts on its axis

and the firmament goes back

 to the day its orbit

smiled on us.

Perhaps a snow day would suffice.  

*snow is a rare occurrence on these shores