Monday, May 28, 2012

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.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

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.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012


 A cage- fence- intrusion- inclusion-obstruction
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.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

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!

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

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.

Friday, May 4, 2012

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!

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

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