Rose, yellow, and verdant light
prances,
leaps from ocean surface,
swells.
Cobalt sky,
lightly brushed with
peach clouds.
Seagulls skim
above placid waters,
relentlessly fishing.
Stranded on wet, ochre sand
an upsidedown horseshoe crab,
decorated with barnacles,
a soldier pinned with medals
on his chest.
I roll him over,
gently place him
by surf’s edge.
Old horseshoe crab
feebly turns to sea,
patiently waits
for death to arrive.
Mr. Crow
Go slow.
Pick with care
Garbage bare.
I come nigh,
Photo guy.
He finds pie.
Says, “Goodbye!”
I sing
dawn into existence.
The dolphins slide swiftly
in glittering sea.
strawberry conjures
fresh spring
and seeded pleasures
a cool morning
hot day
and a night outside by a river
when my sons were young.
Start writing before the words of the day impose themselves on you. Start while you’re still asleep, just poured the first coffee. While the dream world still holds you in sway, while your conscious mind and worries haven’t yet had time to plant themselves firmly in your mind. Start before you start playing out the arguments you might use with your boss or husband that day. Start in the dark of winter mornings, when the ghosts of the past are still present, when the darkness hasn’t yet faded, as the sun slowly spreads shadows and light and the fall leaves shake in the morning breeze, casting prisms on the floor.
Recently, I opened a notebook from a few months ago and found lovely drawings and stories that I didn’t remember doing. I had intended to write on the leftover blank pages but started viewing the work. It felt like I was looking at someone else’s work.
I often put aside writings or paintings for at least a month or more after finishing them, before editing them or making the final touches. When I come back to the work, I have enough perspective to edit words severely, add an extra line of paint, or eliminate a too busy portion. Sometimes I just note what I liked and what I didn’t like about the piece, tuck the piece away, and use that information to inform future work. Then, I move on. I figure that good work will emerge about 1 out of 10 times, if I’m lucky that day. This doesn’t bother me. My artwork is done for my own entertainment, catharsis, and meditation. The final product is merely a by-product of the process. But occasionally, when I look back, there is a lovely sensation of satisfaction of having done something well.
Bridge ahead,
moving mists
hover above it.
Tantalizing
changelings,
or drifting souls,
dare me to drive
through
and beyond them.
I hesitate in apprehension
and reverence.
The clouds roll and seethe
in waves and mountains.
I step on the gas.
Metamorphosis
awaits.
I will not keep
the rose and ochre
shells
and ebony skate egg case.
I’ll throw them back
to the sea.
Release
and
redemption.
I lay flat in my small, urban yard and heard the cheering fans at Camden Stadium, the young urbanites at the bar at the end of the block, and the occasional radio rolling by in a car. I sank my body into the slate footstones, trying to unfurl the tightness stored in large quantities, imagining the Earth’s warm core seeping into me. Listened. The chorus of birds sang to their young, caught in the interstices of the cacophony of the city. The new leaves and pink and white buds on the crab apple tree were splayed with sunshine. I sat up and dipped my brush into amber, sapphire and emerald watercolors. The paper was fresh and white.
Buddy, my black and white cat, meowed to come join me and I opened the door. He settled comfortably under the tree, hoping the birds wouldn’t notice him. Suddenly, Buddy decided it was his chance to jump into the neighbors yard and try to find that orange tabby that lives somewhere in the alley. Yikes! Buddy is a rescue, with no claws and two teeth. The tabby outweighs him by at least 10 pounds. The orange tabby probably eats rats bigger than my cat. I ran out the gate, captured Buddy, and threw him back inside. He was indignant, but saved from his own intentions, as we all need to be at times. I went back and completed my painting. It was a glorious Sunday.
11/14/2013
Geese call
southward flight
early sun glistens
on shorn corn fields
stalks short and gold.
This quiet moment
I sip coffee,
ignore the day’s work,
wish for flight.
3/14/2015
Geese call
early morn
turquoise sky.
Returning
ready to
dance courtship
exchange vows
renew life.
gaia mouse 