full moon recall

dream
salt sea foam
clams scurry
dig themselves
into sand
as the waves recede
we are young
i wrap
burgundy and cobalt
gauze scarf
about my torso
my nipples show
i reach out
to touch
your silken sandy curls
as cigarette smoke
sinuously rises
your voice rumbles
weakens my knees

Laundry

Horizon eats sun,
bursting tangerine.
Bold azure,
golden sky,
I pick up the laundry.
Night steals in,
blueberry cloud patches
brushes cornflower dome sky.
Laundry bag slung over shoulder
I gaze
above the knoll of weapons.
Pale rotund moon
strangled gently
by
silver
spider
strands.

Backyard Sunday

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.

vows

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.

hell and God’s right hand

“I am traveling

through the fires of hell

to God’s right hand,”

said Dan.

I knew little of his journey, but

one time he told me,

“Dad would

knock us upside the head,

beat the shit out of us.”

Then Dan joined the army.

I do not know more of his passage,

how Charon ferried him across

and how he bribed his way out

pass Cerebus’ three heads.

But

here and now,

we are

in this church of light,

learning to sit

and stand

and move in space,

learning to hear

and see

and touch

all over

again.

Cradle

Cradled in my lover’s embrace,

I dreamt of a world.

Verdant earth, azure sky,

sun warming the gentle breeze,

children shouting with joy.

3/25/2015

storm rages

Storm rages,

pounds water

on my windshield.

I am dry

in the shelter of my car,

traveling

through

time

space.

sketches from Florida

Sun is dying in the western sky

leaving glints of shimmering yellow

on ocean’s indigo waves.

I shiver

with death and beauty.

3/2015

above the knoll
of weapons
pale full moon
strangled gently

The Creative Process on Tuesday

Tuesdays are my off-from-work day. I love them because most people (including my husband) are at work and I get to slack off all by myself. So I putz around the house, clean a bit, read a bit, and then make it to the pottery studio for a few hours. Then home again, where I eat a decently cooked meal for once. Perhaps I read some more or … whatever. It it my day of no-plan. Next I’m likely to fuss at my small garden and do other creative projects which are at hand. Today, it is framing a beautiful picture of Ganesha and writing this blog entry. Somehow the solitude and time to wander around the neighborhood or just wander through my small home is highly conducive to creativity. The gentle act of moving and observing everything outside, or wandering inside and randomly picking up a poetry book, or pulling out construction paper and scissors generates spontaneous ideas. Years ago, a friend told me that even if I didn’t have time to execute all my ideas, I could write them down and maybe get back to them later. It was excellent advice. Not only does it stop me from despairing that I will never get to any of my ideas, but it empties my head so that I can concentrate on the one idea I wish to act on now. Which happens to be…writing this blog. Right now. In short, what I need most to be creative is lots of time. It is not necessarily time directly related to creating. There must be some time to let the ideas naturally germinate and grow, away from the pressure to be or do something. It is time to absorb other people’s ideas, which naturally leads to my own creative process. Some ideas of projects for today (only one or two of which I will get to) are:

finish sewing alterations of clothing

executing several pottery designs that I’ve been mulling over since Sunday, when I went to the Walters Museum’s Japanese pottery show

some sketching ideas I’ve been thinking about, such as another self portrait (haven’t done one in a while) or I might just sketch the cat

I’ve also been thinking about doing some really large painting projects to just play with large brush strokes

cutting out colored construction paper to tape onto the front door as a precursor to painting an abstract design on it

starting another short story from the several ideas written in my notebook

trying to sound out one of the Child Ballads I’ve recently heard on the guitar

Ahh, or I could just stare out the window at the crab apple tree blossoms that are just opening, turning from bright pink buds to 5-petaled white flowers. Or I could paint them….

Tuesdays are really good.