Its light spills out from everywhere—the moon–
a lantern in the sky, a mirrored sea
projecting the between of tide’s return,
throwing its questions at infinity.
The landscape shimmers, particles on fire–
breathes in, impatient, waiting with the stars
for orbits to conjoin as shadowed blood
that spills out, falling into otherwise.
Bewitched by moon beams, pushing into pull,
the spirits of the night become themselves–
a coiled diffusion standing in two worlds,
a melody that casts the wind with spells.
Transparent on the air, invisible–
the ancient shores of galaxies still call.
DVerse is featuring the sonnet form this month. I always have difficulty with sonnets , which is why it’s taken me so long to compose even one.
The clouds cooperated and gave me a chance to see the magical moon last night. It’s beautiful this evening, too, and equally enchanting.
Another one where the drips led me. It’s hard to see the details i.e. going in with a fine point sharpie in places.
In other news, I lost my dog Beau on the last day of August. The IG post is from Chris, whose hikes Beau went on with great joy for many years. Beau was just shy of his tenth birthday. I still have his brother, Birdy, who seems kind of stunned.
So I guess fall is here. Best wishes to all for the new season.
Wendi Winters was one of the five journalists murdered at The Capital, Annapolis, Maryland.
I was driving home when another reporter was being interviewed and he mentioned Wendi’s name. I knew it had to be her: she moved from Montclair to Annapolis around twenty years ago.
We worked together on PTA stuff and I thought she was great: very smart, funny, stylish and substantial. We kept in touch after she moved but I hadn’t heard from her in a while.
I have spent today thinking about men and guns. Why did she have to be there when that maniac walked in? 65 years old with four kids and a good life: gone.
Why, why, why?
Quiet night at work so I got in some drawing time. I like the historical photos I come across here and there especially when they are related to Paterson. This is an old shoe repair shop.
The photo intrigued me. That must be the shoemaker sitting down on the stoop. Who is the woman standing in her fur-trimmed coat? His wife? A customer? It will remain a mystery.
I found an old album of my sister’s. (She died five years ago, would have turned 65 in June 12th). She saved everything: newspaper articles, photos…this photo is of Louis and Allen Ginsberg, father and son poets from my hometown of Paterson, NJ. My father took the picture at an event around 1969 at the Alexander Hamilton Hotel. Louis and Allen read from their works and there was a reception later.
Allen Ginsberg reading. Louis was a good friend of my parents. He was an English teacher at Central High in Paterson. His poems are quite different than his son’s.
A joyous picture of my sister Jane also my my Dad. This album has a lot of treasures in it.
I’ve been in a dry period art wise. The new job is intense and they have me working three nights til 8 PM. I dismantled my art room to give to my daughter who moved home after a breakup. Still haven’t set myself back up.
Birdy relaxing in what was my studio.
I promise I will do some art work soon (Kerfe, this is for you). Just wanted to touch base and say hello.
I started looking through my dad’s photographs. I had the idea to cut some of them up to use in artwork. I guess you could say this is my first collage at least in a while.
It’s a subtle difference but I painted in the white borders in black. I do that a lot. Black brings everything out to my eye.
I’m looking forward to seeing what else I might find in the photos. Keeping the ones with people, all others like landscapes of buildings are fair game.
You are less
than I remember,
and more than
I superimpose myself
like a mask of light.
I’m not really sure this satisfies the dVerse prompt to write a letter, but I immediately thought of the stitching and Photoshop layering I had done using some childhood photos, trying to make a composite of is and was.
My dream is singing
my dream is death rising
My dream calls spirits
my dream frees ghosts that are me
My dream is all eyes
my dream is everywhere here
Trust the keeper
trust the howling caught inside
trust the chaos and the night
I know some cultures have 13 names for the moon year, but I’m going with this being the Blue Wolf Moon. Hopefully, a harbinger of better times for all–
Paul Simon said that one man’s ceiling is another man’s floor. Whose floor is the sky? Does it open at night to spill the dance of the stars, the sailing of the moon, into our earth-bound feet?
Moving toward eclipse–
double reckoning of light
bearing winter’s tides.
My windows become eyes to let the nightshine in.
Could I resist the dVerse winter moon haibun prompt?
This was my best photo of the first New Year’s Moon (that’s a rubber band that was on the floor…how did that happen?).