I wanted to at least keep Draw-a-Bird-Day going for Nina and me, even if we’re both absent from WordPress at the moment. This is an old drawing that I never posted, but it seemed appropriate in many ways for the way the world feels right now.
Black Cockatoos are native to Australia and the surrounding islands, and were already facing habitat loss before the fires. They are highly social and intelligent birds, but they also have mythical and cultural associations. Symbols of change, spiritual freedom, communication, and survival, they are traditionally called on for their rain magic. Black birds in general hold the secrets of alchemy, mystery, and transformation. Our earth is crying out for all these things.
earth needs rain magic
to cleanse despair’s inferno
breathe flowers like stars
I also want to note that when you google “cockatoo” most of the links are about keeping them as pets. Confinement and separation are not a natural or desirable existence for these beautiful creatures, and they can easily become destructive, depressed, and needy without constant attention and the freedom to wander and socialize in large flocks that is their normal way of life.
me at first light as
used to do,
but not with words—birdchoir sings
through me: “rise and shine!”
My mother did not believe in sleeping in…when she decided it was time to get up, even on non-school days, she would waltz in, open the blinds, and announce, “Rise and Shine!” One of the delights of spring for me is that my alarm is the light and the birds (I never close my blinds)–but I always hear my mother’s voice joining the chorus.
I worked on my monthly grid all week, waiting for the NaPoWriMo prompt to do the accompanying poem. This is not really a recipe, but I think it’s close enough. The grid was inspired by numerous photos of tulip festivals from all over the world…rows and rows of beautiful color. April!
Ken honors me with his (as always) thoughtful and hopeful response.
I hold aloft what holds me down,
My sense of self, as yet unsound.
No sense of where my mind should be,
My troubles named, within me found.
And yet this weight that’s placed on me
Need not be what the world should see.
Acknowledging that I’m not bound
May offer possibilities.
All month, I held off from attempting to write a rubaiyat, finding no interest in the form. I guess I just needed something to write about. I found that in Kerfe Roig’s Inquisition. I left this as a comment, and I’m just under the wire for Frank Hubeny’s month-long prompt at dVerse, Poetry Forms: Rubaiyat. This is written in iambic tetrameter, with a rhyme scheme of AABA BBAB.
Image source: pngtree.com
Another one straight out of my mind. I really can’t explain this one: a bunch of shapes and colors. I added the white paint to add some pop. May go back in with a little more black. 97 here in NJ!
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?
Since I gave my art room to my daughter I have done nothing. There is so much stuff to go through and I’m lazy.
Two jam packed portfolios. These are from the Container Store: quite nice. I stored in these the things I liked best.
Another pile on an abandoned computer desk. What do I do with all this? I’ve had the thought to just give everything away. There’s some good art in here but too much.
Lovely weather here in NJ. Hope everyone enjoys the weekend!
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.