The path connects the path divides,
the sky is rising like a tree–
the ending moves, retreats, and hides
what is, is not, has yet to be.
The sky is rising like a tree,
the land grows following behind
what is, is not, has yet to be–
an offering returned in kind.
The land grows following behind
the dance of water, spirits, earth–
an offering returned in kind–
a trance, a dream, remembered birth.
A dance of water, spirits, earth–
the ending moves, retreats and hides
a trance, a dream, remembered birth–
the path connects the path divides.
I photographed the art on many many backgrounds; it looked different on each one. But I kept going back to these two: vivid blue and wood floor. Each brings out a different aspect of the painting/collage.
Like a murmuring moon,
my lunation turns and repeats,
As indistinct as air–
unbroken darkness veiled
in expanding light.
Before and after become lost–
the shifting rhymes
The edge waxes and wanes.
The colors blend and unrainbow–
silent, dazzled, unforeseen.
A quadrille for dVerse (murmur), which also includes this week’s words from the Secret Keeper. It was also inspired by Frank Tassone’s hazy moon challenge, although I’m not sure these verses meet any real criteria for haiku.
Another self portrait: from a photo of me at around age five (?). I had cut a chunk out of my bangs. I still chop off my hair sometimes when it gets too long and then have to get an emergency appointment with a professional.
I added a few things in the background that were iconic to me. The zither had sheets of music that you put under the strings and plucked the corresponding strings. The little jukebox (all busted up now) played a song when you put a penny in. The white horse was a piece I got at some junk shop; I remember my mother being amused that I spent my babysitting money on a little object like that. I had a happy childhood.
Here’s the zither and the little jukebox. The white horse is lost to history.
My daughter painted in watercolor, no pencil sketching first. Although this is simplistic I think it caught her mood. She didn’t hate it which is something. So glad it is Friday. I hope everyone has a good weekend. Weather is looking promising here in NJ.
It’s been a while, friends, and I’ve missed WordPress. Luckily for me Kerfe pushes me mercilessly and I promised I would post today. “Painting is good for the soul”, Kerfe says, and you know what? She’s right.
The last few months have been stressful as my husband closed his private medical practice and joined a group. They hired me also. We have been putting a lot of energy into this endeavor and I haven’t picked up a paintbrush.
In thinking about content I realize that I really like to paint people, either from old photos or from photos taken of faces I like. I’m going to concentrate on that for a bit. Not sure if I’ll post ever day but will try for a few times a week. This venue is wonderful for artists and we have made many friends here. Thank you for your patience!
“Curse not the king, no, not even in thy thoughts, and curse not the rich in thy bedchamber; for a bird of the air shall carry thy voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.” –Ecclesiastes 10:20
Black is for nothing
waiting—shadow bird, mirrored
particles of air
of skies that open
wings, hold inside the absent
voice that shatters all
which is, which becomes,
which hath grown darkness—veiled words
Nothing is waiting,
nothing sings but the silence.
All is black on black,
formless, flying on
feathers’ breath, and all shall be
now and forever
nothing nothing no
thing nothing nothing nothing
nothing nothing no
cries no conjuring–
every thing zeros falls in
to black as black is–
Frank Tassone’s Haikai Challenge this week is “Raven”. I have many a crow poem and many pieces of crow art in some form of completion, and this is a poem I’ve been worrying for awhile. I changed its form recently from a series of shadormas to haikus. I think the shorter stanzas are better. But it’s still a work in progress.
Yesterday I was walking on 153rd Street, which borders Trinity Cemetery, and I heard some crows–then many many crows–looking up, a murder, circling and calling against the blue sky. I haven’t seen that in the city before. And I thought, well, I have artwork for that too.
What it signified I don’t yet know.
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–
hunting, calling, longing,
gathering beginnings and ends–
I haven’t tried a cinquain for Colleen’s Poetry Challenge yet, but it seemed to fit the beautiful full moon of the New Year. I often find strict rules help in focusing my thoughts, and that was definitely the case here.
And no, you haven’t seen the last of that moon in my art and words…