The rich palette of peach and yellow and white conjures feminine reverie,
light and feathery in places, paint thick and heavy in others,
a pool of burnt orange coagulates at the bottom of the canvas.
We can trace the brush as it stroked away form, left only movement and energy,
released legs from torso, lips from face, flesh from bone, all in a kind of writhing.
Continue Reading »Posted in Art, Women | Leave a Comment »
Without a place to land the singing bird moves on.
My finger traces coastal lines, I follow you on the map.
I hover in the liminal, the dream borders obsession.
I will write you a thousand times, impenitent, enrapt.
My finger traces coastal lines, I follow you on the map.
The heart, they say, has no edges. How many times must I release you?
I will write you a thousand times, impenitent, enrapt.
Salvation saves some things but not all. Even the heron flew.
The heart, they say, has no edges. How many times must I release you?
The river washes clean, leaves sorrow on its banks.
Salvation saves some things but not all. Even the heron flew.
I submerge in water’s warm embrace, to whom should I give thanks?
The river washes clean, leaves sorrow on its banks.
I hover in the liminal, the dream borders obsession.
I submerge in water’s warm embrace, to whom should I give thanks?
Without a place to land the singing bird moves on.
Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments »
Why not take it just a bit over the edge, add turquoise tulle to the pink leotard and orange tights, tassels to the handlebars, a Dora the Explorer helmet and a bright red face mask, ride to the fair grounds and eat, bite by greasy bite, the deep-fried Twinkie, lick powder-sugared fingers after the doughy elephant ear, buy a wand and toss ping pong balls for prizes, sample the homemade pies, the local brew, and finish with deep-fried pizza?
When we roam freely again, toward others and the joy of being within arm’s reach, we will surely overdo it.
[Thanks to Nathan Feuerberg for the Scottish-themed prompt, and the co-writers in tonight’s San Miguel Writer’s Conference Silent Write]
Posted in COVID-19 | 4 Comments »
The east section of the cemetery has been fenced off. The grass is unnaturally green, sodden. Headstones are strung like beads from tree roots that have surfaced. A note nailed to a venerable tree warns visitors to avoid this area, or, at the least, use extreme caution. It explains: sectional liners have aged poorly, there are drainage issues, the tree roots have compromised the graves. The headstones are sinking, the graves are collapsing.
Continue Reading »Posted in Cemetery, Death/Loss/Grief, Encerrado, Guanajuato | Leave a Comment »
Like the crone observing new life from her crooked-neck perch
bones and sinews exposed as winter’s denuded branches
time relaxed immeasurable and infinite
the blue heron rests on the leafless limb
its s-curved neck raising and turning languidly.
Continue Reading »Posted in Aging, Heron, Mortality, Pacific Northwest, Painting, Women | 3 Comments »
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