Grandmother's Rose

 Grandmother Elma May's Lunar Moth Rose 

bloomed today

Is that a squirrel?

 I cannot figure out how to add a photo. Nobody else can figure out how to add normalcy.

But evenso, there is now a photo.

Temples in the Underbrush

 Searching for civilization. No one can find it.

Soliloquy, like Hamlet didn't know either

 oh that this too too 

solid? 

What is even solid what is even this?

I'm going back to the best beyond. the middle distance. the moment before day and night.

That which is not now because now is now is now is not a place anyone should have to be.

Trees are a good place to begin the journey.

oh oh

what to say.  I am old. The world is older. 

How This is Done

It's been so long, I've forgotten how to make a post here. Three years about. I'll put up a picture of the coptic blank journals I made for a while, that 'while' I was not writing, not drawing.

The colorful covers are from hand marbled silk I created in the very early 90's, when I was marbling, when I was a member of the world marbler's guild. Or maybe it was the late 80's? For the journals, I also made prints on hand made Tibetan Lokta paper with a wonderful natural permanent printing ink from Wales - Caligo safe wash relief inks, by Cranfeld. I absolutely love carving out the designs for the prints.

The dragon with the rose is one of my drawings I created for use as a label for the powdered incense I made (called "Red Dragon") and packaged in small round tins and sold for awhile during the era of shops filled with crystals and herbs. The dragon is printed on elephant dung paper

I'm not making the coptic books now. It's quite hard on the wrists. They make wonderful gifts and I now have many blank art journals with pages of lovely heavy duty hemp paper to draw and write on when I am able to do so. That's what inspired the making of the coptic blank journals - I couldn't afford the commercial bound art journals. The journals using lighter weight pages are made from paper made from sugarcane. The books are bound with hemp twine.

Charlie Gillett's Sound of the World forum is no longer accessible. It's been 10 years since he died - 17 March 2010. For nearly 2 decades he, the music he loved and shared with the world, inspired me, this blog - even influenced my travels and created deep friendships.  It was in the discovery of the absence of the forum, this decade, that I looked for my blog after a long while, years even, of not looking at it to see if this blog still existed. It does. Somewhat.

It's time to find and fill my ink pens again and quit worrying that I don't (or perhaps, didn't) add color to my ink drawings. As for writing a poem, they have very little to do with time or one's relationship with time in other than cadence.

Indigene's Hand

Out of the hollows of abandoned bones

a liminal hand strikes in stone

the silent pulse between dusk and night

there carves the image

of sound and light.

Turtles Flying

It Isn't A Dream

Fog in the brain, body, spirit. It isn’t unpleasant. It might even be sustaining.  What is missing is that edge of reach, that window maybe doorway - sometimes sharply defined sometimes liminal and discreet. What is missing is the thought that is a blade cutting into the fog which cloaks the stars and opens the piñata-like fruits of creativity hanging always nearby and out jumble ribbons floating like wings to dangle and entice or truly wrap round you and bear you flying beyond all boundaries and edges, dispersing the haze and sharpening the focus unto an intensity beyond anywhere but here, here in this fog. 

The fog is warm, soft, soothing, and everything that is highly sought after when anxious, sleepless, stressed, unable to be. It’s eiderdown to a cold bitter day, it needn't be night. Even so, even so, one shoves stubbornly against the sheltering fog because it is thought one should look sharp and out of that attentiveness shall come...something. Is one afeard that with comfort, creativity shall stall or even die?

Is this similar to an opium dream? Though in an opium dream, one isn’t pummeling and pushing aside the visions to look for a creative spark unless one is insanely driven.

Calla Lilies

The calla lilies have bloomed early this year,

before the vernal equinox.

Thought forms

To some, I am attached. 

Like cheeky spiders they

drop from the ceiling

without invitation or warning.

Others stand aside,

deftly shelved next

venerable old tomes

I may or may not have read.

On Valentine's Day

on a moonlit morning

we'll have a cup of tea...

(to be continued as it is continued
in the morning's moonlight probably)

Solstice

here's to a

Happy Solstice

keeping warm
through this longest night.

-------

Deja vu

.......

scrolling

words rose from the page like smoke

sweet smoke from an ember tipped wand

scented smoke from a warm glowing ember

chapter upon chapter
the ruby tipped wand

made light of the page
in the unlit room

words curled like smoke

caressed the ceiling
leaned back

kissed the window

the page turned
 words gripped the page
like tallies of worth
with talons distended

the ceiling fell

in a puff of smoke

a few last wisps 

clung to the glass

of the night darkened window

the ember paled leaving
an ashen tipped stick
in its stead

.......

Rufous

One of a charm of Rufous Hummingbirds, blownup and blurry




.......

OOOPS!

OH WELL

Lost in the ether, probably not alone though.

January

January arrives portrayed by a two headed god. A new year begins and an old one ends on a calendar which follows the sun and forgets the moon. The computer faithfully registers the change by immediately eliminating the numeral two and replacing it with a three. Nature is indifferent.

More reflective of nature is the garden. It is encircled by trees and the ground beneath them grows wild and untamed. Leaves lie where they land sheltering wild flower seeds and bugs. The birds pick through them. The cat watches the birds. The dog chases the cat. The birds fly away. They will come back. 

Somewhere between nature and calendar, one small corner of the garden sits outright in the sun and is cultivated. It flooded unto desolation in December. As the water receded, wind bared the carefully tended plot into gnarly swirls of mud soaked straw. January topped it with ice. It will need a kind hand to be beautiful again. 

Other than the usual winter disarray, the garden left wild is undisturbed.

.......

Spiral

Out of the hollows of abandoned bones
a liminal hand strikes on stone
the silent pulse between dusk and night
there carves the image
 of sound and light.

.......

The Elephant's Room

It's ten before midnight.
December's in twilight.

The cards face their falling

in an unfinished drawing

near the end of this year.

It's ten before midnight.
December's in twilight.

The book is recycling

as the tree pens the writing

near the end of this year

It's ten before midnight.
December's in twilight.

Time is kept swaying

by a waltz that's been playing

near the end of this year.

It's ten before midnight.
December's in twilight.
The cat knows who's hiding.
The doves know who's flying

near the end of this year.

.......

Chapter Six (The Flood)

images images images

pages in the book

tried to press them together
to keep them dry

they flew apart

into the blue which is sky

into the sky which is whole

.......