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.

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.

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

.......

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.

.......

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

.......

Few Stars Are Out Tonight

She turns in twilight sleep

hair and gown long and stirring about

cresting round the moon.

The trees whisper to one another.

The broad trunks flute low

and sound the ocean sound.

It is the wind.

Who was it tugged on her dreams

causing her to notice we are here?

Branches lift and crawl.

It is the wind.

It is only a matter of time

before she awakens fully,

her attention upon us deeper

as she turns earthward

laughing, always laughing.

The long grasses whistle high

and sound the raptor sound.

It is the wind.

Soon earth and sky

will be one tonight

boiling in her spin.

It is the wind.

Few stars are out tonight.

It is the wind.

Whose heart is lifted?

Whose is afraid?

It is just the wind.

.......

On the Eve of Day

A storm's coming

and it's useless

to escape while the whole world spins.

It caught me running

threw me weightless

into the madness of its torrid winds.

.......

Without A Word

time left my side
took with it my day
gave it to another
when I looked away







.

Orb Weaver

in the warmth of the sun...
her silks unbound
 each thread spun 

from yesterday's words
to catch them twisting

round and round

to catch them flying

down and down

to catch them lying

...she waits

....

Fall Leaves And Berries

I've lost many things,
my way unfound,
but never far from hand
that which I love.

...

Our House

In front of the door 

sits a large grey cat with topaz eyes.

It has no intentions of moving.

Behind the cat 

stands a small white house
with a door the color of jade

guarded by the large grey cat.

In front of the house 

grows a tall tree. 

At its feet 

lay the amber leaves of Fall.

Inside the house 

before the smoldering hearth 

with ruby coals

sleeps a brindle dog with eyes of onyx.

Beside the dog 

a spinning wheel rests

wound with flaxen thread
twisted in vermeil.

Behind the house 

the sun sets in a sapphire sky 

streaked in turquoise, copper, 

and an unearthly rose.

Beneath the window 

before the sky

sits a bed piled with pillows 

covered in dreams

topped by the large grey cat

with topaz eyes.

Outside the window

in a garden of peridot green

grow potatoes, pearls of the earth.

In this garden perches the lapis jay

watched by those topaz eyes.

Beyond all this

upon the sea

flows a shimmering path of gold.

....

Floating

Slip sightless into time's true entrance...

Be with time, alone in time.
It is an art
 this journey with time
the companion who has translated
 everything we have known

into earthly form.  

Even so, time is only one way to travel.

There are others. Like fallen leaves
they littered the land before it became
flat then round then flat again

 as we nailed down the ends of the world

called it civilization and came to recognize
 only those thoughts
which followed one after the other

and were easily translated into words.

...this is only difficult when I search for a beginning

when I search for a time
when this was not so.

...

Blooming Colors

Oops. Lost the text. The photo of the flowers from my garden 
remained. Almost lost the blog. Technical difficulties. 
Timely though for I have but one or two more poems and drawings 
that belong in this picture book and then Judy Sevens
will be concluded. After that, I will either continue here 
or provide a link to my new URL.

......................................................................................................................................

Today, June 1st, I found the lost text that belongs with the photo of flowers:

Today's news from Space Weather - there is a new sunspot 'hurling plumes of plasma off the stellar surface'

The past few months have seen a succession of rainy days. Then the sun comes out and like everyone else I drop everything and go outside because each sunny day might be the last for weeks. Pictures, I'd rather take them than draw them. Writing, I'd rather be outside barefoot and barehanded. 

The climbing rose has gone crazy with blooming.  As soon as the sun warms the garden, we are outside gathering roses. I dug out my old stovetop hyddro-still. The baffles and gaskets are still intact and Libbs and I made rosewater. The first gurgle of hydrosol out the copper spigot spills the scent of roses throughout the kitchen and we make plans to distill the lemon verbena and rose geranium. They too are lush this year. But for now, it's all roses. I've ground up dried petals in the spice mill. Luckily the spices last ground they were those used in perfumery as well as for cooking. The resultant scented powder smells like exotic incense. I'm making Gulkand, a rose preserve by layering fresh rose petals and sugar in a glass jar then sealing it tightly. The climbing rose continues to bloom.

...............

That was last week. For three days now we've been back to the skies of gloom. The syrupy coating on the rose petals has re-crystalized into a cold, hardened lump. To make Gulkand, one must set the jar in the sun every day for weeks, so much for that. I saw not a single bee today. When bees are deprived of ultraviolet light, they remain in their hive, are no longer attracted to flowers, stop gathering pollen - much as people behave who are deprived of the sun. Lethargy. Depressed. Sulking? Still, the ever present greyness Marley and I walked out into this morning gave up to color amidst the varying greens of ferns, sorrel, and grass. Roygbiv is well represented out in the garden, sun or no sun. It didn't take long to gather up a bouquet.

Inside the house and without the dominant green surrounding each, the colors are overwhelming and their brightness suggests artificial pigment, impossibly unnatural or supernatural? The intensity produces something akin to visceral anxiety and the subdued lighting of the above photo provides relief by making the blooms appear more real, or I should say - natural. What or why this should be, I've no idea. And this is just by viewing the spectrum the human eye can see, generally speaking of course.  Somewhere amongst the flowers are the Forbidden Colors - the green that is red, the yellow that is blue - and the bee's ultraviolet and probable other spectrums. If we could see into the spectrums not visible, would the colors be even more overwhelming, nearly blinding, or would they merge with those which were heretofore  visible and present us with an altogether different hue?

In light of the colors blooming and the generally unseen, this is how this morning's world media news reads to me - gloom plus doom. I think I'll stick to the news of the sky to begin my day until the sun comes out again. 

The indigo eye opens to the spectacle before it. 

The true voice which is blue hides

in the shadows of many trees,

a small blue lily 

that shrinks from the sun.

The verdant field with its creatures of song 

pines for song's return

from its last fearless course

into the face of wonder.

Below the field a river like all rivers

empties into the sea,

upon its back the reflection

of eagle's yellow eye as it circles

high above this hollow earth.

and the bright orange poppy

that colors the field with its silken petals

has pulled into a knot

unopened by the sun.

At the beginning is the red dragon. 

When the wondrous poppy was called upon 

to heal the increasing pain

dragon fell sleeping 

within its orange petals.

The indigo eye sighs 

gazes upward

and waits

deep into the purple night.

Voice In Song

In this moment that I know of

songs are sung

in every language spoken

and those long gone.

In this moment that I hear of

voices stilled.

No more would we be hearing

the songs they sang.

In this moment that I sit in

I don't sing.

I listen for the echoes 

of songs once sung.

In this moment that I hope for

songs are sung

by all the voices with us
for those now gone.
...

the streaking rain

the rain was 

for twenty seven days

stopped for two then

began again

within those two days

which should have stepped clear

in the sun

nothing stood

nothing shone

that wasn't sodden

when those two days ended

the rain streaked through

making burrows

for our dreams

like druming and strumming

make dwellings

for our song

.

Where Is The Logic In This!

oh, it has gone

those dastardly protean thoughts

came  

and carried it away

it flew out the window

astride the allure of

clairvoyant communications

 it is in crypsis 

in luminiferous ether

disguising itself with the indivisible 

sum of its parts.

It might return   

in symbolic form,

one day. 

...

Trees' Roots

each tear a story tells
every tree the story knows...

Lean your head against 

a tree to cry

 and know

trees' roots go far down

and take your tears

to all the waters

that carry all the stories

and tell them back again

so as to know

you do not cry alone.

Self Adorned

I was once a rock embedded in stone.

Now, I wear rocks on my fingers

with the help of metal

pounded thin

in the hollow shape of a ring.

This one isn't heavy, that I notice.

It matches the solidity of my bones

the rock does. The metal 

bends and wraps around my finger

now that I've embedded 

a rock within its coil,

polished as a precious stone.

Magician's Robe

is it a cloak, a veil, or a shroud

or simply a likeness

of that which was

drawn before

...