visual
10 Replies
Monthly Archives: May 2012
13
ashes to ashes dust to dust glass sand ocean rust heart to heart gather stone cheek to cheek blood and bone tie a ribbon hoe mend back to back end to end touch my heart feel my soul make me new growing old fall in love then fall out make amends turn about bend my ear twist my arm make Love do no harm
12
.
.
.
the train he sat on the train moving between cities that all looked the same next to him was a man in spectacles with a five o’clock shadow appearing long in the setting sun reading a plotting poison pen letter as they passed over the miles of neatly trimmed hedges and buttoned-down backyards lined with the well tended rose and he wondered how long it would take to reach the farm and if elizabeth was a good name for a cow . . . . . . my poem for may play, at tspoetry . . . . . . .11
.
.
.
.
.
sweeping arch
half-moon curve
bending
curling
surrender
.
.
.
.
.
revelation
.
.
Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal,flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city, and his servants will serve him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever. . . . . . . .
10
photo: letter . by haojan
.
.
.
.
i saw the figure
in a rose coloured gown
rocking
on the porch at dawn
buried in a hard bound book
back bent
as if the words were to heavy
.
.
.
.
.
.
9
8
.
.
our souls so delicate and yet everything we are . . . .7
6
blue
.
.
walking on the blue side of night wanting to slice the sky open and taste the creamy filling.
.
.
new studio
.
An idea came to me. How about a studio on wheels? Watercolour, acrylic, coloured pencils…here we go. Yesterday, i went around in the traveling studio, and thought it was pretty cool to be able to work near the library and the post office for awhile. Who knows where the studio will be next. Maybe a park, along a country road, in another state… . .
.
The above photo was taken behind coffee cottage in down-town
newberg, looking south. You are looking at a car repair shop
and car lights going by.
.
the Gift
.
.
God has given me Love through the Son it is God God continues to give me Love it is gift it is free no money can buy and i can not sell God’s Love, not mine not what i love not what i’m in-love with not what i can make not even what i can give God fills me with this thing that is what God is this force that is God not what the world thinks of as love i go to God and He fills my heart and out of my heart He flows He is like the wind that i can not see i can only see what He, His Love, moves . . .story
.
.
.
We are born and immediately we communicate.
All throughout time people continue to think of new ways to do this.
Most people learn to speak sounds that their parents use, and then
learn to write characters that have been made to represent the sounds.
ways of
touching
creating thought
making a connection
At some point we made poetry…
I notice that small children love story that has rhythm.
Some of the earliest poetry is believed to have been orally recited or sung.
You probably wonder why i’m bothering to write about being born
and living and communication and poetry. Well, it’s just this. I am going
to tell you a story. This story was told to me by my sister.
Now, my sister is sixty-one years old. And, no, she does not write poetry.
See, her husband left her, and her three sons married and moved away,
and my parents, who lived near-by, on the same land, died within two
months of each other. All this happing in a fairly short amount of time.
My sister was in her fifties at the time.
She still lives on the farm, which is in a very rural area of Wyoming. She
found employment in three places. One job is cleaning offices two times
a week in a town to the north. And two other jobs; one job is overnight care
for those that reside at a 24-bed care center for the elderly, and the other job is
an assistant cook position at a head start center, both of these jobs are in a
town to the east of the farm.
That is part of her story. Which brings us to another story. There is a
woman that lives in the care center who was born in November of 1920.
That makes her 91 years old. And she has recently taken to writing
poetry for the first time in her life. Her name is Helen.
Recently a fire alarm went off in the middle of the night at the care
center. Meaning that my sister had to get everyone up and out of
the building. It wasn’t a fire drill, but, she also could not see any evidence
of fire. But she did what she was supposed to do, and got them all out.
As she went to get Helen, she found that Helen was actually in her bathroom.
My sister, in the process of getting Helen up and out, told Helen that this
experience would be good for a poem.
And so, for my sister, Helen wrote one…and here it is.
.
.
.
A Fire Drill
.
.
.
A fire alarm I didn’t hear
As I was sitting on the pot
A staff member rushed in
And ordered me to stop.
A difficult thing to do
My job I hadn’t finished.
I wish I had been through
My discomfort would have been diminished.
Caught with my pants down
Oh, what a trial
I could only frown
As she turned away to smile.
Luckily i wasn’t in the shower
Completely in the nude
That would have become
A very strange interlude!
She hurried me along
Quickly I was outside
With a deep breath I took
My embarrassment I did hide.
The fire drill was a success
Practices we must heed
In case of a fire
Prepared we will be!
.
.
.
.
up
A LITTLE SOMETHIN' 