
what happens to us, what we do, and who we are, is effected by where our faith and fear is placed.
. lest .
something old
something new
something borrowed
something blue
rabbit’s foot
chicken bone
lucky penny
small smooth stone
don’t step
on that crack
it will break
your mother’s back
shining a new light . 2
. taken .
broken pieces of green tossed
in large blue ocean waves taken
washed by water and sand
edges made smooth
full and round
land peacefully on shore
to be found shining
light reflecting
~
for one word . broken
shining a new light . 1
shining a new light on doing things that are different
from the things that we usually do.
so, what are some things that you think you would
like to do? whatever it is, take a step.
don’t get your panties in a twist. just do a little
of whatever it is. dip your toes into the water.
to be continued…
~
this is the first installment
of that rewrite i was speaking about
in the previous post, a starting point.
the war of art . a starting point
since i have a problem with the reasoning in this book.
i thought perhaps it would be a good exercise for me to attempt
a kind of mini rewrite in blog style.
it might help in some way for me to do it.
though i don’t want to do it in a way of comparison. because
i don’t plan to talk about the work as it is now, at all. i am only
planning to use it as a starting point.
i would like to see the ideas in a new light, and what happens in
the process.
~
the war of art . by s. pressfield
today, i read to page sixty-eight in this book. all the while
thinking that i could go on and read while disregarding the
parts that don’t sound, to me, like a life of faith in God.
i was beginning to choke on the reasoning that s. pressfield
serves up with the main course of simple advice to just sit down
and do the work.
i’m done with reading this little piece of work.
~
and so it would seem
i had a dream
of red orange sky
where cliffs soared
a mile high burning
with hot hazy air
filling my lungs
i was dying
yet going
somewhere
and so it is sunday…
most people have come down
off of the holiday high, have turned
around to face the new year head on,
and there, sitting quietly in a corner,
are the resolutions,
determined not to leave the party.
there are always a few ornery ones
that just can’t take a hint.
~
The Short List

from week 1
1. first he was . at andrea tachezy
2. starting here, starting now – at transit notes
3. in winter waiting . at faith fiction friends
4. all art friday . writing without paper
5. the nance marie daily . my bit of fun this week
~
soap dish 2
i put together another soap dish.
if you are wondering why i am so into soap dishes
lately, it’s sort of out of necessity.
we were using a lot of soap from plastic
pump bottles, jason lavender is my favorite,
but, i wanted to start using bar soap again at some
of our sinks. and i don’t want to use the usual
dishes that i can buy, or those plastic things.
this one was easy. i didn’t have to make it, i only
put some things together that i already had.
the dish was a gift from a friend a few years back, that
she made, which is pottery.
i was never sure what to use it for, so it was mainly
something that looked nice. (sometimes it would hold
a pair of my earrings)
i took some of my favorite little stones and set them
on the dish as a lift for the soap, so the soap can dry.
instant soap dish!
easy to clean and naturally, i think it’s pretty.
do you like it?
~
petticoat
early 15c., pety coote, lit. “a small coat,” from petty and coat (n.).
Originally a padded coat worn by men under armor,
applied mid-15c. to a garment worn by women and young children.
old zinnia
signed-up
i just signed-up for a one day workshop
in encaustic painting. should be interesting.
saturday the 15th of january.
~
poets writing poetry
rough
cockeyed
slats
knowing i fall short of reality
anothers dream, labor of love
splinters
nails
into strong shelter
Rough and splintered, empty and useless
Is this all there is of me?
and splendor of the past
reveals an opportunity today
batik
and quantum
glassy veil
of wonder
the warmth of living
held in the
pores of her
wooden walls
of light still
reflecting and
illuminating
urging me
to cast my eyes
up beyond
the surface
of my worn
decaying shell
I rest in shadows
uninviting
waiting
someone see me
venture in
unbury my treasures
I am yet standing
still
And touches a smooth forehead
Of someone unseen
My feet disturb ancient dust, sending it swirling
Through the stilted sunbeams shimmering through broken slats,
twirling through my memory the summers on this farm
And forming within the air long forgotten faded faces,
That when I reach dissolve again in dust and past.
Memories sleep
Times long ago
Cattle breath clouds
Grandpa’s mud caked boots
Frosting of ice on an old tin roof
Sweet smells of Fall harvest
Muscles aching, mind content
Missing the farm
Memories don’t rust nor dry rot
Time has it’s way
Hit the hay
leaning
on
another’s arms
hoping
for
more time
raising, once;
horses and cows
snorted and
jostled, once;
Hay was baled and
lifted, once;
I lay on the floor
to fix the oil
leak on the
John Deere, once;
the we regret to
inform you
telegram came to
me there, once;
I lay dying while
they stored my
coffin there, once.
to let through only the pure
light, the oldness and pain strained
away by sieve of wood
still standing
pieces of the past,
days when all was prosperous
and we filled the air with laughter.
Leaning,
Waiting and weathered,
this beaten brown
chicken wired life
This Broken down
Body of
boards
Planks, subject to
The elements’
decay.
But
beautiful
rest.
sun-bleached
beauty
tells story
of
my heart
sated with
life
holding in
memories
laughing in
the wind
hold up
this old skirt
one last
time
and twirl
in grasses
swaying at
my hem
i am
ready
to die
now.
lives unseen
sheltering
still
shedding skin
tunneling
scuffling
fluffing feathers
turning
to sun
and moon
murmuring
softly
burrowing
beneath
each other
and earth,
crumbled leaves,
scattered remains,
remnants
transfigured
another life
sheltering
still
woven together
grass
feather
paper
thread
and fur
tucked
between
mud clinging
heart singing
beneath eaves
helplessly
open mouths
and eyes
not yet
seeing
wait
lean
slope
skew
to the pitch of a truth I tell.
against the wind
I did not quake
nor did I bend
is drawing near
I face it now
seeing no fear.
my boots must contain the life
that passed through their stock.
This space plows my faith
and memory into neat rows
waiting for someone to sow.
splayed
tilted inward
against the eyes that see
mentally
graying aspects
wrestle the air between
to gasp
grasp the senses
now!
oh, the power of wind
once settled in
will scatter
this debris
Jim Schmotzer, Kelly Langner Sauer, Erin, Val, Lorrie, Kathleen Overby, Maureen, Russell Holloway, Nitewrit, Krist Fornshell, Susan, Glynn, Monica, Linda, Bradley, Laura, Melo, A. Jay Adler, Fishing Guy, Marcus Goodyear and nAncY.
i hope you enjoy it.





