Nina, my old friend of 40+ years, and blogmate from methodtwomadness, came into the city with her husband yesterday for a visit and lunch. It’s only the second time we’ve seen each other since the beginning of Covid.
She brought me one of her beautiful paintings. The Oracle knows how much this lifted my spirits. Thanks Nina
time
is what we can always give–
listening with the language
of the heart
happy to be
remembering all the rivers
of song shared
in the between
For POPO 2022 I used postcards with buttons and altered them with text. I sent out the full 31 from my list, plus a few to friends, and received 23 list postcards and 4 from friends. My poems were all in shadorma form, taking clues from the front of the card.
There was a nice assortment of both images and poems. But the best part is making the cards themselves, and each day spontaneously composing a poem for each one, and then putting on the stamp and mailing them.
wandering
through lost synapses
thought journeys
dreamspiral
into narratives that end
open, unsequenced
you sought 1 special story
and after two years of psychic wandering
the boy said: 3 is my lucky number—what’s yours?
You can read more about the Poetry Postcard Fest, which takes place in August of every year, here. I’ve already signed up for 2023, but you have until July to register. I highly recommend it.
The Oracle feels the change of seasons too.
inside the roots
that follow the wandering moon
dusk climbs through treepaths
of night air
as spiritlight flowers dawn
only listen–
between seasons deep secrets
seed the wind
life
and death
structured together, partnered
nothing
to subtract
or to add
rended,
essence floats
beyond secrets–incandescent
A haynaku for Colleen’s #TankaTuesday Ekphrastic prompt, using Britta Benson’s photo, above, as inspiration. I’ve also used words from Jane’s Oracle 2.
I am aged, but still raw, uncooked, unfinished. I steep myself in cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, preparing for winter. But still I fail to render more than a rough uncertain embodiment of what will satiate my continued thirst. For what? With what mural of flavor do I wish to paint the days, the seasons, the years?
I never expected to find the perfect recipe—only to be somewhat clarified. Not cured, but blended into the essences of a Tuscan sunset, infused with the richness of the bouquet of approaching night.
waiting for the moon–
new, it opens the cosmos–
full, it whispers “time”
A haibun for Merril’s dVerse prompt of spices. The grids are from a 100-day project I did in 2015 combining colors and grids. In my final post for the project, I included some quotes from poet Sara C. Harwell. This one seems eerily prescient of what I wrote today.
It looks like a painting by someone I can’t remember. How have I reached the point, is it age?
When the sky resembles a painting more than the sky?
–Sarah C. Harwell, “Cloud Cover”
she constructed herself out of symbols–
wings of air, pearls of fire and water,
darkness flowing through light on
foliage ships sailing empyrean tides—
wings of air, pearls of fire and water,
cast like a talisman amid waves of
foliage ships sailing empyrean tides–
stars swimming through sea and sky
cast like a talisman amid waves of
vast infinite whispers—blooming, listening to
stars swimming through sea and sky–
shapeshifting in cosmic reflection
of vast infinite whispers—blooming, listening to
the chimeric form of quintessence
shapeshifting in cosmic reflection–
the wheel turns through moons, dancing,
a chimeric form of quintessence,
crossing the rainbow bridge of between–
the wheel turns through moons, dancing–
female, fertile, fiercely bathed in blood—
crossing the rainbow bridge of between,
like darkness flowing through light–
female, fertile, fiercely bathed in blood–
she constructed herself out of symbols
Another pantoum, for earthweal where Brendan asks us to consider how we can fit well into the land–how do history and mystery intersect?
My message this morning from the Oracle. I spend a lot of time thinking about the meanings of words.
the language of time
whispers here and there
like a shadow cast by wind
if after could be seen
as clearly as never
but why is like a dream
playing by moonlight
singing on ships of mist
What exactly do we mean when we say the heart is heavy? Is it our jumbled emotions that are enlarged into enormity, too complicated to lift, to bear? How do we understand the shape, the density, of sorrow?
And what about the light heart? How do we measure the change?–a heart that is nearly full enough to overflow—what space does it occupy, what is its texture?
It’s the heavy heart that is hollow. Brimming with emptiness. Weighed down by absence. The light heart grows gardens, wings.
the heart cleaves, wanders,
signifies inverse desires–
spring arrives, snowbound
I’ve accumulated quite a bit of Kick-About artwork that I haven’t given a proper post to. This heart drawing was my response to the drumming of Sandy Nelson. I also wanted to use Jane’s Oracle 2 words for the week, and the combination resulted in the accompanying haibun.
The drumming of Sandy Nelson reminded me of heartbeats which can careen wildly under different circumstances. When I looked online for images of hearts, I was attracted to the somewhat psychedelic MRI images. I wanted to work large, but even with 18 x 24 paper, I was unable to do justice to all the different elements of the heart. I made no layout, but just started drawing in the upper center with my colored pencils, a small section each day. So both the line quality and the proportions changed as I went on. Whole sections were expanded, compressed, and left out. Just like the trajectory of the drumming in my mind.
And just like our perceptions as filtered through our hearts.
K. 