bending light

bare branches
so still
they turn to stone

and skip across
the water

form and function

The NaPoWriMo prompt for Day 18 is to “write a poem based on the title of one of the chpaters from Susan G. Wooldridge’s Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Word“. I chose “bending light”.

the great beyond

I consulted the Oracle this morning while thinking about Colleen’s #TankaTuesday theme chosen by Merril, immortality. I was surprised when I went to post it how it follows the Oracle’s message from last week–beyond to the great beyond. Although I am consumed, one might even say overwhelmed, by my moving tasks, as long as my computer is still assembled I will continue speaking with the Oracle on Saturdays.

black as death
we say—but what lies
like wind like
skyshadow singing through blue
lightdreams and still seas?

the rhythm dancing
dazzled with
embrace the open window–
vast secrets flying


tides entombed in unchanging light,
reflecting the absent sky,
shimmering with intangibles–
an ancient web woven with stories–

the stilled sea contemplates its origins–
heavy with the cadences of gravity
boundaried by the afterlife–
tides entombed in unchanging light–

surrounded and asunder, astonishment
becomes tinged with enigmatic clarity–
holding particles of stars as if enshrined,
reflecting the absent sky–

the fulcrum rests inside the echo
of what endures, arising
from an aqueous womb
shimmering with intangibles–

the circle continues, horizonless,
quivering in confluence–
who can refuse the voices of the sea?–
an ancient web woven with stories–

I’ve been futzing around with this all week, inspired by the Kick-About prompt, Eugen von Ransonnet-Villez, and the earthweal challenge natural forces. The painting above, my first attempt, probably has 20 painted layers. Watercolor looks very different wet, and each time it dried I was dissatisfied with the result.

Eugen von Ransonnet-Villez was an Austrian artist who designed a diving bell, below, so he could paint the landscape that existed under the sea. This was in the 1860s–both crazy and fantastic. His paintings have an eerie green magic, which was what I was trying to capture.

Eugen Ransonnet-Villez

Because what is the sea but the most elemental of magic?

Like Ransonnet-Villez, I wished to immerse myself inside of it. Being at the moment concrete-bound, I could only try to conjure it with words and paint.


This is not my grandmother’s
bathroom with the huge tub,
large enough to hold several grandchildren–
a porcelain ship with feet–

the bathroom with its huge tub
where I would stare at the angel on the wall
from inside a porcelain ship with feet,
hoping to grow wings.

I would stare at the angel on the wall,
thinking about my mother–
hoping to grow wings
in my hiding place, alone.

I’m thinking about my mother’s
bathroom, where I would sit
in my hiding place alone,
by myself–watching Cupid’s face

on the bathroom wall, where I would retreat,
away from my parents and brothers,
by myself, watching Cupid’s face
until they pounded on the door.

I hid away from my parents and brothers
and then I hid away from my children
(until they pounded on the door)–
and now I have my very own bathroom,

away from my children–
still my arms remain large enough to hold them.
I have my very own bathroom now–
but I always remember my grandmother’s.

Mish at dVerse asked us to write a poem about a meaningful object starting with “This is not a __”. I changed the “a” to “my”, and wrote a sort-of pantoum.

I don’t have much from my grandmother, but this photo traveled from her bathroom, to my mother’s, to mine.

the magic of mirrors…


The year feels shattered–
a frozen folly
disintegrated into pieces without
ever beginning.

It pulls me apart
when I try to hang on–
not exactly dying, although
death lingers in the spaces between—

endless hurricanes
spinning out lightning
starting fires everywhere–
a frenzied weariness,

soaked to the bones
with endings that refuse
to complete themselves, but linger
on and on and on and on…

Who has hidden the seeds?
who has broken the wheel,
drawn fault lines in the seasons?
Return seems distant, only a dream,

a feeling, a fleeting image
of blues and greens–
light and new birth,
the shimmering moon reflected in the sea.

For the dVerse prompt of folly, suggested by Jade Li.

Once again, art from the archives. And that song has been playing in my brain.

intersections 2

birdlings in space s

The Oracle’s enigmatic message this morning had me looking through my archive of birdlings art. This one fit the bill.

slow she sails like stars,
kissing awake
the broken heart,

healing the holes of decay
that devour time–

fools are born
with the universe–
surrounded by the rhythm
of dazzled skies


trump compt

Pop goes the weasel
goes the world out
the world reeking of
weasel out of it

I missed the window for the dVerse Pop Art prompt from Victoria last week, but I had an idea for it and I wanted to follow through.  I also wanted to try a Lewis Carroll Square Poem, which I saw on Paul’s Poetry Playground recently.  My attempt is far from perfect, but it’s a start, and the fact that it doesn’t completely make sense seems appropriate.

I don’t agree with the designation for the most of the artists Victoria found that were listed as pop artists (Kurt Schwitters?  Jasper Johns? Rauschenberg? has the person who made that list looked at their art?) but Andy Warhol certainly falls into that category.  My digital art, above, is inspired by his work.  I used to dismiss him, but his art is wider and deeper than just the soup cans or iconic repeated images.  And all his imitators prove that it’s harder to do than it looks.

He did not have Photoshop either.




flow_wet s

flow magnetic

I was late to the Oracle this week, but her words seemed appropriate for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt above.  There was half of a luminous moon in the sky last night.

flow_wet close up s

how the moon longs for
each wandering season
to make life’s deep path
through ancient cycles of song–
walking with earth–
orbiting distant stars

The moon keeps her proper place in the circles of the universe.  Hopefully humans will return to theirs.

days end

days end s

tree branches
brush the sky–brooms of
green and gold
sweeping the
cloud dust out of reach—billows
following the wind

 in westward
waves that transcribe the
ruddy hues
left behind
by the last traces of sun–
the shadows deepen

 into shapes
that mingle, become
lost in each
remnants of the day yielding
to sudden darkness

days end close up s

Frank at dVerse asked us to write poems with descriptive detail, that “motivates the reader to remember the poem and read it again.”  This made me realize how little I use descriptive detail as a poetic device.

days end landscape s

I’m not even sure what I wrote really qualifies, but it’s closer than most of my work.  And I also realized this kind of poetry is very hard to illustrate, at least the way I illustrate my poems.  I dug into my archives and combined a watercolor and some monoprints I did a few years ago to try to get the same feeling.  You can see the components above and below.

days end mandala s

days end rice paper s