approaching greyscale
this blurred journey
slips
down streets
not only nameless but
soundless, dislocated
all the rhythms are abbreviated–
throbbing, stagnating
in a silent cinematic slow motion–
a composite of fragments
neither awake nor asleep–
a perpetual absence
of who
what when where
why
For dVerse, where Linda has given us the quadrille word of slip, and earthweal, where Brendan asks, “What comes next?”
four leaf clover–
the greening magic
of earthsong
time
now flies
on different wings
June always reminds me of my childhood summers, spent almost entirely outdoors. Looking for 4-leaf clovers was one recurring activity.
always
new places
calling me home
lives
need opening
room to breathe
silent no more, in
the streets, witnesses we are
citizens, we are
citizens, we ask
for truth, justice, a way: the
way that was promised
that was promised in
all those lofty words: where is
the living of them?
the living has become
the dying, dying, fathers
mothers daughters sons
we are
I looked back at my post from December 2016 and realized, like my repeated reblogs of earlier words and images after each new mass shooting, there is little new to add to these images and words.
Our world, our country, our communities, are caught in a tape loop of unaddressed violence, injustice, unkept promises, fear, abandonment, poverty, chaos, greed, and despair. We need a lot more than thoughts, prayers, and tweets from our leaders to build a better world.
For Colleen’s #tanka tuesday, using a quote supplied by Merril Smith, below, as inspiration.
“How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.”― William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
I’ve been in a creative funk the past few days, so I consulted the Oracle for some help with my shadorma sequence. And once again, I’m recycling some old art.
what lingers
within the workings
of a life
time dancing
home by remembering the
rhythms of the stars
roots seeding
trees that grow between
deep earthlight
beholding
to the cycles stitched full through
what shines from the heart
Imagine a window
in a wall that is constructed
of fear and superstition
Imagine an open window–
it does not exist because
no one has built a wall for it
Imagine flowers–
bloomings that subsist only
in the invisible world of the window
Imagine wings
growing in the unseen air,
releasing the imprisoned breath
Imagine a window,
a portal to what isn’t there–
a borderless unceilinged sky
Laura at dVerse asks us to make some room. And Sherry at earthweal asks us to consider all that is wrong with the world and how we can make things right. As John Lennon knew, our ability to change is often just a failure of our imagination.
I thought the birdlings were appropriate to these words. And the window is an old collage based on the work of Miriam Schapiro, who knew a thing or two about both portals and collage.
our cells are
one with water air
flower tree
For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above. Hard not to think of Monet.
One of the beauties of his water lily paintings is how they draw you in, to a space that is timeless and endless. Like we belong there.
Broadway is dark now, vacant. The only lights to be seen shine out of hastily abandoned office windows, or from traffic lights that change for invisible crowds.
Makeshift stages shrink to fit into screens, the audience now virtual. Dreams stand still, waiting between hope and grief.
dancing voices pause–
forever on the verge of
opening to spring
Billy Joel wrote this song in 1976, inspired by the NY Daily News Headline “Ford to City: Drop Dead”. And in 2020 we have a parallel line: “Trump to New York: Drop Dead”.
But we’ll be back.
For dVerse Haibun Monday, hosted by Kim. We’re thinking about Mondrian’s ‘Broadway Boogie Woogie‘.
