Sunday, August 30, 2015

Fine Art

   Artist in His Studio by Remberant

Don’t you see
it’s the art that matters -
that’s what matters
they say,
not the artist
not the life
not the love
not the heartbreak
not the scars
not the anger
not the joy
not the long hours of boredom
not the sinking nights
not the coffee-infused mornings
not the growing pains
of body, or soul, or life, or death
that generated them
but the mill, the night watch, the philosopher in meditation
or the sunflowers, the irises, the olive trees
or guernica or three musicians or the kiss long as it matches the couch

Sometimes I wonder about how we judge the value of art, and in this picture, provided by Bjorn at The Imaginary Garden, the size of the canvas relative to the aritst is what prompted this particular little musing.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Strung Along

Like a puppet
you have strings 
to another’s tune
until you are
tied down.

For Margaret's "Play it Again, Toads" at IGRT.  I went back to Mama Zen's Words Count.  She asked us to write about a power image (part art, part personal mythology, part creative shorthand part art, part personal mythology, and part creative shorthand...anything that a writer imbues with a greater meaning that it would ordinarily have and adopts it as a signature symbol) in 25 words or less.  I'm not sure this is really a "power image" by her definition, but it is a recurring thing in my writing.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Making Tracks

    Photo by Douglas Sailsbiry

My mind, my heart, my thoughts are racing;
it’s time to leave this land of lacking,
cause now it's clear, what I am facing.
My mind, my heart, my thoughts are racing
all night, awake, I spend it pacing.
With morning light to finish packing
my mind, my heart, my thoughts are racing.
It’s time to leave this land of lacking.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

On Time

I have this skein of time
to knit into a 
life unraveling
faster and
faster each year
each season
each day
tangled at my feet

This if for Karin's challenge to write about some aspect of time, at the Imaginary Garden

Sunday, August 2, 2015


    Image from Tess Kincaid

Do not wake me
from my green dreams.
In them we are blameless
perfect, and the garden is ours.
 The marbled world, blue and new
grows through me
like the pit of a peach
I cling to,
fruit sweet and ripe
and dripping
with juices.
No, do not wake me
from my green dreams.

Here are 55 words (including title) for the toads at the Imaginary Garden about the picture from Magpie Tales.