Stella! Stella! Stella!

I ~ Stella

The storm becomes her name.
Hey, Stella.
Or should it be Blanche?
Charm is 50% illusion.

I don’t want realism. I want magic!
Haven’t you ever ridden on that streetcar?
that bangs through the Quarter
Why, they told me to take a streetcar named Desire.

 

II ~ Nuances At Midnight

Yesterday a Spring walk.
Waking to a chiseled morning rides a wild mustang.
A dame that knows she’s good looking.
What kind of a queen do you think you are?

The real cork.
Marie Antoinette meets Blanche DuBois.
They eat cake. Where’s Stella?
She’s out there on the porch.

Almost Forsythia

almost forsythia a little rain a little snow

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imagine simmering pots of fragrant words

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cabbage and beans
a garden celebration
of rustic stars

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letting go letting g letting lettin lett let

Lovers and Leftovers

 

So I decided to bake a potato last night – a very infrequent occurrence. When I cut it lengthwise, this brown area stood out – not rot but underdeveloped potato. That was ok, until I leaned in as I was about to smear on the butter and saw the two faces and perfect lips. Thought I was imagining this and once again, while I was doing three other things – I had to run and get my camera. As if that weren’t enough, I also had to compose the photo — hence the fork.

I see faces in all of nature, on tree bark, on stones, in clouds but never before in a potato or an apple or peach – this is a first! And then I realized that today is Valentines Day. I got lucky and pulled a sweetheart potato. (I know I know — as my cousin would suggest — I need “to get a life”). Anyway, the two sides of the potato are lovers for now and after dinner — tomorrow’s leftovers.

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not even a full moon and yet its pull on my heart

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lovers and leftovers — how not to worry about what to write

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Lack of Judgement

The news is changing and charging by the hour let alone day. I wrote this two days ago and while I wrote it – I felt good about it. Not so sure anymore, even though it is still pertinent. This is the first time in five years of blogging about simple thoughts during my January days, that I’ve had a difficult time posting. Alas these are difficult days both politically and personally for many of my friends and family, and it surely colors these blog posts. So with only one more blog post of this sort – I am going to publish this piece. I send it out with the intention that true peace is an inward turned outward process and practice and not the opposite. Namaste: I honor the spirit in you that is also in me.

~

I read an article in The New York Times Magazine by Taffy Brodesser-Aker on Andy Cohen. I don’t know why I read this piece, however there was a gemstone imbedded in the writing that stopped me cold.

“He has a lack of judgement about the way the world works, and therefore doesn’t have the willful ignorance that the rest of us do.”

Wow! It’s the second part of that compound sentence that grabbed me and forced me to think about my own lens, attitude and judgement on current events. “… and therefore doesn’t have the willful ignorance that the rest of us have.”  Let me break that part of the sentence down even further “… willful ignorance…”  That’s a hat and a heartful to someone who believes she is empathetic, sympathetic and sensitive to the core. Am I really? I even recently blogged about walking (or driving) in someone else’s shoes and had a long conversation with two artist friends about our ignorance of those with opposing views and/or plight. But the word willful  never came up alongside ignorance. Think about it – whether we like it or not – there is truth in the concept that we are unwilling or unable at this point – to relate to others if their viewpoint or set of values appears to differ either drastically, or now-a days, somewhat mildly from our own. It’s the black or white mindset on both sides of the proverbial fence. In this case, the white picket fence or black chain-link variety cuts across both progressive and conservative backyards alike.

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not in my backyard fences in black and white

 

A Winter Walk

Winter crept back into town yesterday. There were scattered snowflakes and a whip to the nip in the air. I took a long walk around a deserted park/ballfield that was once the site of a summer camp in the 1940s for folk fleeing the city’s oppressive oven-like heat before air conditioning.

There was one young man practicing with a skateboard and a lone jogger disappearing in the distance. A crow rested on a fence wire, and a Pileated Woodpecker circled a tall pole from bottom to top. Its red crest stood out against the grey sky – a reminder of the start of the Chinese New Year and bright red cockscomb of the Fire Rooster. It also reminded me of Woody Woodpecker as it stopped every so often on its climb to look around and check out the scene.

After gazing skyward, I looked low to sight lichen and moss that trumpet their full glory in winter and stopped to photograph winter’s varied palette and sinewy vines, weeds and wood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Empty benches and pond reflections added a stillness to the scene.

 

 

 

 

 

At the end of my perambulation (Yes – I did look up the definition of perambulate to make sure I was using this long word correctly, and yes it is correct, to my great delight!), I came close to the parking area and its attendant litter which I carried to the trash.

 tossed cigarette pack along my walk wabi-sabi or waste?

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A Day In Between

Today’s new moon is the Imbolc moon. Imbolc is a day in between the solstice and the equinox.

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new moon for want of calla lilies
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dark moon
I slowly adjust
to the new normal

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words that are gone somewhere with the moon

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Rain

I love rain and rainy days. I need the break between too many sunny days ~ yin and yang; light and shadow; feminine and masculine. And I recently realized just how very much I enjoy the start of rain showers. Having worked outside my entire adult life, I was often present when rain moved into my area. What always soothes and never fails to delight me still, is hearing rain before I feel or see it. There is a real pleasure to hear it splatter softly onto treetops and filter down. Even in winter, without any leaves to splash, I heard the rain on an early morning walk, before I felt it. It’s a sweet plushy sound.

I am inclined toward melancholy states of mind which lends a gentle poetic kinship with rainy days, puddles, storms and twilight.

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would Camelot really be as sweet without rain?