....From The Tree Of...............Seeing Beauty
|
_______________________________________________________ Blue I don't think there's ever been a picture of a house in snow I haven't liked. That hasn't wrenched something deep inside. The blue shadows, black trunks and bordered drifts are right-there-definite and yet there is an other worldliness like dead ones whispering secrets in the shadows. Bluegray hintings of their faces, scary yet beloved. I have a hovel in my heart that's under snowdrifts and inside, a little fire. Words Life is glittery and fast and flesh will cling to things, but things don't cling to flesh and flesh won't last. I paid my penny to the sandman this is what was in the snowglobe that he showed me: silver-plaqued, shaken motes of light that might be vowels snaking consonants, trapped contractions chasing after verbs and in my hand I held a cup I caught them loose inside. I drew the cup up to my lips- put out my tongue so you could see the way they stayed there. All the rest of me was fading, only words like some old Alice cat remained above the soil in my someday. It was fine with me. I know what this obsessiveness is for; don't ask for much, can't ask for more. Swayback Pint There's nothing so straight as the spine of a five year old looking at a world that's full of magic and of monsters. Firm vertebrae to slay whatever need be in the shadows, alert to all the fairies and the beasties with their wonder auras, fauna that can fly on wings a five year old knows how to squint and see. She is chatelaine for every key to courage, questioning each rock before she steps yet toe goes out the heart flies through the eyes and she is headlong. Soft, Deep No ears can hear the silent yearning under blanketing of snow. Where does the singing of the crocus go, those soft 'good morning starshine' songs of Easter soon to come, wrapped up in bulbs too cold to say. Bulbs must yearn- why else unfold in what looks like struggling; where are they hiding, tight-packed, winsome under white hid under brown. We all have bulbs deep down. Somewhere Inside Geisha look of lovely, lashed and soft, how like a moth in fire glow. Luminescent liquid eye, the downcast gaze- amazed am I, how moved to find subservience so tender here against my heart, that part of being female, still resides- the helpmate -bowing bisque madonna, where is she when I am feeling steel? Where does she sleep? Toads There is a charm in toads, if you know how to look. Look at the jeweled back a minute after rain when amber, topaz, gold decorate the armor over toady spine. We are all of us, un-mined beauties waiting for our moments. Out Of Black And Gray Blood on sticks on snow, bleak blooms in underbrush overhung the frozen pond, wild berry waits for beak while bird on a wood sprig sprung. Through slate gray January black and white and chill the still un-solid water runs through pond- the hope, the hold, the will. Boon Calligraphy of sky, the trees so like arteries, branching out like bronchi from the maples. What a gift this calm this soft mauve dawn. Sky the color of dreams in half-sleep waking into lullabye. I am alive- that is sufficient. Sage, Rosemary And Time Thinkin about how all of life is just one long, hard hunger; hollow in the belly, innards wanting more. More love, more food- which is often love itself if prepared with thoughtfulness and color- a sprig of parsley- no not needed, but the plate needs green -just like the extra hug, the holding close, the prayer, the note, the motes of graceful dancing in the caring, the doing something a little more than necessary; one last kiss, one glance, one breath of blessing even on deathbeds pile them high with parsley- with the exhuberance it took to live the life. Never Have That Recipe Again The world turns, I know. The sun sits still and like a coach it watches, whistle hanging somewhere from it, and someday we'll just hear the whistle blow and then we'll stop- and wonder why, after millenia, the game's been called. But all along and almost constantly a short, 'Cher-eeet! Cher-eeet!' pipes out for each of us, and on Friday it called for Richard Harris. How could a man who laughed as though he'd eaten everybody's pie just die like that? How could MacArthur Park been cut at all, except that Harris took it caressed and squeezed each note till you thought that you were being held by him-- and how could Camelot not saved its finest flame from fading out--he is not dead. I think a lady's arm came up, perhaps from a lake of fire or whatever it is she's swallowed in, and took him down to a place where bars of music go on an on and never stop where there is wind to lift that thinning, wizard's hair, and wind to carry the kite tails of his laughter that always floated so easily so high- you had to look up to see them. On To Page 2 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
|