Thursday, March 31, 2016
Thursday, March 24, 2016
"Do not abandon yourselves to despair. We are the Easter people and hallelujah is our song.”
― Pope John Paul II
― Pope John Paul II
White Azaleas, Southern Snow. :-)
Monday, March 21, 2016
By Georgia Douglas Johnson
Your world is as big as you make it.
I know, for I used to abide
In the narrowest nest in a corner,
My wings pressing close to my side.
But I sighted the distant horizon
Where the skyline encircled the sea
And I throbbed with a burning desire
To travel this immensity.
I battered the cordons around me
And cradled my wings on the breeze,
Then soared to the uttermost reaches
With rapture, with power, with ease!
Read more about this poem and poet on the Poetry Foundation website: http://bit.ly/HltC6k
Sent from The Poetry Foundation POETRY mobile app. Download your copy from AppStore now!
Friday, March 18, 2016
Willow (Blythe doll) yesterday frolicking in my Mint for St. Paddy's Day.
Another fun coloring page. This one was a wooly-bugger to color. :-)
My friend's camp...lots of flooding near us, but so far, we're dry.
(Photo found online...don't know the artist)...
Eating the Dragon's Heart
by Deborah Digges
What god left for me here a dragon's heart. Resembling
In a gold box. The parchment read Fresh kill.
Eat raw or braise in oil.
I lifted it from royal foil onto my best blue willow, blood
of the ages
seeping out across the bluest bridge.
The first bite sap-like tasted of smoke-filled rooms---
women wearing smocks unloading kilns, stone sheets
crushed in bowls, sprinkled with dew
drawn just that morning from high grasses. The second bite,
sour as a lemon
eaten whole, the rind and all, the root
of Queen Anne's lace and goldenrod.
Still through the burning I began to understand what the
crows were saying,
speaking in tongues, their news fraught with
Never they choired, be tempted to suck lifeless sweet buds
hung of seeds.
It is a trap. Nor smear onto this page the juice that stains
your fingers, lest you're condemned to winery again,
lest you fall through the ice of time.
Sunk you my knees in sludge I waded bogs collecting feathers
to be used as quills.
Then swore the pledge, kissing goodbye the last bite of my
Swallowed it whole in my green sequined dress.
Why do we offer you a dragon's heart and not a pomegranate?
To ask, one has no right to call herself a poet.
My yard is full of flowers, bees, dragonflies and Hummingbirds.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Spider Web After Storm
THE SPIDER AND THE GHOST OF THE FLY
By Vachel Lindsay
Once I loved a spider
When I was born a fly,
A velvet-footed spider
With a gown of rainbow-dye.
She ate my wings and gloated.
She bound me with a hair.
She drove me to her parlor
Above her winding stair.
To educate young spiders
She took me all apart.
My ghost came back to haunt her.
I saw her eat my heart.
Monday, March 7, 2016
"A weed is but an unloved flower." ~Emerson (Clover flower).
This Iguana materialized via my "Adult Coloring Book". LOL!
Azaleas are wildly blooming & Bluebirds are building nests.
My pink Azalea Bushes in the front yard.
Dandelion this morning, already blown away...
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
Dandelion flowers and a fallen Tulip petal...
Monday Humor, people. I love the ID Channel about true crime.
A shotgun house I drew. My son-in-law lived here in college.
And yes, I know I'm no artist. Ha! Ha! I color good, though!
An artist I LOVE, Myka Jelina. Check her out on Etsy.com
I just ordered two of her prints. She's very affordable!
This hippie chick link below will be my next month's piece of art if she doesn't sell out.
Friday, March 4, 2016
My sky today.
My sky yesterday. Glorious!
A Heron I colored with metallic gel pens.
My new Tulips.
[AS IF THE MOON COULD HAUL THROUGH YOU]
By Neil Fischer
As if the moon could haul through you
Its tremor of light and stone,
Be cleared of sound. Plough
The mind's noise until it's a shine
In the purl of south-bending river that bears
Itself toward a blacker part of the forest.
If you hum, hum through the motes of air,
Perhaps your nerves will find at last
A tone to which they will succumb.
Be still. Be not so heavy-hearted
For a moment. All is not a tomb,
Blind sarcophagus staring dumb, thwarted
Pleasures nailed inside. These fireflies
Sweep their tracings on the evening.
Weep if you must, but board what falls
Away, abdomens flaring—
The brief, nomadic intervals.