March, Winter’s Death Mask by Marion

Winter Snow, 2015

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March, Winter’s Death Mask

By Marion Lawless

The spindly, naked trees are gently swaying—

one warm day, a row of tiny

leaves appear, marching up the branches,

specks of green from dead-looking, dry limbs,

like baby grasshoppers walking slowly in file.

Cold returns for a bleak few weeks,

knocking on the doors and windows, trees bowing in respect,

the jade leaves clinging as if glued to each branch.

Cold rain beating the new emerald-hued grass

sheets of ice, clear, like bits of tiny broken glass

fighting to stay much longer, in spite of time passing,

the sunshine gently molding mud, 

an annual mystical task...preparing

Winter’s death mask.

3/11/19

A Blessing by Denise Levertov

A Blessing

By Denise Levertov

'Your river is in full flood,' she said,

'Work on---use these weeks well!'

She was leaving, with springy step, a woman

herself renewed, her life risen

up from the root of despair she'd

bent low to touch,

risen empowered. Her work now

could embrace more; she imagined anew

the man's totem tree and its taproot,

the woman's chosen lichen, patiently

composting rock, another's

needful swamp, the tribal migrations---

swaying skeins rotating their leaders,

pace unflagging---and the need

of each threatened thing

to be. She had met

with the council

of all beings.

'You give me

my life,' she said to the just-written poems,

long-legged foals surprised to be standing.

The poet waving farewell

is not so sure of the river.

Is it indeed

strong-flowing, generous? Was there largesse

for alluvial, black, seed-hungry fields?

Or had a flash-flood

swept down these tokens

to be plucked ashore, rescued

only to watch the waters recede

from stones of an arid variety?

But the traveler's words

are leaven. They work in the poet.

The river swiftly

goes on braiding its heavy tresses,

brown and flashing,

as far as the eye can see.

From: "Breathing the Water" by Denise Levertov, pages 6 - 7

"Children and lunatics cut the Gordian knot which the poet spends his life patiently trying to untie." ~Jean Cocteau

"Poets are like magicians, searching for magical phrases to pull rabbits out of people's souls." ~Glade Byron Addams

Carpe noctem

Carpe noctem

To those anonymous cowards leaving crude, nasty comments:  I screen my comments so no one is reading your vile, racist, socialist, anti-conservative vomit, but me.  Please stop. Get a life.  I will never mention y’all again.  

Clear Night by Charles Wright

A beautiful painting by my 14 year old artist/granddaughter, Mary Mace. 

CLEAR NIGHT

By Charles Wright

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky. 

Moon-fingers lay down their same routine 

On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys. 

Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls. 

I want to be bruised by God. 

I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out. 

I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.   

I want to be entered and picked clean. 

And the wind says “What?” to me. 

And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me. 

And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.   

And the gears notch and the engines wheel.

Charles Wright, “Clear Night” from Country Music: Selected Early Poems. 

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“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.” 
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Perfect Song by Ed Sheeran

Perfect by Ed Sheeran

I found a love for me
Darling just dive right in
And follow my lead
Well I found a girl beautiful and sweet 
I never knew you were the someone waiting for me
'Cause we were just kids when we fell in love

Not knowing what it was
I will not give you up this time
But darling, just kiss me slow, your heart is all I own
And in your eyes you're holding mine

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark with you between my arms
Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song
When you said you looked a mess, I whispered underneath my breath
But you heard it, darling, you look perfect tonight

Well I found a woman, stronger than anyone I know
She shares my dreams, I hope that someday I'll share her home
I found a love, to carry more than just my secrets
To carry love, to carry children of our own
We are still kids, but we're so in love
Fighting against all odds
I know we'll be alright this time
Darling, just hold my hand
Be my girl, I'll be your man
I see my future in your eyes

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark, with you between my arms
Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song
When I saw you in that dress, looking so beautiful
I don't deserve this, darling, you look perfect tonight

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark, with you between my arms
Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song
I have faith in what I see
Now I know I have met an angel in person
And she looks perfect
I don't deserve this
You look perfect tonight

Songwriters: Edward Christopher Sheeran

A Few Girls from My Blythe Doll Collection...

Tee, Elle (Eleven) & Sunny.  Elle was inspired by “Stranger Things”.

New girl (custom Blythe) on the block, “Moon” from Prague, Czechoslovakia!

Bunch of cool hippie chicks.  I get the outfits from Etsy shops.

P. J. and Little...rockers.  Alice behind her...

"Well I don't know what I've been told
You never slow down, you never grow old..." ~ Tom Petty

Layla & Zooey

.

Sweet Violet & her Unicorn

×∆×∆×∆×∆×

"Good to know we're all twelve years old mentally. Keeps things in perspective. " ~Alexander William Gaskarth

Making America Great Again!!!!

All Along the Watchtower

There must be some kind of way outta here
Said the joker to the thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief

Business men, they drink my wine
Plowman dig my earth
None were level on the mind
Nobody up at his word
Hey, hey

No reason to get excited
The thief he kindly spoke
There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke
But, uh, but you and I, we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us stop talkin' falsely now
The hour's getting late, hey

All along the watchtower
Princes kept the view
While all the women came and went
Barefoot servants, too
Outside in the cold distance 
A wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching
And the wind began to howl

Songwriters: Bob Dylan

Like Kerosene by Olena Kalytiak Davis

“The OA” on Netflix is my newest obsession.  I love Brit Marling like kerosene.  She’s a writer/actor who can create something beautiful & new, that never before existed.  The dance...my God, the dance of healing in this show just fucking blows me away...Imagine this:  original thoughts out of Hollywood! I highly recommend this show.  It’s for those who know how to imagine and think.  I’ve watched the series 3 times & still don’t know what the fuck is truly happening...I love it!!!! xo

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Like Kerosene
By Olena Kalytiak Davis


Yes, it’s daily
that we move into each other—but this morning
I was separate even from myself—
my hands were shovels, I had mosquito netting for hair,
and the insect beating against the night
was my heart. My name was hallow
and the sky was made of shale when


I walked into a part of morning
I’ve never seen: the sky still heavy, still
smoldering with the nightmares of others,
the drunkenness and sorrow rising like dew, like fog,
like smoke back into the clouds. Suddenly,
my face was wet with it. I wanted to lie down
with it. To rest against the almost exhausted night.


Uncertain of what to do there
I started dividing the layers, the sediment,
thinking: Usually I sleep through his sadness.


And the morning asking: Why do you keep track
of the middle of the day when you should be
waxing the moon? How can these young fragile branches
be left out in the darkness, and who set that darkness
wandering inside your heart? Who can your love ignite,
like this, like kerosene?


And then the sky lit the morning.
And then I went in to set my own house on fire.
And then I lay down next to you:
a body filling with feathers or with snow
asking: and who are you that my love can light
like this, like kerosene.


University of Wisconsin Press (November 1997)

In Blackwater Woods...More Mary Oliver

Yellow godlight from a neighborhood tree... This is for you... ;-)

In Blackwater Woods By Mary Oliver, from "American Primitive" Look, the trees

are turning

their own bodies

into pillars

of light,

are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment,

the long tapers

of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders

of the ponds,

and every pond,

no matter what its

name is, is

nameless now.

Every year

everything

I have ever learned

in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side

is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it

go,

to let it go. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

RIP, Sweet Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver died January 17, 2019.  Rest In Peace, beautiful poet.

Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End? 
By Mary Oliver

There are things you can’t reach. But
you can reach out to them, and all day long.

The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God.

And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.

The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily,
out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing
from the unreachable top of the tree.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around
as though with your arms open.

And thinking: maybe something will come, some
shining coil of wind,
or a few leaves from any old tree–
they are all in this too.

And now I will tell you the truth.
Everything in the world
comes.

At least, closer.

And, cordially.

Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake.
Like goldfinches, little dolls of goldfluttering around the corner of the sky

of God, the blue air.