The Magician
The wind is speaking in a low voice through the small spaces between plaster and leaded glass. It's breath forces the thin cotton curtains to expand and bunch with each exhalation. She listens while stirring the contents of her large copper pot, one hip cocked in defiance. The wind is speaking. She taps the wooden spoon against the pot's lip and rests it, unwashed, on the nearby cupboard, tears her apron from her waist and leaves it where it falls. The door is battling against the wind's hard fist. The woman opens the door and the wind grasps her by the hair and flings her into the sky. She grows wings and flies along the rolling railway tracks of a radiatus cloud converging on the horizon.
The Fool
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
Poem Therapy at 2:46 - April 15, 2011
The Things
Donald Hall
When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy—valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.
My favorite things have very little to do with what is considered valuable or of monetary value. I have a pair of jeans, my Barbie jeans, that I wore all through high school, college, and until the second month of my pregnancy. I can't throw them out. I don't want to starve and exercise myself into submission so that they'll fit either. I keep them because they're a relic of my past life.
Although they're not considered things, I love my scars. Some scars are from childhood and have grown longer and larger as I've gotten older. Each scar has a story and one niece in particular loves scar stories. It's interesting to note that if you ask about a scar, and show interest, you'll get to time travel back to how and when, and you'll come away with a great story.
I have favorite rocks that I've picked up here and there. Some rocks are from places I've never visited, but have been brought as gifts. One from Henry VIII's Hampton Court, another from Hadrian's wall. The majority are from oceans I have walked. I like the idea of collecting oceans. I can see a window shelf of beautiful jars filled with water from all the world's oceans.
What are your favorite things?
Donald Hall
When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy—valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.
My favorite things have very little to do with what is considered valuable or of monetary value. I have a pair of jeans, my Barbie jeans, that I wore all through high school, college, and until the second month of my pregnancy. I can't throw them out. I don't want to starve and exercise myself into submission so that they'll fit either. I keep them because they're a relic of my past life.
Although they're not considered things, I love my scars. Some scars are from childhood and have grown longer and larger as I've gotten older. Each scar has a story and one niece in particular loves scar stories. It's interesting to note that if you ask about a scar, and show interest, you'll get to time travel back to how and when, and you'll come away with a great story.
I have favorite rocks that I've picked up here and there. Some rocks are from places I've never visited, but have been brought as gifts. One from Henry VIII's Hampton Court, another from Hadrian's wall. The majority are from oceans I have walked. I like the idea of collecting oceans. I can see a window shelf of beautiful jars filled with water from all the world's oceans.
What are your favorite things?
The Coffee Project - April 11 -14, 2011
April 14, 2011. Bay house - Gulf Coast, Alabama
April 13, 2011. Beach house - Gulf Coast, Alabama.
April 11, 2011. Utah.
Where I Hail From - Antelope Island
Antelope Island is one of my favorite places. I love to look west and see the island and the growing waters of the Great Salt Lake.
The Coffee Project - March 14 - April 10, 2011
April 10, 2011.
April 9, 2011.
April 8, 2011.
April 7, 2011.
April 6, 2011.
April 5, 2011.
April 4, 2011
April 3, 2011.
April 2, 2011.
March 31, 2011.
March 30, 2011.
March 29, 2011.
March 28, 2011.
March 27, 2011.
March 26, 2011.
March 25, 2011.
March 24, 2011.
March 22, 2011.
March 21, 2011.
March 21, 2011.
March 20, 2011.
March 18, 2011.
March 17, 2011.
March 16, 2011.
March 15, 2011.
March 14, 2011.
30 Prose Poems in Thirty Days: One - The Fool
The Fool
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
The sky is littered with the spent shells of small humilis clouds. It is a humble day, despite the boast of the afternoon sun. She is cooling herself under the wide expanse of shade the Russian Olive provides. Her feet are swollen and she has unfastened the leather laces and the top five buttons of her blouse. She is free of those she has left behind: the man and the sleeping child. She has been granted permission to step out of the life given her to stealth through alfalfa and wheat fields and alongside creeks swollen with mountain water. The mountains to the east still hold snow in their creases. She has not slept or eaten in three days. Bird chatter seems to her like a chorus chanted from a Greek tragedy. She remembers the stew and its potatoes and hank of pork she left simmering on the cook stove. The clouds remind her of the smoke symbols she read about in a book on the New World. She tries to decipher their meaning and finds in the bumpy cauliflower shapes a warning from the ghost of her mother.
National Poetry Month - 30 Prose Poems in Thirty Days
It's April, the first day of National Poetry Month, despite it being Fool's Day, or perhaps because it is.
Which made me think: The first card in the tarot is the fool, the last is the world. (off to wiki for quick research). There are 22 major arcana, so that covers twenty-two days. I'll just pick eight other cards at random. (dropping by Barnes & Noble to pick up a tarot pack).
The plan: I will begin this month of writing with the fool, ending with the world.
The back story: I really didn't have much of an idea of what I wanted to write about as to theme until a few minutes ago, this is how my brain works. Get an idea, run with it until the car is out of gasoline, so I'll center my prose poems on the major and minor arcana of the tarot. Yesterday I did research on clouds, so I'll incorporate this into the writing as well.
30 Prose Poems in Thirty Days: Tarot, clouds, and whatever else presents itself.
I'll post and edit and re-edit and repost as I work.
Which made me think: The first card in the tarot is the fool, the last is the world. (off to wiki for quick research). There are 22 major arcana, so that covers twenty-two days. I'll just pick eight other cards at random. (dropping by Barnes & Noble to pick up a tarot pack).
The plan: I will begin this month of writing with the fool, ending with the world.
The back story: I really didn't have much of an idea of what I wanted to write about as to theme until a few minutes ago, this is how my brain works. Get an idea, run with it until the car is out of gasoline, so I'll center my prose poems on the major and minor arcana of the tarot. Yesterday I did research on clouds, so I'll incorporate this into the writing as well.
30 Prose Poems in Thirty Days: Tarot, clouds, and whatever else presents itself.
I'll post and edit and re-edit and repost as I work.
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