Monthly Archives: May 2015

MOVING TOWARD STRANGENESS

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The first time she ate snow
She was forty-nine
Burrs in her heavy dark hair
Dusty as a horse’s hide
But beautiful

She strode out onto the plain
Crushing rock and exoskeletons
Beneath her boots
Her sights set firmly
On the lights in the northern sky

Her wild child curled within her bone cage
—a glowing coal—
Sleeping carelessly
Ready to spring up from the purple cushion
And sway to the beat

She relished the roll
Of whiskey on her tongue
That strut—blowing dust off her pool cue
To the jukebox
Thumbing through a lifetime of songs

When snow blotted out her vision
She ate her way through the blizzard
One faceted flake at a time
Drawing sustenance
For the journey

She picked her way along the seashore
Weighing her pockets with
Salt-encrusted stones
Footprints erased by the galloping tide
She knew the way home

Pressed her fingers to the glass
Feeling the sharpness of cold rain
The wind called at each corner
Of that solitary house
Wearing them smooth

The sweet curve of the bay
Cradled her gaze
Buoying up the storm clouds
And those sunsets to die for
Strut and retreat.

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THE SOUND OF STONE

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The man stands pondering
His next move

Turning the dull clunker
Over and over in his hands

Feeling for the bone of it
The marrow at its core

Over and over in his hands
He turns the stone

Listening for the dry chalky sound
Of rough against rough

He holds an eon of coiled energy
Latent In his hands, over and over

His feet draw up
The potent heat of the day from the rocks

Words form in his mouth—
Manipulation, transformation, reverence

Small pebbles of evidence
Are sculpted by his hands, over and over.
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Recently I had the privilege of watching Scott Woolsey, an artist who lives in New York’s Catskill region,  build a stone cairn on the banks of the Neversink River.

Tuesday, April 21st, 1.45 pm

DSCF3115Color has thrust itself on the landscape
In quick short jabs—hyacinth blue, daffodil yellow, robin red
If I had a net I could reel in the clouds like a flock of white doves
The mantra begins—mint oregano raspberry sage

Sitting amongst dandelions
I dream of wine, mellow and ripe
The sweetness of honey on my tongue
And an orange tree grown from seed.

I feel the upward thrust through the soles of my feet
First rhubarb nubbins pushing out of the dirt
First purple violets in the lawn
First handsome dandelion by the garden door.

The old cat knows it
She’s been prancing up the black walnut like a skittish kitten
Squirming luxuriously in the new grass
Rubbing her chin against some smell that I can’t even get a whiff of.

The calm air is painted with birdsong
Sun dries the ink on the page
The tug of war between Sun and Moon
Pulls the slow earth from winter to spring.

 

SPRING BREEZE

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A wind came in the window.
Like a small feral creature,
It took a turn around the room,
Tossing birthday cards upon the floor,
Chasing stale air out of corners,
Whisking dust bunnies off the stairs.
In its wake it left an invisible trail
Of greenery and fresh earth,
Buffeting me from my lethargy.
How could I not step outside and join
Such a boisterous playmate?