Thursday, April 28, 2011

On being an artist

On Being an Artist

The rose window fractured
by a fierce wind
shards on the grass
till he came along
collected the fragments
crafted a kaleidoscope

Fractured
by the tornado of life
for two years I lay on the rug
my thoughts scattered
Now I must turn my mind around
create beauty from the ruins

photo by Willow. For more magpie tales using this photo as a prompt click here.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Rising

Rising

A pot of tea brews
on the table
a bunch of violets in a glass
the smell of grilled bacon tints the air.
Together we watch the chickadees feed
the hawk circle.
Your lips taste of Earl Grey, mine of mint.
Your hands burn through the silk of my kimono.
A beautiful day in the neighborhood
the weatherman murmurs
and we smile.

And I recall when it wasn't so
when rising was solitary and faint
like the morning moon
and the cottage shook and chattered
with a cold, cruel wind.

Listen to me read if you wish.

video

Bridges


Bridges

A prim hobo she boarded the train with a ticket
wearing an orange and black California skirt,
her knees still raw from the playground.

An Oakland bus carried her over the bridge. She lost
her hairdryer but soon her hair was long
frizzy with the wet air; it didn't matter.

To the haunting chime of the trolley,
she rented a tiny apartment on Nob Hill. Standing on the window ledge
she gazed over the rooftops, watched the boats in the harbor
while down in the courtyard the wild cats came to feed.

Her legs ached from walking the steep hills past
mysterious houses behind tall fences, past
the bay, the basking seals. The Sutro baths echoed. The
seed pods strung around her neck clicked.

Everything was free: the food, the clinic, love. The Mime Troupe played
for free in the city parks, park benches became beds.
In a piano bar Little Richard played for free
and a ten dollar drink.

In Sausalito she ate newspaper wrapped fish and chips
bought Capezios and hitchhiked back
across the fog bound arch with an elderly lady in a
maroon Desoto.

Now elderly herself, she sits on a ragged porch
in Vermont and sucks on her artificial teeth,
watches her tame cat stalk the spring robins in the
muddy field while the early morning
fog lifts in its own good time.