Of cubism,
I am ignorant
yet, I relate
To express
depths of perception
concurrent aspects
Of a multi –
imagined
universe
Or even
to embrace
the possibility
of oneness
in fractured
slices…
I pull apart the pieces
re-create the image
still cannot find the whole.
(Reena’s Exploration challenge this week is cubism, a subject I know nothing about, but it does seem to fit with this self-portrait I’ve been working on. Synchronicity in action.)
The magic is not
in crossing paths
with celebrity
Gaining entry
into inner circles
deconstructing myths
Magic is the moment
when flattery does not sway
when recognition surpasses
the gloss of stargazing
embraces inner substance
evolves into self-acceptance.
(For Eugi’s Causerie Weekly prompt: magic. Art my own.)
Had a weird sort of lexicon
the man who professed
to be my dad –
Clamped in his chokehold
he’d demand words of devotion
Became inured to this dichotomy –
spent a lifetime searching for love –
Just the right balance of cruelty and kind.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Sketch mine.)
Artistic sensibility
hungered by the exquisite
craves expression
The critic guffaws
decries creativity
starves the impulse
Who unleashed
such nonsense,
such magical thinking!
To think beauty
once espied
can be replicated
and by such an amateur
the unskilled hand
an unworthy representative.
But the artist, unleashed
knows only magic –
this genie will not be rebottled.
(Thank you to Reena’s Explorationchallenge, whose prompt line is: The genie is not getting back in the bottle.  Art work my own – self-critiqued and found lacking, thank you.)
Blackbirds utter gloom
speak in murmurations
grey blots out sunlight
blurs definition – pencil
contemplates early nightfall.
(Tanka and sketch by yours truly)
I dream of a woman
Mother-centred
grey-haired essence
oozing strength –
a vessel, rain focused
decoding political lies.
Leaders are locked
targeting anxiety
selective stances
patriarchal bedmates
ending unsafe
Rioters blow up
martyr consciousness
metamorphosis in throngs
chemicals insignificant
when innocence ignored
temples violated.
What is next?
A future gatekeeper
spouting personal freedom
recalling pleas, charming
ghosts of the past?
We need
discernment,
a woman
Mother-centred
grey-hair wise
leading the way.
(I dreamt of a goddess figure, and attempted to capture her in the pencil drawing featured. Working on that dream, many things have emerged. The poem above is just on example.)
Waiting in the wings
absent an audience
what play will unfold
when the next curtain rises –
and who will hold centre stage?
(A tanka for Reena’s Exploration challenge in which she references Shakespeare’s: “All the world’s a stage….”. Image my own.)
Earth plies her paintbrush
under heavy cloud cover
sun perseveres
wind carries a secret tune –
notes of change on horizon.
(Image my own)
Strains of Tijuana Brass flood the yard
while father on bended knee tends
his garden, tiers of stone edged rows
encircling a trio of birch trees.
Father points out birches on Sunday
drives, as if the bark is sacred, leaves
whispering a secret I cannot hear –
stirs in me an indefinable longing.
My husband planted birch trees
there amongst the flower beds –
how the leaves shimmer in sunlight,
how my heart quickens, bittersweet.
Imagine Father seated there, mellow
as he was in old age, angst expended,
tyranny of parenting set aside – understand
love unexpressed dwells in birch trees.
(Watercolour image by yours truly)
Creativity is a beast
hungers for expression
Ego set limitations
mocks imperfection
At best, I parody talent
nefarious my efforts
Still, I must
feed the beast.
(Image from personal collection.)
One Woman's Quest 