Ponder words of the stranger

To elevate

And within a

Thousand years

Many

From the outside world

Would dare

Complete the string

Of nuptials

That qualify to

Be completely forgotten

Hard feelings

Are big and obvious,

Let me lean in to

The soft and sublime

For this lifetime.

11:11

There are lines of time

we feel compelled to follow.

Hoping to string together

Some sage understanding

To this existence of experience.

In the joy and burden of

Our awakening,

Senses ebb and flow through the waves.

Today, I met another stringmaker,

Not your everyday occurrence, then…

I knew today wasn’t your ordinary everyday.

Lately, I’ve considered wearing a watch again,

Something I’ve not done for 15 years or so…

As a charm of sorts to keep the chaos at bay…

Maybe an experiment in order is in order,

Maybe, just for a day.

Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver died yesterday and my day was spent largely in reflection of her impact on my life and my work as an artist. I was first introduced to Oliver’s work at a class with a beloved teacher, which was set on the edges of a tidal river, where we wrote imperfect poetry and built wobbly cairns in the river’s muddy bottom revealed at low tide.

Like almost all who meet an Oliver poem, i was deeply touched by her ability to turn the mundane and ordinary into the sacred and divine. Weaving the temporal world into heavenly everlasting (or at least long lasting) prose.

She accompanied me into dives into the darkest waters not to abandon me to the whims of a binary world but to lift me out, by teaching me to string my own words into a path of wholeness with this natural world. And it was on those ordinary walks that I found myself able to float back up from the depths, with Mary’s and nature’s gentle nudging.

As I pulled books to read her poetry yesterday, a book on Wabi Sabi (for artists and poets) also asked to be seen. I didn’t think much of it but opened it to read the first page, the first lines

Wabi-sabi is a beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.

It is the beauty of things modest and humble.

It is a beauty of things unconventional.

~Leonard Koren

Oliver wrote of the ephemeral in such a sublime way that it conveyed a sacredness that was both untraditional and unconventional. She unapologetically observed and wrote of the beauty of this glorious earth, reminders to heed and take notice of this fleeting world, for it truly is.

Page one

I go through about 3-4 journals a year. There is still something so unique about that first page….

Hope

Anticipation

Apprehension

Possibilities

Courage

Another chance

Blank slate

Freedom

And so much more…

The Poet’s Nest

A humble exterior, this place,

Maybe even….shall we say?

Rough?

.

Cigarette butts

in the dated planter,

A remnant of a city’s

Gas rationing days.

.

Dirty rain water,

a sweet melody,

As it flows

Down the gutter grates.

.

The boom of a sonic stereo

Echoes between

The tires, racing their way

Through the puddly pavement.

A jet takes off

From airplane town,

and I duck in…

…into a room off the

Main thoroughfare,

A gathering of sorts.

.

A guide, scribes, words,

Papers, pens, string.

Reverence for this place,

The place we give birth.

This place we call Earth,

unearthing words

that could save her,

Save us,

To look in and

Find us and

The true spirit that binds us.

.

Because from Lowest to Highest

Like the mushroom to Stardust,

Entwined all together,

She shall carry us farthest.

Dancing the sorrows

There is an emptiness and hollowness which is felt when love is lost. Sometimes this is felt before the physical relationship has ended other times after. A yearning sets in that cannot be contented, where grief has set up home for a while.

Grief is my current housemate, as I sit by the smoldering fire which grief has so kindly kindled. I long for easier days yet I know that I must host my guest with the utmost grace and humbleness, honoring her and the noble work that she is obliged to provide… the work of cold and lonely days and nights… the work of tears and heartache… the work of forgetting and remembering.

Looking back is little comfort, as if holding on to a skeleton of one’s lost lover- gone are the comforts of soft caressing, only left are the sharp edges and hard endings and crying over the sacredness of remaining bones.

This work is Holy work, wholly inscribed in the human destiny… work which hones and strangely, allows for even greater depths of future love~

Honesty

When I was in my twenties I was working on a painting. One day an older friend came over and went to my painting, “well that’s obvious.” … “Huh? Obvious?” I questioned… “Vagina.”…

I hadn’t even seen it. The painting was not literal but a process piece of mixed media- journal slices where I was desperately trying to come to terms with my sexuality and coming out as a lesbian – of course there’s a vagina!!! How did I not see it?! I felt shame and fear, “oh shit, I’m being too obvious…”.

The painting and I went back into the closet and pretended that part never existed… which worked for maybe another few long years. Until cracks began to surface and I could no longer contain this part that was so integral to the work I would need to do in this lifetime.

After a major breakdown breaking through to my truth, I slowly emerged staying tethered to the honesty of my whole self.

I’m still an artist and as I look upon today’s work… big smile….

Yes I see it, clearly, openly, courageously, proudly, gratefully.

Honesty and vagina, 2018

Ephemera

Temporal silky one,

Blessing Mystery

Entangle me

With your guiding whims

While I learn

To swim

A river song,

You Painted for me

In ages and centuries

Of long.

The poetess returns

Remember me

Priestess of my

Sweet, wild and twisted

Strings.