Click on photos to enlarge.
The next-to-last photo is of a squirrel tail draped over the side of the marble bird feeder I had emptied of water and put bird seed in. No matter what I did, the birds were not attracted, so I made it into a fountain which didn’t work so well due to the fact that the water evaporated so quickly I had to fill it twice a day. It is now a planter for a fern, as you can see!
Thinking Cap
What transpires in a brain in just a single minute
would astound us if we listed everything that’s in it.
What miracle surpasses it? Its creative motion
distills possibility from every single notion.
Our thoughts spiral outward into the universe.
From the wheel to a moon landing, back to a Gucci purse.
From minute to universal, from profound to superficial,
from a child’s imaginings to great schemes more official,
The very thought that thought exists chills me to the bone.
Of all nature’s created, the human brain alone
is a miracle most magical. In fact and art and myth it
defines every one of us by what we may do with it.
Prompt words today are notion, spiral, surpass, transpire and minute.
The Ragtag prompt today is “Like a Circle in a Spiral.” I think that one requires its own post—this time a photo post. I bought this round spiral tile at an antique store nineteen years ago and had it installed over the door of my studio when I had it built a few years later. It is the reverse of the prompt, actually—a spiral in a circle. It has always reminded me of the Pueblo symbol that played a central part in one of my favorite books, The Man Who Killed the Deer by Frank Waters. “A circle enclosing a dot” which was the symbol for man’s place within the tribe and the tribe’s place within nature. Those similar symbols—a spiral and a circle surrounding a dot show up elsewhere in the decorations of my house. In a poem written by Isidro in response to a piece of mine entitled “In Mexico there is always music,” in the symbols painted on the Purapetchan bowl and in the mural painted by Isidro eighteen years ago, as well as a poem painted on the wall outside the entrance to my bedroom. Some of those symbols remind me of an illustration I saw years ago of droplets exactly like some of these images falling as a spiritual blessing from the skies. I always thought they were labelled as “yod” which is a letter of the Hebrew alphabet, but I can find no mention of yod having this significance, although the letter is similarly shaped. At any rate, I love these shapes that seem to show up time and again in different cultures and religions and how often they signify the same thing–spirituality, man’s place in nature, the cycle of nature, life.
Click on photos to enlarge.
The hummingbirds love these blooms once they open up.
For Cee’s FOTD
Floral Retribution
I slink into the plant place and snag a tub of roses—
the kind that is an irritant to weepy eyes and noses.
I could have sent her chocolates, could have brought her fruit,
magazines or houseplants or other sick-room loot;
but she’s such a social-climber, such a diamond Deb
that she won’t even socialize with old friends on the Web.
She has her chi-chi social circle—stylish, rich and arty,
so cannot bother to attend her best friend’s birthday party.
Yet when she breaks her leg and is in need of a diversion,
her new friends stay away as though they have a mass aversion
to hospitals and folks who do not share complete perfection.
In short, her newest “besties” stage the ultimate defection.
And thus it is her old friends that she calls to cheer her day,
forgetting that she is the one who threw us all away.
So when I come into her room and hear her cough and wheeze,
I’ll just withdraw with card and gift and my apologies.
She needs no further problems added to her maladies.
It’s been so long that I forgot about her allergies!
Prompt Words for today are snag, tub, rose, slink and fruit.
Fog
What draws me to the cabin that beckons through the wood?
I’d take the rail-straight pathway if I only could,
but I have no legs to walk that sidewalk in.
Nor can I see the night around it, black as deepest sin.
I only feel that darkness, for I have no eyes.
I cannot see the pine woods or things in any guise.
I cannot smell the fog that lifts from forest floor.
I cannot see the shaft of light that leads me to its door.
I cannot feel the cushion of bracken or of pine,
for all of these sensations are no longer mine.
The scene they build in memory may not be as it seems,
for what I am remembering may be the stuff of dreams.
My Room
Papers on the desktop, laptops on the bed,
sticky notes for everything I can’t store in my head:
birthdays of my family, phone numbers of friends–
all the things I need to buy, the listing never ends.
Shoes up on my night table because my new dog chews
everything that he can reach; but, especially, shoes!
Two alarm clocks, one for me for when I must get up,
the other for the medicine I must give the pup.
Stacks of books and manuscripts finished and unfinished,
and an empty Kleenex box I know should be replenished.
Flashlights, lanterns, batteries–for when the power goes out.
In the rainy season, it will happen—have no doubt.
Closets crammed from wall-to-wall with sizes twelve to grander,
I’d probably have a lot to wear if I could get a gander
at what’s inside but I’m afraid it won’t be happening soon;
for thoughts of organizing it make me want to swoon!
Many pictures on the wall and bookshelves full of books,
sculptures on the mantel, in crannies and in nooks.
There’ll be a new addition in about a minute,
for my room is not completed until I am in it!
For the dVerse Poets prompt: Rooms.
One of my favorite bloggers and my current favorite of his blogs. He’s a bit irreverent and crude but his word-worthiness excuses a bit of both.
Oh my god:
I guess this was bound to happen now that Trump’s been elected. Still, I thought it would be catch-and-release. At least at first.
You know what bothers me more than anything about this story in our local paper? Our town is allowing us to hunt womeninside the refuge. The whole point of that refuge was to give women a space where they could roam free without fear of predation. We voted on it, people!
Additionally, I happen to know that many of these women were raised in captivity. They have no natural fear of hunters, having been hand fed and cared for by humans almost since birth. Where’s the sport in that? This is the very definition of “canned hunting”, and I for one am not looking forward to shortly seeing Dick Cheny come strolling past my house with a loaded 12-guage on his shoulder.
Which…
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This is the other new hibiscus I bought a few days ago, but must admit I bought one yesterday as well. My vivero has started raising some new varieties and putting them out on the street when their flowers are at their height and who can resist? Not me.
For Cee’s FOTD.
