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gaiamouse

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writing

Protection

Holding babies,
Making art,
Singing loudly
In the rain.

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full moon recall

dream
salt sea foam
clams scurry
dig themselves
into sand
as the waves recede
we are young
i wrap
burgundy and cobalt
gauze scarf
about my torso
my nipples show
i reach out
to touch
your silken sandy curls
as cigarette smoke
sinuously rises
your voice rumbles
weakens my knees

Laundry

Horizon eats sun,
bursting tangerine.
Bold azure,
golden sky,
I pick up the laundry.
Night steals in,
blueberry cloud patches
brushes cornflower dome sky.
Laundry bag slung over shoulder
I gaze
above the knoll of weapons.
Pale rotund moon
strangled gently
by
silver
spider
strands.

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Transition: July 25, 2016

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Dark night,

sea seeps into sky.

I make footprints,

sand soft against my soles,

soft against my soul,

dipping my feet

at the ocean’s edge.

 

First light fills the sea.

Sable brushes

against sky.

Ebony ripples

topped

by pale whitecaps.

 

Still,

the sea is monotonously calm.

One small wave

lands at my feet.

 

Clouds fall into horizon.

Sky grows lavender

and pale azure,

flaunts charcoal clouds.

 

Rain

comes.

I

walk.

 

East,

stirring of orange glow.

By my right shoulder,

moon peers through clouds.

 

Sandpipers descend

from

wherever they spend the night.

Feast on

tiny shoreline organisms.

Nimbly avoid

the sweep of waves.

Race forward

and back

from water’s edge.

Skim across the sand

in a motley crew,

in a ballet of

choice

&

fate.

 

Now,

Bach’s major chords.

Lemon, rose, violet commingle,

create

a path to the horizon.

Clouds consume rising mist.

 

West light expands.

Sun capers

in cloud mountain  peaks,

rises from the sea.

 

Indigo clouds stretch,

unveil coral cumulous,

so fluffy

I could eat them.

 

Cloud column rises from sea,

lays against green sky.

Thunder crashes,

booms.

Lightening cracks open sky.

Heat leaps from sand.

 

Moist

heat

rises,

cocoons me.

 

North turquoise sky,

dusky blue ocean.

 

I turn south,

purple horizon,

salmon undercoat,

azure and lemon overlay.

 

Creation

every day.

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Delaware Dawn

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Rose, yellow, and verdant light

prances,

leaps from ocean surface,

swells.

 

Cobalt sky,

lightly brushed with

peach clouds.

Seagulls skim

above placid waters,

 

relentlessly fishing.

 

Stranded on wet, ochre sand

an upsidedown horseshoe crab,

decorated with barnacles,

a soldier pinned with medals

on his chest.

I roll him over,

gently place him

by surf’s edge.

 

Old horseshoe crab

feebly turns to sea,

patiently waits

for death to arrive.

 

Someone Else Wrote It

IMG_3553Recently, I opened a notebook from a few months ago and found lovely drawings and stories that I didn’t remember doing. I had intended to write on the leftover blank pages but started viewing the work. It felt like I was looking at someone else’s work.

I often put aside writings or paintings for at least a month or more after finishing them, before editing them or making the final touches. When I come back to the work, I have enough perspective to edit words severely, add an extra line of paint, or eliminate a too busy portion. Sometimes I just note what I liked and what I didn’t like about the piece, tuck the piece away, and use that information to inform future work. Then, I move on. I figure that good work will emerge about 1 out of 10 times, if I’m lucky that day. This doesn’t bother me. My artwork is done for my own entertainment, catharsis, and meditation. The final product is merely a by-product of the process. But occasionally, when I look back, there is a lovely sensation of satisfaction of having done something well.

Crossing Patapsco Valley

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Bridge ahead,

moving mists

hover above it.

Tantalizing

changelings,

or drifting souls,

dare me to drive

through

and beyond them.

I hesitate in apprehension

and reverence.

The clouds roll and seethe

in waves and mountains.

I step on the gas.

Metamorphosis

awaits.

Release

I will not keep

the rose and ochre

shells

and ebony skate egg case.

I’ll throw them back

to the sea.

Release

and

redemption.

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Backyard Sunday

IMG_3531I lay flat in my small, urban yard and heard the cheering fans at Camden Stadium, the young urbanites at the bar at the end of the block, and the occasional radio rolling by in a car. I sank my body into the slate footstones, trying to unfurl the tightness stored in large quantities, imagining the Earth’s warm core seeping into me. Listened. The chorus of birds sang to their young, caught in the interstices of the cacophony of the city. The new leaves and pink and white buds on the crab apple tree were splayed with sunshine. I sat up and dipped my brush into amber, sapphire and emerald watercolors. The paper was fresh and white.

Buddy, my black and white cat, meowed to come join me and I opened the door. He settled comfortably under the tree, hoping the birds wouldn’t notice him. Suddenly, Buddy decided it was his chance to jump into the neighbors yard and try to find that orange tabby that lives somewhere in the alley. Yikes! Buddy is a rescue, with no claws and two teeth. The tabby outweighs him by at least 10 pounds. The orange tabby probably eats rats bigger than my cat. I ran out the gate, captured Buddy, and threw him back inside. He was indignant, but saved from his own intentions, as we all need to be at times. I went back and completed my painting. It was a glorious Sunday.

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