because of dust

i examine the thoughtful and thoughtless words i manage to release. i sit back -ponder, who taught me to vacuum?

Sympathy, combined with a need to empty the dust bin, i sweep words recklessly onto paper -read here. silently, alone, i scurry to apologize for the incomplete thoughts…

As a lady, i move into freedom, from how others wish me to live. Yet, i continue to vacuum. A reminder to how much a mess our lives can be -have become.

a shift -ocean waves of bliss and agony. an endless sweeping of the mind.

i would never know how to live otherwise and yet, some days i pray my thoughts cease. On those days i run to the beach, release all thoughts to the sky, and let the birds take the weight off my shoulders. i deserve, as much as any other, to be given a chance at hope.

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
“Pooh!” he whispered.
“Yes, Piglet?”
“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. “I just wanted to be sure of you.”
A.A. Milne, House at Pooh Corner

Winnie-the-Pooh is still the wisest to walk this desert earth and always shall be. He waters my soul when i thirst. In fact, i wonder if A.A. Milne created him or God.

Condemned

The Hope of a Condemned Man, Joan Miró

Life is really

all but apologizing,

yeah, you found yourself

“So what!” they scream. Now apologize.

No, your no better -yesterday

climb the stairs to nowhere. -He

he had but

the loveliest of souls.

—-

“It is the black vein in white marble; it gets everywhere, appears under your chisel at any moment without warning. Your statue has to be redone.” Victor Hugo The Last Day of a Condemned Man

Is it a mistake that Rodin loved Victor Hugo? I should say not.

Bust of Young Balzac -Rodin (Columbus Museum of Art)

An example of Rodin’s work in anticipation of visiting the exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago.

(Honoré de Balzac, French novelist and playwright. May 20, 1799 –August 18, 1850)

Haiku

Winter Garden 12/9/2017

Act II: Evergreen

sleepy hollow labyrinth

hand of peace bestow

“I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration.” Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Haiku

Winter Garden 12/9/2017

Act V: lie torpid

a winter of discontent

laying on of hands

I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen. John Steinbeck “The Winter of our Discontent”

12/9/2017 It is snowing this hour. I rushed outside to take notice. Imagined the designs of power. A white covering made of water that melts with love and embraces the cold-hearted.

Belief

I quote as if I know,
claim her strength -my ego varnished
as i fall off my master’s shelf.

Ego is as ego was
and ego is no more.
I fail to see what lie ahead
someone settles the score.

Unfairly treated -confined to being
each of us guilty
the fate of insecurity.

For who’s safety
do we cut our hair
thoughts sheltered beneath coverings
seek to tear us bare.

Do hold the babe
serene -complacent
Mother’s shadow to outgrow.

Days change, a wind,
obedience to self
guidance as belief
what sorrow exists in grief.

When time brings favor,
the ripening of fruit,
we are allowed to pick the juiciest.


George Bernard Shaw, like Shakespeare, Mark Twain and Leonard Cohen, were fascinated by Joan of Arc. As much is knowable in the veil of unknowable, her short hair and pants, what were they to hide? Ego security to forge ahead as God’s voice…aghast!

 

“God help us — for art is long, and life so short.”
― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust: First Part

You gone and done it
got us kicked out

you wear sin -loosely
a cross around your neck

lying in two worlds
your enamored saintly deeds

gave you confidence
to cross the border

where the river bleeds
and the earth births heresy.

 

Seduction

With in
and yet with out
we are seen.

The Chicago Art Institute is showing a special exhibit “Rodin: Sculptor and Storyteller”. The exhibit runs through March 4, 2018.

In preparation for my visit, I am reading Bernard Champigneulle’s Rodin. From the first page, the sculptor’s energy is embraced by the negative chisels we encounter. We are not formed by touch; as an endless spiral downward, weight drags us toward the perfect shape.

The incomplete hiddenness of reality is yet to be imagined and already motion is set in gear. I can choose to stop the evolution. Rebel the breath; forced to comply or face death.

I anticipate the adventure as I plan my visit. My heart pounds in my chest. My inclination is towards feeling the marble. Should I ignore the frowns that exist?

What is seen are obsolete days.