The still life

the still life

I painted at sixteen

...  all this time

hanging in my parents’ house,

soaking up their hues

—Atlas Poetica, 22, summer 2015

Now it's hanging in my house. (Don't tell anyone, but my teacher helped me a little with the fine-tuning.)

Finally, a year after moving our father out of his large old house, going through it with a fine-toothed comb, then spiffing it up and listing it, it looks like we are close to a sale, crossing fingers.

Tanka sequence

Shop of scents 

each soap 

a piece of artwork … 

part of me knows

the sculpted designs 

will in time wash away

a fresh spray 

of "triple cool mint"— 

this desire 

to smell like a patch 

of garden herbs 

"lavender silk" 

for experienced skin ... 

I buy a bar, 

trusting the store clerk 

to keep my secret 

—red lights,  vol. 12, no. 1, January 2016

This shop is in San Luis Obispo, California.

Shafts of granite

shafts of granite

inserted in their eyes

so they’ll twinkle—

sunlight reflecting

off a mountain of stone

TV documentary, Mount Rushmore, S. Dakota, USA

—ATPO, 20, January 2015

Silhouettes

silhouettes

we made of ourselves

in grade school… 

how many know me

only by my profile

—A Hundred Gourds, 2:3, June 2013

Cloudless sky

cloudless sky—

I capture my shadow

in a photo,

placing hand on hip

to show some attitude

—Atlas Poetica, 22, Summer 2015

Crayon-thick lines

crayon-thick lines

of orange and blue—

her image of me

far more vivid

than I really am

—Ribbons, "Tanka Cafe," Fall 2013

Drawing by my niece Abby, circa 2010. That's me beside the tent
that I live in. I can't remember if the tent was on fire or not.

A widow; a small moth

a widow
traveling alone
her stories
intricate as the design
on her needlepoint purse

—Moonbathing, Nov. 2014

a small moth

           hovering 

above our dashboard—

three of us together

miles away from home

—Presence, #49, Feb. 2014

May your travels through 2015 be bright and fulfilling!

P.S. A friend and I were privileged to meet the "widow" at afternoon tea while on a cruise ship voyage.

Sprinkling glitter

sprinkling glitter
on my childhood artwork,
brushing away
the bits of sparkle
that just won't stick 

—Skylark 2:1, Summer 2014

Milestone birthday

milestone birthday—

in a Thinker pose  

on the couch  

he whiles away the time  

with classical music

—The Bamboo Hut, Vol. 1, No. 2, January 2014

Oops: I meant to post this last month, when it was "his" birthday (not that my readers would know that, of course!).

The Three Graces; reflections

The Three Graces

Beauty, Joy, and Charm

linked in dance ...

if I were the fourth

what would be said of me?

—Skylark, 2:1, Summer 2014
The Three Graces: click link for photo/info

reflections

leap off the water ...

a statue

beside the Roman Pool

of Diana and the Stag

—Atlas Poetica, #18, Summer 2014

both tanka: Hearst Castle, San Simeon, CA

Guest Poet: an eggplant (plus travel photos)

An eggplant isn't the guest poet, but Jenny Ward Angyal is. I consider Jenny to be one of the most gifted and appealing writers of English-language tanka today. Her keen, unique perception and special bond with nature flavor her poems. I have many favorites. Here's but one from her ever-growing collection. It's an ekphrastic tanka (inspired by a piece of art; see her links below): 

an eggplant

squats on the counter

fecund and faceless

as the Venus of Willendorf –

my knife in midair

—Atlas Poetica Special Feature: Ekphrastic Tanka, Nov. 2012
Who is the Venus of Willendorf ?

I was excited to learn we'd be passing by the wee town of Willendorf on our river cruise this past November. The program director even announced the town on the loudspeaker—and mentioned the ancient little Venus figurine that made it famous. We managed to shoot a photo or two:

A scene in Willendorf, Austria

I also was excited when I noticed this shop window in tiny, medieval Durnstein, a short ways down the Danube (wish I had one of those Venus of Durnstein figurines!):

Notice how the colors coordinate with the colors
used in local architecture?

Many thanks, Jenny. Please peruse her blog, The Grass Minstrel, sometime. Also be sure to check out the above two links associated with her Venus tanka. 

Early art

Art in Kindergarten

should have been a joyful time,
the rounded tops
of so many crayons
sailing smoothly across
clean sheets of paper.
But I was scolded by the teacher,
as old as my grandmothers,
who labeled me predictable.

Once again I composed
my drawing—little-girlchild
beside a small square house,
delivering her bouquet
to the person lying ill inside.

Then the public rebuke,
"What you do is always the same.
But look at this picture"
(by the new girl in class):

Someone flat on a table,
globs of blood dropping.
And the elaborate tale
to accompany it—
an accident with a saw.
This, the bar that had to be met.

And so I learned I must have stories
of gore and pain and hope
and raw, rugged flesh
and began to draw my life
in varied themes, with colors
befitting a wounded soul.

—ken*again, Fall 2013

My first longer "free-verse" poem in several years—currently appearing in the online e-zine ken*again. I think I'd like to write more such poems in the not-too-distant future, while not abandoning tanka, my "true love."

P.S. The "new girl in class" became my best friend in first and second grade.

This marks an end to my 2013 "Back to School" theme. Thanks for following along!

Sharing with Poets United, Oct. 6, 2013

Ad Vitam Paramus (tanka prose)

I still can see my fingers pasting bits of dyed eggshell onto the pencil sketch in my notebook. The history teacher, Mr. H., had turned his nose up at my first depiction of the Bayeux Tapestry. I'm not yet eleven—am new to this school, new from America to this strange little country. I don't understand the point of immersing myself in studies of bloodthirsty conquests, brutal monarchs, black plagues, and the like. Or spending time on related artwork.

graffiti
etched onto old desks
by many hands—
how English becomes
a foreign language

Fresh from university, and one of the few men ever to set foot in our hallowed school, poor Mr. H. also was required to teach us long-dead Latin. Decades later, memories would surface, popping up as posts on Facebook walls. The way he stood errant students on desk chairs and hurled chalkboard erasers at them (threatening the most recalcitrant students with heavy textbooks). Yet how mere sightings of him, with his handsome, chiseled looks, immediately evoked giggles and whispers throughout the schoolhouse. And how one year, after the summer holidays, Mr. H. never returned. The story goes he ran off to New Zealand with a female teacher; the only detail that remains in question is which teacher that was.

schoolgirls
introduced to love,
amare,
the first Latin verb
we learn to conjugate

 Ad Vitam Paramus = We are preparing for life.

—Haibun Today, Volume 7, Number 1, March 2013 

Proceed with caution *

My sister takes us to a small museum on the quiet college campus not far from her home. There, at the back of one of the artifacts, a sign:

Warning!

Enter at your own risk

a wardrobe

hand-carved long ago . . .

peering inside

I catch myself

searching for Narnia

The Wade Center

assumes no responsibility

for persons who disappear

or are lost . . .

—A Hundred Gourds, 2:2, March 2013

* Above, a piece of tanka prose (or "haibun" with tanka instead of haiku), a literary form that—you guessed it—consists of one or more tanka blended with prose. It's taken me a little while to get the hang of these, but now I'm almost hooked. Oh no, that could mean another obsession. 

Ekphrastic tanka: break, break, break

The subject of my tanka here is a Monet painting (see link to painting underneath poem).

break, break, break,

a cold sea’s crashing waves . . .

the grief

painted into

these rocks at Belle Île

Allusion to Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem “Break, Break, Break”
Claude Monet, “Rocks at Belle Île (The Pyramids of Port Coton),” 1886

—Atlas Poetica ("Ekphrastic Tanka" special feature), Nov. 24, 2012

Read about ekphrastic poetry at Atlas Poetica and The Music In It: Adele Kenny's Poetry Blog (which focuses on the craft and enjoyment of writing poetry).

They don't tweet

they don't tweet
they don't do Facebook—
my band
of faceless friends
with nothing to say

—Notes from the Gean, 4:1 (Summer 2012)

Well, not all my friends and family members are faceless—I'm not either—but a good many are, and adamant about it. Though Facebook may come close to violating a few personal principles of mine, I must admit it can be a convenient tool and an endless source of fascination. I haven't gotten into tweeting, though. ;)

Note about the artist, Karen A. Smith: I became acquainted with Karen more than 15 years ago. I'm pleased she agreed to produce this drawing for use at twigs&stones. "Joe Goodbuddy," the recurring character in her artwork, is a regular person wandering the halls of Corporate America. Joe's been seen at various other places too, such as on the walls of a solo exhibit (68 pieces) at Darke Gallery in Houston, Texas, and at the Big Show 2006, Lawndale Art Center, also in Houston. 

Watch for Joe's return at twigs&stones a few days from now. This next time he'll arrive with baggage.

My nose; the green; van Gogh's Irises

my nose
inches from the brushstrokes
of a master. . .
and yet I'm alone
in my own time and space

—red lights, January 2012

                   the green
               in van Gogh's Roses
               vibrant enough
               to be supernatural. . .
               a man just weeks from death

                  

                  —red lights, January 2012               

                                                                               

van Gogh's Irises
arising 
from brushstroked ground
the depth of his
perennial blueness

—Sixty Sunflowers, 2007

I end up making the across-town trek to the museum by myself. It's been many years since I've been there, and the facilities have nearly doubled in size. Midmorning on a weekday: the main parking lot is overflowing, yet oddly I'm the only one roaming the rooms of this particular special exhibit. That is, except for the watchful eyes of a guard, who I guess needs to ensure I don't stuff a work of art into my purse. Still, I manage to get as close to the paintings as possible without actually touching them. Dust-quiet, the only sounds are the conversations of old masters.

*Link to Roses.* *Link to Irises.*