Idle Reward

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I did not work to sow the seed,
or plant the plant or weed the weed.
I did not cause the rain to fall,
the sun to shine, the breeze to breeze.

And yet there wasn’t any need
for me to do such wondrous deeds
to bring about this paradise,
of brilliant blooms and lavish leaves.

Does it seem fair that I should be
the recipient of such majesty?
I let nature take its course, and
my reward grew exponentially.

reward

Weekly Photo Challenge: Reward

Forever Love

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Assignment #8. Prompt: drawer. Form: ode. Device: apostrophe.

I am cheered to see you again, though it was unexpected.
I had thought the drawer to be empty, 
opening it simply on a whim. 
Recklessly abandoned inside this dark coffin, 
you nonetheless thrived, 
gaining esteem despite my neglect.

Bold colors contrast with your diminutive size. 
A seeming contradiction between flamboyant style
and menial purpose.
I am not swayed by either extreme.
My attraction is not based on appearances, 
and I recognize that your inconsequential demeanor 
belies your true power.

More contradictions:
You await my direction, to do my bidding,
and yet it is you who holds sway
over my very basic capacity to communicate.
And though I value you, I must send you away.
Your potential cannot be realized 
while stuffed in a drawer.

So I'm letting you go with one selfish request:
Please do not return to me,
my “forever” postage stamp.

drawer

Breaking Glass with your Fingers

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Assignment #7. Prompt: Fingers. Form: Prose Poetry. Device: assonance.

It feels very powerful, breaking glass with your fingers. Of course you score it first, carving a crisp, clean line across the otherwise scratchless surface. The carbide steel cutter makes a sound like paper ripping, or a zipper zipping.

Is that cheating, to score the glass first? I mean, it’s not like breaking a board with your hand, where you don’t really care how the board breaks, as long as it doesn’t break your hand. It’s more refined, more defined, more aligned. You control the break, with your fingers. It feels very powerful, breaking glass with your fingers.

I did break a board with my hand once. Good thing my hand wasn’t made of glass. But I digress.

I learned that glass is a liquid, and so you have to make the break quickly, before the score line fills back in. How cool is that? You’re scoring glass, and it’s like parting the Red Sea. But you don’t get wet. I wonder if Moses got wet when he parted the Red Sea. I wonder if Moses could break boards with his hand. Probably. But I digress.

It’s not really a liquid, though. Glass, that is. I believe the Red Sea actually is. Liquid, that is. That’s why you can wash a window without it washing away. And you can break glass with your fingers without breaking your fingers. You might get a cut though, which would never happen if glass were a liquid. Although that could explain the red of the Red Sea. I wonder if Moses cut his finger while parting the Red Sea. Probably not.

It probably felt very powerful, parting the Red Sea. Just like it feels to break glass with your fingers.

fingers 

Can the Muse Come out to Play?

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Everyone runs through dry spells with creativity.

empty

Weekly Photo Challenge: Rule of Thirds

Most commonly thought of in terms of writing (as in writer’s block), flagging inspiration can happen with any art form. When it happens to me, my inclination is to think, “My God, I’ve lost it. I’ll never come up with an original thought again.”  I’ve learned, however,  to be patient with it, and instead of chasing after the muse, I let her come to me. And she always does… albeit on her own time schedule.

Some ways I’ve found to jump start creativity:

Try your hand at something new. If you are a painter, try writing a poem. Or go on a photo hike and take shots of anything that interests you. If you are a writer, grab a sketch pad and head out to a community park. Draw quick sketches of whatever you see. If you excel in all the arts, go learn to drive a tractor. Whatever you choose to do, don’t focus on the end result being a masterpiece. That’s not the point. The point is to get a different perspective on what you see and think about.

Get a change of scenery. If you live in the city, take a trip to the country or a forest, or the beach. Fresh air inspires fresh ideas. If you spend most of your time in a rural setting, try tapping into the chaotic energy of a nearby city. Don’t have an agenda, just take in the sights and sounds and ambiance.

Exercise. I’m not much of an athlete, but movement of any kind helps get my brain synapses firing a little better. So dance with your cat. Mow the lawn (my personal favorite). Jog or go to the gym if you absolutely have to. Zumba, anyone?

There are tons of ways to get your creative mojo back online. Just be willing to try something new and different from your usual routine, be willing to let go of expectations for specific outcomes, and be patient. Eventually your muse will come out to play, and it will have been worth the wait.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Rule of Thirds

Sorting Glass — A Poem

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I’ve turned my energies to poetry for a while, as I take a two-week challenge from The Daily Post. I didn’t write this poem for the challenge, but was reminded of it, so I thought I’d share it here:

Sorting Glass

Sorting stained glass into bins,
careful lest I cut myself.
How does one parse the spectrum of light
into specific and separate boxes?

Blue or green?
Translucent or opaque?
Flashed? Rolled? Blown? 
It even defies the line 
between solid and liquid.

Can’t mold it into endless shapes,
like a potter fondling clay on a wheel.
Can’t sand it smooth like a choice piece of wood,
and wipe the fine dust away with gentle strokes.

No. It’s cold and rigid and sharp and brittle.

But when the light finds it,
it warms and dances and morphs 
into myriad shapes and textures and nuances
that no other medium can rival. 
It comes alive. 

It brings me to life.
And as I sort it into bins,
being careful not to cut myself,
I feel its pulse in time with mine.

m3

Sacrifice

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sacrifice

The sun eases into the molten lava of the evening sea,
a willing sacrifice to the gods of time.
The glorious sky imprints its beauty on my eyes and in my mind,
branding its memory as a tribute to this time, this place,
even though it will eventually fade to a translucent wisp.

This evening’s fog bank advances toward shore,
emboldened by the cover of darkness as the sea
cools back to a rolling field of blue.
Feeling the dampness on my skin,
I am reminded of a parallel fog whose ghostly folds
enwrap my brain, hiding memories,
while day by day, sunset by sunset,
my sentience becomes
a sacrifice to the gods of time.

It’s comforting in a way,
how life’s pains soften and worries ebb.
But it’s also sad as I lose my past,
and forget how to do even the simplest of things.
And forget the names
and faces
of my children.

As the sun rests on the ocean floor
awaiting its turn to emerge into tomorrow’s dawn,
I wonder if it, too, feels comforted,
by the cool serenity of the water’s depths.
I wonder when I will emerge again,
and in what form.

But for now, I turn my back to the sea
and retreat to firmer ground
knowing that the fog is not far behind.

In memory of my father (1922-2012)Scan0001 (2)