dry run


It’s been a dry summer,

no word play to spare.

What little comes forth

dissipates in the air. 


Pen poised above paper,

ink eagerly flows.

A doodle emerges;

no poems or prose.


A rhyme – ‘haps a reason – 

to brighten my day? 

But no, merely dust

on my laptop’s display. 


Perhaps chalk on the sidewalk

if not paper or screen.

but when the dust settles,

not a word to be seen. 


I’d settle for tropes

or cliches worn and frayed.

word choices so bad I 

must rhyme “marmalade.”


I’ll spare you, dear reader,

‘til rains settle in, when

words fall from the sky

in a glorious din. 


When parched brain receptors

rehydrate and breathe,

I’ll come waxing poetic, 

my soul on my sleeve.

Seasons in Glass

NaPoWriMo, Day 22. The prompt:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.

While I did struggle with French horn in high school, stained glass is much more fun. And so I give you:

Seasons in Glass

I.

birds-summer

It is Summer.
The trees are full of leaf chips:
green and yellow with black stringer twigs.
I haven’t done glass work in ages.
I will do straight lines.
Lots of straight lines. And lead,
not copper foil. Foil is harder to do.
Birds come to mind.
I don’t really know why.
I spread my wings and begin cutting glass.

II.

birds-autumn

It is Autumn.
The leaf chips have turned gold and burnt orange,
and a deeper shade of yellow.
They are falling.
The birds chatter amongst themselves.
Is it time to head south?
It’s getting colder. They hold their wings close in
to their weightless bodies.
I turn the heater on in my studio.

III.

birds-winter

It is Winter.
White snow, blue ice.
This pattern is no longer in production;
the birds need to be larger.
Two fat cardinals land on bare branches and
consult with a larger bird, whose tail feathers
splay a bit to accommodate
smaller pieces of background.
I love the dark red of the cardinals;
a smooth rolled glass that cuts like butter.

IV.

birds-spring

It is Spring.
Leaves are returning.
Delicate lavender flowers
buzz with the breeze of bee wings.
It is time for building nests,
laying eggs,
feeding hatchlings.
How does one differentiate
a worm from a slender tree branch?
I will allow curves this time.
After three seasons,
I think I’m ready.

Supercize Me

Today’s Daily Post Discover Challenge asks us to celebrate our Superpower.


I don’t generally contemplate superheroes and superpowers. I didn’t read comic books as a kid, and I didn’t play with superpeople action figures.

If there were superhero video games – actually if there were any video games – in those long ago days, I was oblivious to their existence. The only game I knew that employed a joystick was Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.

I do recall watching Batman and Robin on TV, but the only real superpower they seemed to have was the ability to slide down a fire pole and arrive at the bottom dressed in full crime-fighting regalia. I don’t recall ever seeing how they got back into their civvies after saving Gotham City and returning to the bat cave. Maybe they shinnied back up the pole, gathering back the bits and pieces of clothing from where they had been shucked on the way down.

It would appear that superheroes don’t generally get to choose their special powers. Spiderman was accidentally bitten by a radioactive spider. He may have wanted to grow up to be a human cannonball, but no – the errant arachnid consigned him to scaling walls and spewing dental floss from his palms.

Superman was born with his powers, which weren’t even “super” on his planet of birth; they just appeared so to the non-super types here on Earth. Wonder Woman’s powers were gifts from the Greek gods. I doubt she got to pick her gifts. You know how Greek gods are, always wanting things done their way.

As to my own superpower… well, I have the power to see things that aren’t there. No, I don’t hallucinate. Let me rephrase a bit. You know those intuitive types of people who can see past facades and insincerities? It is often said of them that they see situations and people for what they truly are. I, on the other hand, see things for what they’re not.

It usually starts innocently enough. I’ll be going about my own business when something random unexpectedly catches my eye. A thought bubble appears above my head that says, “Hmmm.” Which is shorthand (or short-brain?) for “That looks interesting. I wonder what I could not do with that.” And then I turn it something it’s not.

My superpower takes hold, and suddenly my paint pants become wall art:

painted1

painting3

or my yard debris turns into a wood carving:

identity2

finished

or a sheet of carbon paper becomes a photo series:

found2found3found4found5

One might think this superpower of mine is not very useful for fighting crime, evil and injustice everywhere. And one would be correct. But it does fight boredom, taking-oneself-too-seriousness and creative block.

I think I should get a costume.  And a sidekick. And an alter ego moniker. Hmmm…

Just call me the Hmmm-inator. Or not.

Weekend Coffee Share 4/30/16

160409

If we were having coffee, I’d offer you some cold brew, a cold coffee concentrate that is intended to be diluted 4 to 1 with water. I drink mine straight. And then have the jitters all day. Good stuff!

I’d tell you that it’s the final day of the A to Z blogging challenge that I’ve been participating in on my other blog, Glass Manifestations. Frankly, I’m feeling a bit “blogged out” for the moment. Or maybe it’s more of an overall creativity tank. So maybe I’ll take a bit of a break from blogging and let the tank refill.

Or maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow with more creative ideas than you can shake a stick at. Maybe I’ll write a blog about the origins and meaning of the phrase “more than you can shake a stick at.” Hmmm.

If we were having coffee, I’d show off my yard as you came in the house. It’s very green and lush right now. With clover, that is, not grass. The beautiful yellow flowers (dandelions) have now turned to beautiful white puff balls (seed heads) that will soon be propagating a whole new batch of pretty yellow flowers.

diag1

I can feel the glares emanating from my neighbors as they watch the uninhibited progression of a yard run amok. Maybe I’ll work on getting it under better control this week. Glaring neighbors can be such a nuisance.

That being said, I’d better go find the lawn mower now. Thanks for stopping by for coffee, and watch your step as you proceed through the jungle… er, I mean the yard. Feel free to pick some flowers on your way out.

Brain Dump

For a few months now, I’ve been writing “morning pages,” a concept introduced by author Julia Cameron In her book, The Artist’s Way. Basically it involves filling three pages of a journal each day upon first awakening with “stream of consciousness” writing, moving your pen (or pencil or crayon) nonstop to record whatever pops into your mind.

artists wayMorning pages are intended to circumvent the “inner critic,” that voice inside your head that judges and picks apart whatever you think or do.

If you listen to your inner critic and believe all the negativity it tries to heap on you, eventually your creativity gets blocked, and you couldn’t write a decent sentence or draw a decent picture or perform a decent free form interpretive dance – or whatever your creative bent is – if your life depended on it.

Cameron recommends that you don’t go back and read what you’ve written in your journal so you won’t be tempted to edit or censor yourself.

You know how as soon as you’re told not to do something that’s exactly the thing you want to do? Okay, maybe that’s just me. And most five year olds. But of course I just had to reread my journal entries.

I’ve culled a few of my thoughts to share with you. If you are a psychiatrist who’s reading this, feel free to list your diagnoses of my mental state in the comments below. Or not.

Here’s a sampling of my journal entries:

It’s funny how old sayings get truncated and then end up making no sense. “Sweating like a pig.” “Happy as a clam.” Then you can’t remember how they’re supposed to go. Am I sweating like a pig at high tide, or am I happy as a clam in a butcher’s shop? Maybe I should just clam up and stop sweating it.

spacer pencilI’m still curious as to why birds don’t interbreed. You know, like a hawk and a rooster. You’d end up with a hawk-a-doodle.

spacer pencil
I set a couple of goals for yesterday, maybe more, and at first I totally forgot about them. Then I remembered that I had set them, but couldn’t remember what they were.

spacer pencil
If something is misspelled is there really such a thing as misspelling it worse?

spacer pencil
Birds probably don’t dwell on rejection.

spacer pencil
Who knew ampersands could be so interesting?

ampersand
I had it figured out once, but then I got confused again. That happens a lot. Well, maybe not. Just sometimes. I don’t know… I’m so confused.

spacer pencil
I sure have a lot of things to not worry about. That worries me.

spacer pencil
I bet doggie heaven has lots of things to bark at. And smelly things to roll in. And it’s probably right next to kitty heaven so the dogs can sneak over there and eat cat poop. ‘Cuz they sure do love to do that!

Surprisingly, rereading my journal has not invoked that critical voice in my head. In fact, my inner critic seems to just be shaking its head, with that “I don’t even know where to begin” look of dismay.

For once, my inner critic is speechless. Maybe I’ll go do my interpretive dance now.