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Posts Tagged ‘art’

Grandchild Number Three

Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on November 17, 2024| Leave a Comment » 


GRANDCHILD NUMBER THREE 

Truth lifts the heart like water refreshes thirst. (Rumi)

Black and white image
a face    an arm within a blurred arc    a girl
her parents     with their big blue eyes
envision bright blue charm progressing
within that growing face

Grandma decides
she’ll be a blonde like Mommy
with her keen insight    
earn an MBA like Daddy
or    perhaps discover a cure for disease
challenge the world of sports

but truth appears on the film
a flaw     or so it would seem
the twenty-first chromosome triples instead of doubles
one surgery promised at birth
a second four months later

the first will strike her gut     the second her heart
Baby’s body develops within Mommy 
as Baby’s outside world 
grasps truth    embraces it
small hands    double jointed
blue eyes    maybe   that seek    observe
belong to a spirit as sacred as any in
a world dubbed normal

as Baby’s parents and grandparents and friends 
open their own guts 
allowing no room for anything less 
than wonder 
and it arrives within her spirit

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Cut–

Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 5, 2024| Leave a Comment » 

Let your hopes, not your hurts, shape your future. (Robert H. Schuller)

CUT—

The little girl stands
on her imaginary stage
made of ordinary maroon carpet
on an everyday Thursday afternoon.

A popular song drifts 
into the living room
from the kitchen where Mommy cooks,
and scrubs the floor.

She complains about how quickly
three kids get it dirty again.
The girl listens to the music and
mimics the trills, the rises and falls,

and emotions in the melody,
her gentle vibrato promising a
clear soprano voice one day.
She would have added gestures

for her make-believe audience,
but Mommy appears at the doorway
wielding her wooden spoon.
So-who-do-you-think-you-are?

Mommy turns away without striking.
Yet, the girl hears the warning
and retreats into the dark, silent spaces
between the lace curtains and window.

The song will not disappear.
She hears it inside her head
and saves the sound
for a safer moment

when she will lead her 
children to follow dreams,
write, discover subtleties,
laugh, cry, or simply be.

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Watercolor 101

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on July 7, 2024| 1 Comment »

“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.” — Mahatma Gandhi.

My brush fills with blue watercolor and finds sky on the paper. “Keep moving,” my teacher tells me. Watercolor isn’t as forgiving as acrylics. Sure, there are tricks. Looks like I may learn a few. Now.

Dab the spot out with a magic eraser.

Or add white to another color and paint something over it.

This mountain can be a tad higher. Or this ocean needs waves. This pot needs another flower.

Watercolor painting is like living life to the fullest. Stay awake. Let the colors of the day lead and follow what is important. Not every effort is effective. However, it can be a learning place.

Let the first coat dry before attacking it with another. I want results now. Real life tells me something else.

That I am a student. At the age of 78. May the learning continue.

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One Valentine, One Belated Christmas Card

Posted in inspiration, positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on February 12, 2018| 1 Comment »

rose in frameAppreciation is a wonderful thing: It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well. (Voltaire)

I’m struck by two profoundly different moments. The first, an original drawing received on a Christmas card, two months late. The artist died fifteen days before the holiday. The second, a red fabric rose given by my friend Cathy as a Valentine. She told me it was a thank-you for my ready smile.

Cathy’s welcoming approach to everyone results in a sunshine response. However, I’ll accept her gift and hug. Who started our friendship? I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Living that friendship does matter.

The Christmas card has found a quiet display in the bedroom. The artist’s picture with his birth and death date appear on the back. I hear his voice in my memory. See you later. A wave and laugh. Not enough time for one more thank you, acknowledgement of his gifts for humor, art, affability.

I talk to him in the silence of my thoughts. About the nuances of art that appear simple, yet come with quick, aptly applied brush strokes. Then, I switch to travel stories and ask what it was like to ride a camel. No response from the other side; I would believe my mind had cracked if I caught his voice in the lamp or mirror.

Then, I realize the gifts of this day bring enough gratitude. One rose, Cathy. Three granddaughters. One almost-grandson and a simple wedding between his mom and my son is in the future. A tiny affair with a big impact—at least in my family’s life.

What is excellent in others belongs to us as well. May that excellence continue to grow because of the next step I take. May we meet in that space…

 

 

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