Art and Earth

because earth Without Art is Just "Eh."

2 notes &

Anonymous asked: Hi Ann, My name is Joseph Malham and I painted the Thomas Merton image used on your site. It appears the other artists were asked permission for the use of their images. Out of courtesy for our respective vocations, I appreciate your interest in my work but would have appreciated more the courtesy of your asking permission to use it, as several artists from around the world have. It is copyrighted so put "courtesy of Joseph Malham" or remove the image. Many thanks, Joseph Malham, Trinity Icons.

Joseph, I am SO sorry!  I wish all online artists were like you.  When I first started writing for online use, I asked permission for use of all non-stock images, and got very few responses.  Those that I got were usually very late. It appeared that many artists were not concerned with the issue. My writings at that time were generally un-illustrated or poorly illustrated. 

Then I took a clue from the art bloggers here and created a “Posting Policy.”  You can read it on the bottom right of my home page.  It states that there is no commercial activity on my blog (it’s strictly avocational) and that I will remove the work of any artist or author upon request.  I also now link to the artist’s or author’s commercial web site, if I can find one.

Your painting of Thomas Merton strikes me as particularly beautiful, and it sounds as if you might let me continue to use it.  (If you want it removed, please email me again, as I  have no way of contacting you directly).  I have added the wording you requested as well as a link to your commercial site.  Many thanks for coming forward!

Filed under copyrights Joseph Mallham

14 notes &

Welcome to Summer (Poem by Laurie Corzett)

image
 
Myth-laced lunar light,
infuse long summer days
with magic and romance
a’glee in joyous play.
Wild fantasy takes flight
above earth’s rule-bound maze.
Passionate heat-stirred night awaits.
 
            Waves of windblown flowers blooming
 
            Scent enlivens sense to peak
 
            Warm, warm breeze and rivers flowing
 
            Endless miles running free
 
            Let summer magick build up steam,
 
            simmer into thrills supreme
   
        ‘Tis season raised to rejuvenate
 
        So play on …
*********************************************************************************
Copyright 2014 by Laurie Corzett
Image: scenicreflections.com

Filed under laurie corzett poem poems poetry lit druid pagan summer play kids freedom libramoon wiccan magick

91 notes &

The Star Drop Cafe: Skinny Flat White

image

For some deep, psychological reason Saint Nicholas avoided the leafy suburbs bathing in showers of money and dripping wealth. There the newest luxury car was the Holy Grail parked in the driveway for all to covet. With a stock broker being the favoured Messiah, preaching the vision of a rocketing stock exchange. With atonement found in new hairdo and blue rinse; and salvation in manicure and pedicure. And with avarice boldly proclaiming redemption.

Yet it was through these very portals that pilgrims must pass to worship at the Nirvana of The Star Drop Café. The chic coffee emporium had been converted from what had long ago been a small slaughterhouse, though this fact was all but forgotten. It sat in the sprawling grounds of the neglected ruins of the very insane asylum that it had once supplied with the fresh flesh from chickens, ducks, geese and sheep.

Read more …

Filed under magi st nicholas time mindfulness father time story short story lit literature cafe series religion humor

60 notes &

The seas are rough now, and the
waves lap like the tongues of dogs
against the boat and we’re led on
by a strange inertia, the calls of
voyagers past, the hand of some barnacled
goddess grabbing, grasping.
There are the fleeing sailors,
and there the thunderheads
whose faraway voice and form
are like the constantly cascading bodies
of weeping lions, echoing a dolorous
memory ‘cross the waves
and ripples, and the fish swim faster
and the birds, they dive away.
And the rain hits my skin like
tiny touches, little needles that
prop up the hairs on end, and chill
the bones.
Steady the craft with me, and make the
sails sail true, and if the winds
become too much please drag me to the earth,
and call out louder than the
water’s voice so that I can feel the
grass and watch the storm pass by.
*********************************************************************************
Ann says: Lines 1-18 have the repetitive feel of the waves pounding the shore.

Copyright 2014 by Devin Michelson, aka I Am an Angry Young Man.

Image: Donato Giancola

The seas are rough now, and the

waves lap like the tongues of dogs

against the boat and we’re led on

by a strange inertia, the calls of

voyagers past, the hand of some barnacled

goddess grabbing, grasping.

There are the fleeing sailors,

and there the thunderheads

whose faraway voice and form

are like the constantly cascading bodies

of weeping lions, echoing a dolorous

memory ‘cross the waves

and ripples, and the fish swim faster

and the birds, they dive away.

And the rain hits my skin like

tiny touches, little needles that

prop up the hairs on end, and chill

the bones.

Steady the craft with me, and make the

sails sail true, and if the winds

become too much please drag me to the earth,

and call out louder than the

water’s voice so that I can feel the

grass and watch the storm pass by.

*********************************************************************************

Ann says: Lines 1-18 have the repetitive feel of the waves pounding the shore.
Copyright 2014 by Devin Michelson, aka I Am an Angry Young Man.
Image: Donato Giancola

Filed under poem poems poetry ocean storms lit illustration iamanangryyoungman love relationships devin michelson

79 notes &

Veritas sequitur …
In the small beauty of the forest
The wild deer bedding down—
That they are there!
                              Their eyes
Effortless, the soft lips
Nuzzle and the alien small teeth
Tear at the grass
                              The roots of it
Dangle from their mouths
Scattering earth in the strange woods.
They who are there.
                              Their paths
Nibbled thru the fields, the leaves that shade them
Hang in the distances
Of sun
                              The small nouns
Crying faith
In this in which the wild deer   
Startle, and stare out.
*********************************************************************************
Ann says: "Veritas sequitur …"  translates as "The truth of it…"
Psalm by George Oppen (1908–1984)
Image: Christa Forest

Veritas sequitur …

In the small beauty of the forest

The wild deer bedding down—

That they are there!

                              Their eyes

Effortless, the soft lips

Nuzzle and the alien small teeth

Tear at the grass

                              The roots of it

Dangle from their mouths

Scattering earth in the strange woods.

They who are there.

                              Their paths

Nibbled thru the fields, the leaves that shade them

Hang in the distances

Of sun

                              The small nouns

Crying faith

In this in which the wild deer   

Startle, and stare out.

*********************************************************************************

Ann says: "Veritas sequitur …"  translates as "The truth of it…"

Psalm by George Oppen (1908–1984)

Image: Christa Forest

Filed under deer forests nature wildlife psalm illustration poem poems poetry george oppen innocence lit

5 notes &

Sincerely (Or, How to Kill a Poet) by John Kimball II

first you

sit in the dark corner of a dark room

peel off your skin

one word at a time

and give the shock permission to make you feel useless

and cold

and afraid

and then you

take a pen, shove it into your head

and smear the dead gray matter all over whatever piece of paper you can find

whether the page from a notebook you haven’t seen since high school

or the receipt for the pack of cigarettes that overdrew your bank account

and you scrawl whatever empty imagery you can make into a solid geometric shape

as fast as you can

before you lose your breath and have to start over again

and then you call this poison art

and wish that you weren’t such a figment of your own imagination

a dream afraid to wake itself up

try to pretend you are a productive member of society

able to be what you should according to the 6 o’clock news

and then, high on the agony of your lack of self respect

you tie a nice little ribbon around the throbbing maggot that’s burrowed its way into your id

send it off to a man in an office who has never known what its like to spend the night afraid that you’ll implode if you open your eyes

cross your fingers

and pretend that you don’t care

sit in a dark corner of a dark room

and wait…

wait…

wait…

“Dear Writer,

Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we must pass at this time. Best of luck placing your work elsewhere.

Sincerely,”

******************************************************************************************

Copyright 2014 by John Kimball II

Image: Guy Denning

Filed under poem poems poetry lit writers authors john kimball II muse illustration rejection depression publishing publishers john kimball

5 notes &

THE DEVIL’S STEAM (Poem by Umar)

Disappeared
In metallic vapors
The genteel Monarchs lost
Their way to flower thrones; honey

Bees ghost dance in butterfly shadows
Remembering freedom days
Before slavery, alive, their hives still in trees
Not wooden boxes led by imposed queens

While on diesel truck safari reservations
Coast to coast, vagabond bees
Abandoned butterfly thrones
Disappeared ones

In metallic vapors
That rise over barren orchards
Like the devil’s steam
Smoke gets in your eyes.

*********************************************************************************

Copyright 2013 by Umar Hassan

Image: OddStuffMagazine.com

Filed under umar poem poems poetry age of extinction extinction bees nature insects conservation druid pagan wiccan umar hassan lit sixth extinction insecticides

5 notes &

The New Drop Cafe: Wine Caffeine (Part 32 of Fantasy Cafe Series)

image

The New Drop Café was something of a revelation. It was The Old Drop Café refurbished, much to the disapproval – hostility even – of the connoisseur coffee establishment. No blue rinse set here! No, sir! It drew a very different clientele. It was the haunt of poets, folk singers, occasional wayward saints and other drop outs. Worse in its mortification, it was said to be a drop-in centre for scarlet ladies of the night.

Read more …

Filed under magi jesus christian Christianity story short story lit literature cafe raves religion humor

108 notes &

image

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die?

*********************************************************************************

Author: William Blake

Image: Kazuka Akimoto

Filed under poem poems poetry lit literature insects bugs william blake classic literature classic poems classic poetry Summer

6 notes &

The Vanished Drop Cafe: Darkness Falling

image

For days and nights Saint Nicholas remained locked in his room in the basement. Other than asking Saint Jude to keep things running in the guesthouse, he refused to answer all knocks on the door by the residents. He did slip away on his black motorcycle at dawn on the day of the funeral of Mongrel and his beloved wife, That Bitch. He went for a long ride before joining the 60 or so God’s Hitmen Motorcycle Club riders in the procession behind the hearse. It went to the very cemetery where Priscilla Smyth-Brown was buried. Because of his close friendship with Mongrel and She Who Once Commanded, he was asked to deliver the main eulogy.

Read more …

Filed under magi lit short story series religion humor satire angel angels angel of light despair darkness depression

103 notes &

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze,With labored respiration, moves the wheatFrom distant reaches, till the golden seasBreak in crisp whispers at my feet.My book, neglected of an idle mind,Hides for a moment from the eyes of men;Or lightly opened by a critic wind,Affrightedly reviews itself again.Off through the haze that dances in the shineThe warm sun showers in the open glade,The forest lies, a silhouette designDimmed through and through with shade…
*****************************************************************************
Excerpt from Summer Afternoon by James Whitcomb Riley,
Image: Marc Delassio

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze,
With labored respiration, moves the wheat
From distant reaches, till the golden seas
Break in crisp whispers at my feet.

My book, neglected of an idle mind,
Hides for a moment from the eyes of men;
Or lightly opened by a critic wind,
Affrightedly reviews itself again.

Off through the haze that dances in the shine
The warm sun showers in the open glade,
The forest lies, a silhouette design
Dimmed through and through with shade…

*****************************************************************************

Excerpt from Summer Afternoon by James Whitcomb Riley,

Image: Marc Delassio

Filed under poem poems poetry lit illustration summer reading summer reading art fine art james whitcomb riley classic literature classic poetry 18th century paintings

6 notes &

Senior Games (Poem by Chris Brockman)

Today, Elaine is the face of home.

The embodiment of the grandma

In Family Circus, she is elegant, mature,

Surely someone else’s grandmother.

Meticulously neat, light white sweater

Across her shoulders, silvery, sparkly

Rings on her left hand, permanent trace

Of a half century of love,

She sits in her traveling chair

In a circle of veteran ladies playing

Kickball, nursing home style.

She peers quizzically through her round glasses

As the soft orange orb lazily pinballs

From one tender foot to another.

Her wide, straight across mouth turns up

Tentatively at the ends as the ball

Comes her way and she taps it aside.

It’s today’s simulation of stimulation

From the social director on this

Gentle, brutal cruise to oblivion.

 *********************************************************************************

Copyright 2014 by Chris Brockman

Image: Michael Tsinoglou

           

Filed under Chris Brockman poem poems poetry lit illustration aging boomers seniors nursing homes grandmothers grandparents

6 notes &

The Slaughter Drop Cafe: Silence Falling (An Expected Visitor)

image

Christmas Day in the Guesthouse for Saints had been a rip snorting sort of a day. This had been mostly spent in The Saintly Drop Café by most of the blessed residents. Well before breakfast the jolly fat man in red had squeezed down a chimney in his home invasion to leave presents under the tree in the café. Christmas presents had been exchanged by the tree, under the mistletoe and even in bedrooms - though what was presented and ardently received were strictly private matters – not necessarily a matter of privates. For while Eve might have spanned and Adam delved, they did not live in the guesthouse. Besides, what consenting saints did in privacy was their blessed business. After all, they were on R & R – and such should be enjoyed.

Read more …

Filed under magi gangs violence death azreal story short story lit series saint nicholas saints humor satire religion atheist

357 notes &

Instructions by Neil Gaiman

image

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never

saw before.

Say “please” before you open the latch,

go through,

walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted

front door,

as a knocker,

do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.


Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat

nothing.

However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,

feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,

clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,

if you can,

ease its pain.


From the back garden you will be able to see the

wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads to Winter’s

realm;

there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,

you can walk back, safely;

you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.


Once through the garden you will be in the

wood.

The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-

growth.

Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She

may ask for something;

give it to her. She

will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve

months sit about a fire,

warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.

You may pick strawberries in December’s frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where

you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-

man will take you.

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to

leave the boat.

Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that

witches are often betrayed by their appetites;

dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;

hearts can be well-hidden,

and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.

Know that diamonds and roses

are as uncomfortable when they tumble from

one’s lips as toads and frogs:

colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.


Remember your name.

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped

to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.

Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.

Do not look back.

Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).

Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).

Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).


There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is

why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your

journey started,

you will recognize it, although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest.

********************************************************************************

Ann says: Although he’ll never admit it, Neil Gaiman’s tales almost always follow the template of The Hero’s Journey, a narrative found in every world culture. This is the children’s version, complete with some parental advice.

Copyright 2013 by Neil Gaiman.

Image:  Diado Dobby by Miroslav Yotov

Filed under neil gaiman poem poems poetry lit illustration the hero's journey fairy tales fairytales magic fantasy poetry for kids parents kids classic poetry classic literature classic poems