Art and Earth

because earth Without Art is Just "Eh."

54 notes &

She says her mother comes as a redbirdand visits our yard, mostly in spring,not wishing to conjure a vestige of death.She was young for the sickness, the hospital, her death.She leaned on the window and wept to a redbird,of torment and sorrow, dying in spring.Chill winds have blown, now yielding to spring.Songs from green branches disavow death.And a daughter confides in whispers to a redbird.Redbird sits on the window in spring chirping a rebuttal to death.
******************************************************************************
Red Bird, a tritina poem, copyright 2014 by Dan Collins, aka Atticus.
Image: Ann Feldman

She says her mother comes as a redbird
and visits our yard, mostly in spring,
not wishing to conjure a vestige of death.

She was young for the sickness, the hospital, her death.
She leaned on the window and wept to a redbird,
of torment and sorrow, dying in spring.

Chill winds have blown, now yielding to spring.
Songs from green branches disavow death.
And a daughter confides in whispers to a redbird.

Redbird sits on the window in spring chirping a rebuttal to death.

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

Red Bird, a tritina poem, copyright 2014 by Dan Collins, aka Atticus.

Image: Ann Feldman

Filed under poem poems poetry tritina form poetry dan collins atticus mothers daughters death reincarnation renewal pagan druid Christian rebirth lit Illustration bereavement

356 notes &

How to Raise an Oracle (Poem by Matt Freeman)

image

Trap her
before her body
learns rhythm
of ocean.

Keep her that she believes
herself the moon. Teach her
to know no pull but yours.

To live in excess
is to seek balance.

She will believe herself
to be all of existence and
the space that cradles.

Bathe her — purity in flesh
cupped by unsettling hand.

Push her
to birth a god,
to give.
Let her labors last
as many days as months.

Train her not to choke,
to breathe vapors laced
with your regret.

You are finished.
Watch a woman raise
this world from ash.

When she is empty, feed her

beans. Plant within her
new seeds. Let her grow.

Trap her
before her open heart
knows your pulse.

image

Ann says:  I read this poem as being about a yang (masculine) narrator wishing to lure a yin (feminine) one out of her yin home in the moonlit night water.

Copyright 2014 by Matt H. Freeman (aka RaiseTheCurve).  His excellent new collection of poetry, Before I Leave, can be purchased here.

Images: 1. Howard Pyle  2. Paul-Jacques-Aimé Baudry

Filed under matt freeman raisethecurve poem poems poetry lit illustration oracle yin and yang women intuition mythology Mermaids mermaid legend parents daughters nurturing pagan druid wicca

8 notes &

Listen to the wind and you will hear
The underlying sound of uncertainty.
Friend or foe, no sure way to know
And erase the faint trace of anxiety.
The call of the wind, like a wolf that is tamed,
Will rub up against with sincerity,
Then howl at the moon, a wilderness tune,
And blow off the veil of society.
The quintessential fair-weather friend,
Frisky wisk of a tousle of hair
Twists itself to the braid of death,
Dark assassin springs from thin air.
With the wind in her eyes, the willow cries
And waves arms wildly at its passing. 
A bothersome breeze leaves disarming debris
In the wake of its sassy harassing.
It pumps through the heartland, testing all trees
For their muscular strength of resistance.
Weathering storms, defying norms,
Turning iron to steel by temperance.
A muse of a breath orchestrates chimes
To a symphony of crystalline notes.
Hard to unwind and discordant at times
Still fascinates, charms, and emotes.
Zephyrs waft fragrant flowers felicity
Of both memory and imagination,
The smell of beauty and tender kiss
Of lovers’ sweet anticipation.
A heat-seeking plow follows furrowed brow
To turn sweat to radiant release.
The gentlest breeze brings stress to its knees
And winds down dusk to evening peace.
Juliet warned of the inconstant moon
But methinks she did speak too soon.
It’s the wind reflects life’s dizzy whirls
With constant change and capricious swirls.
Wistful and wishful, wandering and wondering,
Carrying voices from future and past
Exciting green leaves and swirling brown,
Blowing dust in the wind to dust to the last.

*********************************************************************************
The Winds of Life copyright 2014 by Chris Brockman
Image: Jean-Francois Millet

Listen to the wind and you will hear

The underlying sound of uncertainty.

Friend or foe, no sure way to know

And erase the faint trace of anxiety.


The call of the wind, like a wolf that is tamed,

Will rub up against with sincerity,

Then howl at the moon, a wilderness tune,

And blow off the veil of society.


The quintessential fair-weather friend,

Frisky wisk of a tousle of hair

Twists itself to the braid of death,

Dark assassin springs from thin air.


With the wind in her eyes, the willow cries

And waves arms wildly at its passing. 

A bothersome breeze leaves disarming debris

In the wake of its sassy harassing.


It pumps through the heartland, testing all trees

For their muscular strength of resistance.

Weathering storms, defying norms,

Turning iron to steel by temperance.


A muse of a breath orchestrates chimes

To a symphony of crystalline notes.

Hard to unwind and discordant at times

Still fascinates, charms, and emotes.


Zephyrs waft fragrant flowers felicity

Of both memory and imagination,

The smell of beauty and tender kiss

Of lovers’ sweet anticipation.


A heat-seeking plow follows furrowed brow

To turn sweat to radiant release.

The gentlest breeze brings stress to its knees

And winds down dusk to evening peace.


Juliet warned of the inconstant moon

But methinks she did speak too soon.

It’s the wind reflects life’s dizzy whirls

With constant change and capricious swirls.


Wistful and wishful, wandering and wondering,

Carrying voices from future and past

Exciting green leaves and swirling brown,

Blowing dust in the wind to dust to the last.


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

The Winds of Life copyright 2014 by Chris Brockman

Image: Jean-Francois Millet

Filed under Chris Brockman poem poems poetry art jean-fancois millet illustration lit wind chaos change love lovers nature mankind

64 notes &

under the hot suna thousand black-eyed susanssprawl with petals spread
**********************************************************
Ann says: I’m not sure whether I should rate this haiku “G” or “X”!
Copyright 2013 by James Ciriaco
Image: Cherrypinklumiere on Blogspot. These are actually sunflowers, but they look a lot like black-eyed susans.

under the hot sun
a thousand black-eyed susans
sprawl with petals spread

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

Ann says: I’m not sure whether I should rate this haiku “G” or “X”!

Copyright 2013 by James Ciriaco

Image: Cherrypinklumiere on Blogspot. These are actually sunflowers, but they look a lot like black-eyed susans.

Filed under poem poems poetry summer haiku james ciriaco tanning beach double entendre flowers vacations lit beaches druid pagan

4 notes &

The Requiem Drop Cafe: The Stardust Road (Final Installment of the Fantasy Cafe Series)

image

Well, here we are. You and I and this urn of ashes. It seems fitting, here at journey’s end, to reflect on the life of our saintly Nicholas before we scatter his last remains on the wind blowing from here and down to the Lethe River below us. Or rather, to review the little we know about it from empirical evidence – from factual records. But there is more information from a very strange source indeed, and I will refer to it later – for such adds a completely different dimension and perhaps helps to flesh out what we know about him.

Read more …

Filed under magi short story lit religion humor fantasy story st. nicholas satire

10 notes &

Juan Higera Creek (Poem)

image

Neither your face, Higera, nor your deeds
Are known to me; and death these many years
Retains you, under grass or forest-mould.
Only a rivulet bears your name: it runs
Deep-hidden in undeciduous redwood shade
And trunks by age made holy, streaming down
A valley of the Santa Lucian hills.
There have I stopped, and though the unclouded sun
Flew high in loftiest heaven, no dapple of light
Flecked the large trunks below the leaves intense,
Nor flickered on your creek: murmuring it sought
The River of the South, which oceanward
Would sweep it down. I drank sweet water there,
And blessed your immortality. Not bronze,
Higera, nor yet marble cool the thirst;
Let bronze and marble of the rich and proud
Secure the names; your monument will last
Longer, of living water forest-pure.

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

Ann says: I want a creek named after me!

By Robinson Jeffers

Image: Terrie Goodman O’Neill

Filed under poems poetry lit classic literature classic poems classic poetry robinson jeffers redwoods forests water creeks california druid pagan conservation poetry for kids monument in memoriam juan higera

29 notes &

We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
a web of space and time
All that ever is, like sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
rainbows
or other illusions
into effervescent poetry



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

Copyright 2014 By Laurie Corzett.

Images (left to right):
Top:  onlyfractals.com, chazagirl on Deviant Art 
Center: Wolfiepaw on Deviant Art
Bottom: Pinterest (stock photo), Fractamonium on Deviant Art, Gynomist on Deviant Art

Filed under laurie corzett art illustration poem poems poetry psychedlic fractals digital art cosmos universe libramoon

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

15 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

64 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

91 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

6 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