Online Hide & Seek

The above's the 1st round in my collage journal; it got edited down to the poem below:

Digital comes forth
to organize your life
into facebook - traces
of journeys, neon blurs
smeared on your path.

A forgettable past,
and the way it was
lost and found.

mother tongue

Inspired by and written for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads' Word Count with Mama Zen.

Here's the poem, by itself:

The worm is the mother tongue,
the origin of Man. The hiss that spits
our enemies, sets our fears aflame. Through fire
we rise, the power of ash in our fists.

This is what we have to give: a hand
with a knife, ill-hid.



And here's the painting, by itself:

The painting was my way of dealing with an insane finals week... I felt as if I were trapped in a burning room watching my own skin sizzle away while just off in a corner, beyond the blinds, was a world that might still be untouched. As with most of my work, it contains some found objects/mixed media elements. The curtain hanger is a chopstick, held in place by a few bolts I found. The window is framed by pieces of rusted metal. The blinds are words I tore out of an old, decrepit, almost unsalvageable book. The twisty device and the frame are tea packets, and a small mushroom bead acts as the pully thing. I then painted over it with the frenetic madness of a hummingbird on crack. (& I kinda like the results!)

Of Beautiful Things

My contribution to Collage Obsession’s long hair challenge.
I make old-school collages; just magazines, scissors, and glue. This one was inspired by the painting of Isolde by Gaston Bussiere (from 1911, see below - image courtesy of Wikicommons). I had the woman cut out already, and the magical bookshelves, but I carefully crafted her 2-part crown, the cup, the halo around her, and the four different backgrounds together. I also added some gold shading to give depth to her white dress. What a fun evening!

The colors immediately grabbed me, and the curious sadness in her expression.

I also wanted to take a minute to share two beautiful things that are brightening my week:

The Sleeper and the Spindle, by Neil Gaiman and illustrated by Chris Riddell. While the story itself is not my favorite Gaiman piece (a bit clunky and weak on characterization for his writing, in my opinion, but still enjoyable), the book is a thing of beauty, like a gothic illuminated fairy tale.


Deeper Than Pink by Stacy Lynn Mar arrived, and I look forward to opening its bright pink cover and delving into the wonder beneath. Seriously, Stacy's poems can reach right into your chest and give your heart a squeeze. I can't imagine more perfect rush-hour train commute reading; people often try to converse with me, a bright pink poetry book might be the perfect shield.

For the love of...

Art, Books, and Kids

This summer I worked in the children's department of my local library. Now, this library is pretty much the hub of the community, so it looks nice, has caring employees, and some pretty impressive technology. The children's department alone could fit two of my entire hometown library in it, and it has a pirate ship, two gerbils, a treehouse, and hands-on activities. I was lucky enough that when I had to leave, they let me decorate the Storytime windows.









Because of time limitations, I used The Rasterbator (imagine explaining that Website title to curious and insistent adolescent boys who want to use the program to make their own posters) for the bus and some of the background foliage. Most plant and wildlife is local to Illinois, and I added a warning about poison ivy and oak. It's only been a few months since these windows went up, but, man, it only feels like a day. That's autumn, for you.

Closing the Divide

The end of times
is inevitable,
but I was not expecting
it to stop.

The clock.

It wasn’t just my heart,
breath clinging
half within – half without.
It was the glinty green fly
diving toward the patch of grass.
It was the styro coffee cup
cast down, about to clash with
a skateboarder – whose eyes
were scrunched mid-sneeze.
It was the cloud passing the sun,
the shadow, sudden
sick purple as a prune.

Oh!

My ears.
How loud the heartbeats,
like sirens, the sudden breaking
of barriers,

the flash of blue between our
eyes, the call of the ordinary wild:

the scrunch and buzz,
the splash between the
darkest end of time
and the blistering breach
of the beginning.



(And so ends Splashing the Divide.)

Running Away, Storybook Style

“Spinning Callouses”

Here nor there,
the music hangs,
notes nailed to
thin air. The road
connects two ends,
I sit at home with
my spinning wheel.

Frayed and spun
like bloodstained
straw, I wĪnd my
wheel and weave
my will…

I weave my will
and wĪnd my mind
around the steeled
walls and climb
the turrets
to the naked wind,
castle high and current fixed.

I leave behind
wild eyes, whispered prayers,
sacred notes of silence. Fire!
Shrieks, the helling of the holy – smoke.

I twill steel and iron words
into a bridge of shallow shadows.
Washed, unraveled, threads of ash and green.

Spin the gown and in it
find the doorway through
the floor, well worn, that
leads to silver, gold, and song

– bring the dance shoes you don’t love;
they’ll be dead by dawn.

Dance the weaver’s age old
thrum, tie the threads together,
write the floor you’re dancing on,
move your ankles faster, feel the floor
grow steam and swell, a bursting of
the underwell. Move through you,
move through me, the motions
not our own but pulled by well-stung
strings of ecstasy.

Purged
in the
morning
I look out
at the club with bouncing walls, take in
the church with chiming bells. There is
nothing new, nothing old, nothing
but sweat and prayer.

Nothing but calloused feet and hands,
and a closet short shoes, one pair.



(This poem is a re-imagining of a different poem from last year. It seemed to fit this collage, a musing on the world and escape, from Splashing the Divide. It's one of the last pages of this collage book. But that's OK. I have a lot of poems, short stories, and artwork to post.

As always, thanks for dropping by, and I hope you enjoyed these little snippets of my mind's wanderings.)

Faults

Forgiveness and Shame



Words don't come easy,
thinking, forgiving.
I don't blame what you said.
I love you.

Pieces of Perfection

Right now, from where I'm sitting, what's my idea of the perfect moment?

You can hardly see the bark or grass for the aging, jewel-crusted leaves. You approach the tree, glance around, sit. Back melding perfectly with the bark, you settle, watch twilight creep up on the world, watch the world whir along. Your hands absorb the warmth of a steaming cuppa Earl Grey, sweet and clouded with milk.

"The night is aging as the sun warms your face," lyrics from Alkaline Trio's "Blue Carolina," wafting through your head.

"And a song in my head that burns so good on my tongue."

I smile.


(more pages from my Splashing the Divide collage journal.)

Smoked to Perfection

("Smoked to Perfection" from my Splashing the Divide collage book)

Welcome to Wonderland! This tribute to my childhood favorites - Alice, the caterpillar, and good ol' Chessie (whose smile I drew on with Sharpie) - comes alongside a whole summer of my returning to Alice. There was American McGee's twisted Alice game, Tim Burton's film version and the TV movie Alice (with my favorite Mad Hatter portrayed by Andrew Lee Potts), AG Howard's Splintered and Unhinged, and the classic itself. For the last year, I've been developing my own reimagined Alice, in a nightmare world of archaeology and world mythology... And, of course, Alice art surrounds me in my home.


(One of my favorite artists, Robert Walker, made this print that's hanging in my hallway)

Alice may surround me, but she is a fitful muse. When she inspires, I tend to like the work, like this one:

“Wrinkled Path to Wonderland”

She wore blue silk
the night the sky bled
red as dawn, she walked
among the stones, the grass. The wind
chimed in her wake.

It was a wrinkled path
to the Unknown, only in darkness
shaped, and the absence of sound.
A thought was sewn
into impressionable
pre-sleep crevices. The moon fell,
a branded tear, unfinished tune,
haunting the edges of slate lake
where she painted rainbows
with her toes
in the salted water.

From there, she chased
crooked kittens, caught blue
caterpillars, grew-shrank/
ate two-sided mushrooms,
and swept delicate tea sets askew.

She woke facing herself,
a rippling mirror
taunting the sinews of
memory, stroking them
to sleep. Settling in,
the darkness black,
the walls thick,
the world a box
again.

100th Post: Splashing the Divide's "Womanhood"

Woo hoo! Perhaps it is a minor marker, but reaching the 100th post feels pretty wonderful. I hope this site strikes something - a chord, a wall, a steel drum; that these words form a conduit, the spark of feeling a pulse again, the vibes beating outward, transforming to conform to the contours of each ear. Thank you for listening... with your eyes, of course.

Catching You and Seeing Colours

Fill in the Blank

There's time to tear down, time to create-
time enough to shape the world.
Transform.

Heroism, Apart

The most eccentric characters may be
sleepwalkers through the digital experience
(a quick spiritual, physical fix
a bitter pill
the music of machine dreams)

A life spent on the external world
feels metallic

Imagine what it must be like without words

Reawaken something heroic:
begin a new story
take your dreams.

-

THE END of my Collage Journal, MOONBEAM DREAMS.

Facing the World

I can be a dreamer, but today I
face the things I dread:
the heart
and
the fist.

We are travelers in search of
starry nights,
some great adventure
in the lamplight.

Lost Lures: A Disillusionment in Three Parts

Only three collage poems remain from my Moonbeam Dreams journal! Enjoy this one:


The world is full of magical places:
mist-veiled
sacred ground
caught between good and evil.
-
If I could retreat
and be alone
but not isolated
And be alone
without sacrificing,
I would.
-
I've lost the magic lure
of the kingdoms
of my imagination.

Elements of Enchantment

Dabble in alchemy and initiation;
behold, the beast changes shape!
Watch tiny tadpoles morph into
full-sized frog princes.

Elements of enchantment:
a new blood moon,
that wand from the black isles,
a dash of coriander,
hydra-headed luck.

Simple relics evoke
her parallel self,
the alchemist in the shadows.

Bedecked with crystals,
kissing the demons,
never knowing
they are
devious angels.

... and you said,
"Conjure their dark sides.
Embrace the chaos."

It's the lively taste of
moments that counts.

Childhood Wonders and Lifelong Quests

You've always wanted to find
aliens that are centuries old
and invented it all-
from battleships to bistros.

It's a love of adventure,
a great detective story,
and the search for immortality...

It does beautiful things.

Go forth and conquer!


-


Also, a big thanks to Abigail Wyatt at poetry24 for the well-captured review of my poem. Her words certainly struck a chord!

Cheers.

Robots.

Sometimes nothing is more human.

Nomads

We're nomads in this life.

Sanctuary of Outcasts

Reincarnation may be dead,
but the in-between lives here.

Enter an era
of pain, passion, and obsessions,
when the power to think
is thicker than blood.

Even the vaguest memories
are drawn to us.

Ancient scars remain
with these young souls,
enthralling the
undertakings of our time.

In the Sanctuary of Outcasts,
no one's abandoned.