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.

The Flasher and the Fissure

October was a month like me,
a month smoked with wild dreams
welded shut with loss of leaves.
A blazing month that dropped its cloak.
Naked,
thus filled with gaping holes.

(How time flies! It hardly seems right to welcome November without bidding October adieu. October was a tough month. It brought death. It held lots of stress. But it also knew joy. And now I greet November the only way I can: one breath at a time, with a commitment to appreciate my blessings.)

November cuts into the ground,
cold and sharp and deeper down.
Therein lies the treasure here: cold claws
remove the gold, oil, smoldering belly of fire.
Rise, repeat; hurry! The snaggle-toothed Snow King is coming.
We must draw up what he will covet. Pull it up! Higher! Higher!

Squeaky Wheels

The market was miles away
and fleeing further, but the
night was creeping clumsily on.

one foot in front of the other

in a weekly ritual, his boots were worn
right through, right through the green
moss you could see his trail through
the squishy known unknown.

week after week, year after year,
he never saw a soul

through barrow and bog
he pushed his cart, the thump
of the wheels lamenting
motion. which is why he
noticed the absence of sound
for a heartbeat.
silence is an incantation,
invocation. she comes
in it.

she is alabaster,
a sculpture
carved of wind
and ice. he closes his eyes, inhales
the apparition – a sacrifice in smoke –
he smells the veil thinning between the worlds

he shivers with the
bogbreath, the breeze
all hot and cold. it sparks
all around him, an
unseen carnal force.

her arms caress
his wrinkled hands

he lets go the handle
of his cart,
reaches out to her

but she, like him,
is no more here

there is only
the cart

its wheels
spinning,
chirping,
leaping
over
the moment
before it
passes.


(For a prompt at Real Toads: Ghost stories using at least 3 of these words: fairy, portal, sacrifice, feast, smoke, winter, slaughter, spirit, veil, ritual, trick, & disguise.

I used: ritual, veil, sacrifice, & smoke, I think. Enjoy, and good night!)

From When Our Moon Became a Sun

Can you feel the fire inside you?
Forget it for tonight. Mask it with
the world around, feed it with your
flight. Lanterns swerve like fairy lights,
dodging sober shadows; matches strike.

sparklers sing. cigarettes light.

Somebodies stroll arm in arm, gaze at stars,
cry or laugh, walk alone, sip the past, we all
sink dark into our minds. We crave, we itch,
anticipate: sharpest flints that conflagrate.

Our signals smoke, swarm through
city loops. Round the concrete
paths and blocks, boxes
glass and moving
trucks, round the trees
pruned in their beds,
round the sky to
red smog wed.

Zaps run through
our beating blood,
flooding veins and bursting walls,
building lacks of barriers,

seeking: freedom, found
away. out of body, faint
indeed, branded still, scorches fade
into wild. woods. The edge-of-the-city fox
knows all, knows fall, its saffron leaves,
the pubs of candied corn and trail of acorn orbs.
The fox knows when the moon will rise,
it can place the smell of the harkening skies -
though time makes no scent. *Sniff.*

The fox smells the city air and finds
scents that make no sense. The moon within
the smoke, within the dreams, within
the humans, lies asleep. The Equinox
reduced to itchy patches, ancient,
embered chambers in their raw meaty hearts, balanced by
the choking blood, the steady beat, the broken glowing
from the ill-flamed furnace fanning
the forgotten memory:

the first fire lit by human hands, the
howl of triumph, ravenous flash of the flames
of knowledge leaping up. The world shifts drunk
under the gaze of this smoke-glazed moon, the selfsame
moon that reigned the night, the god of dark binding
humans blind. The selfsame humans with their restless hands,
blistered, fumbling in the dark, throwing out the rope,
lassoing the moon in the name of itchy, aching hope.

lassoed, tamed, and fought against:
the night, a brave new dawn.

(This poem was inspired by Pink.Girl.Ink.'s "Warning the Stars" prompt. The prompt's pretty sweet. Word? Word! Well, word-le. Wordle: it's a thing. Find out what at Pink.Girl.Ink!

Anywho, the prompt resonated with my muse. Images of electric light, magical illuminated moments contrasted to the mystique of night not clothed in manufactured light. A recent camping trip inspired me to contemplate darkness, grateful both for the opportunity to witness a wild night and for the ability to blot it out. There was some ensuing guilt and awe for what humankind has accomplished, and fear and hope for what's to come.)

Autumn Undone

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.

Falling for Autumn

"Sole Cicada"

(One of my newer shadow boxes, called "Sweeping of Dreams")

Sunlight
straddled
morning
and
evening,
flickering
both ways.

The trees clicked,
whispered,
and I thought if I
could just listen
hard enough
I might
discern
some archetypal
tongue.

I found it at my feet,
the poor cicada,
between death and life

trembling,
the rippling
camouflage
beneath
the ambered
shell
ready to
emerge.

Those claws like pincers
tiring, desperate
grappling hooks pulling
up, up, over, down
up - anywhere,
because all the climbing is
about is
escaping
oneself.

Must hold on
to let go.

There must have been
a RIPping noise
but I only saw
a giant
hanging
from a
sandy shell,
black mirror eyes
no longer writhing

and then, there! growing, stretching
shuffling wet green wings
sailing in the wind.

The shell remains,
clinging,
until

They are fallen

leaves.

In the new-found silence,
autumn has come.


(This poem may be a repost, I'm not sure. If it is, it's been a while! I found this old poem recently. As I read it through, connecting with its transformative crunch, I remember disliking it for a very long time. It didn't flow right, it didn't sit right... You know how it goes. Funny how different poems resonate at different times. This one has me almost-smiling now. My next post will also be transformation themed - but much more visual. Enjoy!)