bird and blue

Red Cape

They said he had fallen,

swept from the cliff

by gust and spray.

But she sensed him still,

close by and beckoning.

Drawn into the storm,

she donned her red cape

and scurried past them.

She battled the wind

for each step toward the cove

where the whispering caves

dotted the shore.

Brazenly she stood

and called his name,

willing their bond

to bring him to her --

he who had

scoffed at tradition

and dared to court her,

she who had

refused to comply

with the marriage bond

her father had made.

And here she stood now

heart held by a thread

to the hope of an echo,

the sound of his name,

the lilt of his brogue

and his ruddy red cheeks

leading him back from beyond.

Eclipse

Through the trees

so many tiny rings of fire

on the fence

Taking the light to the sky

He had been

slumped in the corner

since midnight,

not interested in tradition

or expectation or

circadian rhythm.

He was numb and lost.

Discouraged by his dulled demeanor,

all his ideas

had tumbled away

and sat waiting

for a spark to light

his now vacant eyes.

Thankfully,

when the sun should have

melted into the valley

where the mountains met,

she returned.

Encouraged,

he snapped to attention.

She bubbled on

about night and

owls and jasmine.

She gestured and pleaded,

explaining how

none of her

nocturnal favorites

could fill the night

if the sun didn’t rise,

Deep into the night

she cajoled and prodded.

He resisted, then warmed,

then brightened and agreed.

And, just in time!

For he had much to do

to awaken what he

had let slip into slumber.

Leading him toward morning, 

she was relieved to see

that he was once again happy

to be taking the light to the sky.

Black Canvas

“Paint big; be free”

the cashier said

when I was buying my first easel

years ago.

And it has stayed with me.

I still love to paint big.

In Santa Cruz on Sunday,

as I was walking down the street,

I veered off my planned path

into the art store.

Even though I had

several paintings in progress already,

I browsed the whole back wall

looking for a canvas,

for just the right size.

There wasn’t one. 

As I turned down an aisle

on the way out,

I saw one stuffed on a bottom shelf,

but, it was black.

I could gesso over it in white, I thought

or I could accept it as is.

Hmmm.  A black canvas?

It needed something raw,

something painted with my hands

to a deep and dirty beat.

The painting that emerged

was fiery and foreign

and came through

the breaking open

of a place

I haven’t been for a while,

if ever.

I don’t know its story yet.

I’ll have to sit with it a while

and acquaint myself

with this stranger

I created but don’t recognize.

 

Aurora

Though the sun was out

and birds sang sweetly

in the village nearby,

shadows of night

shrouded the pinnacle

from dawn until dusk.

No one was sure

whether tribesmen

lived there

but their spirits

were present

casting eerie light

from caverns and crevices.

As the winter solstice neared

and the days

grew shorter and shorter,

the villagers worried

that the pinnacle’s

magnetic, breathing core

might be drawing

the sun away.

The elders met long into the night

each with a plan to

halt the loss of

the spirit of the sky.

An offering?

A sacrifice?

A pilgrimage?

No. No. No.

They didn’t know their foe.

They weren’t sure what dark magic

had mandated their doom.

They gathered the villagers

and described their fate.

The sun would be lost.

Crops would fail.

There was no time to move again.

The end was near.

At first, the women wailed

but silence overtook them.

The girl began to sing.

She sang of wind

and water and

breath and life.

Soon, they all were singing.

Their eyes followed the rising melody

toward the heavens.

Glowing aqua streaks appeared.

And they were not afraid.

As the sun began to rise

hope danced among them

and leapt across the sky.

The gentle girl

had brought the dawn

and they felt safe again.

 

Beckoning Bird

Out of the mist and

into the umbral verdure

they ventured,

drawn by the call of the beckoning bird.

Single file, they wove their way,

stumbling through creeping vines

and over glistening mossy stones.

As they journeyed forth,

their path knit itself

into the foliage behind them.

She serenaded them,

her trilling melodic voice

spreading around them

like an inviting, quilted embrace.

Finally, pulling back a giant frond,

they saw here

perched high above

and glowing with a sourceless light.

Cascading plumage

and crested cap marked her regal presence

but it was the way everything

flowed with her song

that captivated them.

They swayed in rhythm too

as a deep knowing emerged.

This was a place

where all was well

and time was lost.

They would linger,

then rest, then choose to stay,

the first to be granted

paradisiacal refuge and home.

 

Afternoon at an Exhibit

International Women’s Day

a day for women to come together,

to explore similarities

and challenge differences.

The exhibit, “The Veil: Visible and Invisible Spaces.”

seemed like the perfect celebration.

From bridal veils to burkas,

the artists explored veils as well as femininity. 

Visions of woman as artist,

mother as woman,

and country as mother

spoke to ways that veils

separate or protect these roles.

Conceptual veils appeared as well--

a secret language

as veil of mystery over messages within,

or veils as representations of cultural differences

and places where they meet

culturally, visually and spiritually.

And at the pinnacle,

a study of art as veil

between perception and reality.

But, here I paused. 

Reality is not absolute. 

Background, beliefs and mindset

influence experience. 

I see art not as veil

but as explanation,

interpretation or illumination.

On the water in Bangkok

Rather than travel on the traffic-choked roads or the subway in Bangkok, I preferred the waterways.  This little boat, the hotel’s shuttle, swept us up the Chao Praya River to the public dock.  

 

 

There we watched as other small boats fought the current, traversing sweeping arcs to drift down to the dock rather than heading straight in, ultimately bumping hard and wheezing as they depositing travelers at the dock. 

 

To further our journeys, we tried the tourist boat first, but found later that we preferred the public express boats.  It was great to stand at the rail and watch the sights go by, both on the shore and in long-tail boats and barges. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From the river, canals flare out across the city.  As we walked along the canal, we passed by wooden homes,
under rustic bridges, and finally through a restaurant that inspired the following piece:

 

 

 Along the table,

up the post, across the corrugated metal roof

and down to the plug

the burner's cord is strung.

She ignites the flame. 

Another long-tail boat roars by,

sloshing water up one side of the canal

and then up the other. 

She chops the chilis

to the rhythm of the waves,

16 slices per splash.

The goat nudges her ankle

as she brings out the beef. 

Sweet as he is,

she resists slipping him a bite,

remembering him springing on the counter,

nimble feet trampling her work,

muzzle in anything and everything. 

She shoos him away

to amuse the baby.

Spooning curry paste into the pan,

nd waiting for the sizzle,

she adds the coconut milk 

that crackles and spits in the high heat. 

Next come the beef and kaffir lime leaves.

Pulling a large pan from the shelf below,

she transfers the concoction and continues.

seasons with palm sugar and fish sauce,

and adds the tiny Thai eggplants.

After pouring the curry

into the bowls,

she adds  a final sprinkle of sweet basil leaves and red chilies.

At her right elbow,

her son sits watching the tv that dangles

from the roof of the shelter,

ready to jump up and take orders

from anyone who settles in at a table.

She is grateful for her canalside spot. 

Though the rain trickles in,

and the heat sometimes overwhelms her,

the magnificent scents that swirl from her plates

draw passersby in.   

 

 

 

Palace monkeys

At the base of the stairs, looking out over the town,

we paused to take a picture.

The girls were smiling.

I was about to squeeze the button.

Behind me, a man reached the landing on the stairs.

He had his camera, some bags, and a bottle of soda,

all of which were chaotically shifting.

But, the rustling came from behind the girls.

Monkeys sprang from the bushes.

The girls’ smiles dissolved into shocked expressions.

Monkeys swirled around all of us but

one sprinted up the stairs

and grabbed the soda bottle.

The man shrugged.

We laughed nervously.

The monkey swaggered away with his prize.

Palace in Phetchaburi

Fifty-two men grunt, sweat

and, in perfect unison,

plunge their oars into the Chao Praya.

With each stroke, the dragon boat bursts forth,

gliding toward the royal summer retreat.

King Rama IV, moved by the efforts of his men,

sits proudly above, soothed by the rhythm of progress.

Upon arrival in Pletchaburi,

the men cannot rest

for the palace sits high above

at the mountain's top.

The men carry the king

to the doorstep, carefully placing him

over the raised threshold,

built low enough to allow dignitaries easy entry

but high enough to keep bad spirits out.

Eighty-two children rush in.

The king turns from monarch

to man to father.

Beyond, the great green shutters,

Thailand stretches out beyond them.

A warm breeze causes them all to turn

and breathe in the view.

It is a moment in history

to be remembered by few

but cherished by each who was there.