Picasso's Eye

Picasso's eye is lodged

in the sugar maple,

like a scuttled vessel

brooding in the limbs.

It no longer dispenses

late night wisdom,

early morning insight,

from the perch outside my room.

The all-knowing stare

becomes reluctant

under chlorophyll eyelids,

dark spring rain.

My psyche's new caretaker

scries wet kisses in leaves,

with flop of roses,

gentle thrust of trees.

tk/March 2015 

Sumptuous read by R.A.D. ...

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Circle of Life

Mad wings beat― 

hover, peep, tumble

from fairy tale, Easter basket.

It knows it should fly.

How did it stray from the line?

I chase, bent down.

Hands stretched.

Come to mama.

Life flashes before my eyes;

friendly persuasion.

Can I keep it?

O! gosling mine― 

dark precision drops from the sky

pulling silent pink ribbons

gripped with no emotion.

tk/May 2014


 R.A.D. Stainforth's best rendering...emotion beautifully captured... 

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image: Chair With the Wings of a Vulture, 1960, Salvador Dali 

Channeling Julie No. 3

This week I'm channeling my inner Julie with another one of my favorite things: freshly laundered white bath towels. I appreciate them all the more this week, after the 85 mph derecho (pronounced day-RAY-cho) descended on Central Ohio late Friday afternoon, June 29, leaving Willow Manor without power for two days. Derecho comes from the Spanish word for "straight" or direct, in contrast with a tornado, which is a twisted wind.

shelf cloud along the leading edge of a derecho

Not only was it the hottest week of the summer, but when Willow Manor loses power, the well pump is out, too.  So, no water.  I ended up staying with my two sons, who thankfully had power.  The contents of the fridge was hauled to their place, along with all my girl-maintenance stuff.  After taking a much needed shower, I reached out to the towel bar, and quickly realized I should have brought my own.  Hanging there, was a mangy thing, I later learned, is fondly known as "Old Blue".  It's a good thing Old Blue is blue. If it was supposed to be white, I would have been even more frightened.

camping out with the guys
I really missed my PC and desk too

By the way, remember when everything in the 70s was earth-tone?  I still have a few threadbare brown bath towels that were wedding gifts, delegated as "dog-towels".  Sturdy things.  They even survived the dogs. I'll be glad when these dog days are over. Come, come, sweet October.

The real things haven't changed. 

It is still best to be honest and truthful; 

to make the most of what we have; 

to be happy with simple pleasures; 

and have courage when things go wrong.

― Laura Ingalls Wilder

Buttsprung

Charming R.A.D. Stainforth in his black and white world ... he nearly smiles here ...

Spring jumps in,
like some kind of joke,

runs at confused birds,
chases flowers with a faux nose.

Veins earthworm his arms.

He juggles dormant trees,
popcorns the sky,
flings yellow,

Wild as a buttsprung umbrella.

tk/April 2012




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image: The Circus With The Yellow Clown, 1967, Marc Chagall

limpid gray

Scotio River today, Dublin, Ohio

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! 

Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! 
Earth of departed sunset―earth of the mountains misty-topt! 
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! 
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! 
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! 
Far-swooping elbow'd earth―rich apple-blossom'd earth! 
Smile, for your lover comes.

― Walt Whitman

Fire Fall I think I love you

photo by Aaron Meyers

I watched an old movie on TCM the other night, and wondered about the fire tumbling over a waterfall in Yosemite.  I'd never seen anything like it.  It looked as if gasoline had been dumped over the falls and lit.  What I didn't realize, is that two weeks out of every year, Horsetail Fall in Yosemite National Park, California, lights up by sunset and turns into a wild thing: "Fire Fall".  On these rare few days, the waterfall catches the setting sun at a certain angle, reflecting bright gold and orange, resembling hot molten lava.  This brief window of light happens every year around the third week in February.

My daughter gave me a lovely book for Christmas, Yosemite, Art of an American Icon, a wonderful collection of photos and essays on Yosemite National Park.  Voices are calling me west.  I feel a long road trip coming on.  If you see an old green Land Rover heading west on I-70 going about 90 mph, it's me.

Seasonal Allergy

Holly and ivy

bundles of mistletoe

pine boughs

and poinsettias

all the flora

of the season

swallows

me in a jungle

flush with longing

a Christmas

concoction

gathered bouquet

of raw seasonal

itch I break out

in angelic rash

polka dots of love

tk/December 2011

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's lovely reading:

visit his excellent blog Black Dogs 

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Image by Lee Friedlander

death of a bird and a review

There is a legend about a bird which sings only once in its life, more beautifully than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, it impales its breast on the longest, sharpest thorn. But as it is dying, it rises above its own agony to out sing the Lark and the Nightingale. The Thorn Bird pays its life for that one song, and the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles, as its best is brought only at the cost of great pain; driven to the thorn with no knowledge of the dying to come. But when we press the thorn to our breast, we know, we understand... and still, we do it.  

Colleen McCullough, The Thorn Birds

Last week, on my birthday, I heard the tell-tale thud, as this little fella crashed into the glass of the french doors, and fell to the rain-drenched cedar deck.  From inside, I watched, helpless, as he gasped his last few breaths.  At least, I thought, this beautiful creature deserves to be remembered with a photo, before he becomes part of earth's patina.

Speaking of patina, please check out this excellent review of my new poetry chapbook PATINA, published this summer by Finishing Line Press, by Poet, Critic, Blogger Jenne’ R. Andrews, whose work has appeared in a number of journals including, most recently The Adirondack Review; her collections include the small press book Reunion, Lynx House Press, The Dark Animal of Liberty, Leaping Mountain Press, and In Pursuit of the Family, Minnesota Writers’ Publishing House, edited by Robert Bly. She posts work in draft at La Parola Vivace in addition to submitting individual work and book-length collections to journals and presses. She has recently been writing “Rilke variations”—an exercise that has become a vital part of her daily writing practice.


Click here to purchase PATINA from Amazon. 

twilight

Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

Is it hares

or do rabbits dance

after the sun sets

in a peeved lilac bowl?

Is it written in some shepherd's almanac

or in the creases of a woodsman's hand?

Who holds the secret

that brings the bucolic vamp

infant and ancient

to swagger her spell

from the curve of her neck

hot, humming

like a boiling samovar?

Two long fingers twist high in a vee

strong with branches for many birds

she signals bats to circle

swifts to weave tribal high

in tribute above cattails

dame's rocket

before spitting out the bruised sky

chewed and swallowed



Tess Kincaid
August, 2011

Many thanks to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this piece.


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we are who we were

peonies, my favorite flower, after the rain, Willow Manor, May 2011

Flowers really do intoxicate me.  

Vita Sackville-West

Have a safe and happy Memorial Day weekend, my friends.
  
Don't forget to visit the grave 
of a loved one and pay tribute; after all, 
we are who we were.

sexy

As my regular readers already know, I have a particular fondness for stones and bones, which I attribute to the DNA inherited from my great-great grandfather, Palestine Hanna (1856-1938). Hoosier farm folk would bring him bones, and various Native American relics from miles around the tiny village of Burlington, Indiana, for his extensive collection, which he kept in a large handmade walnut cabinet.


It's our tradition to spend the Saturday after Thanksgiving at the opening of the Scott Antique Market at the Franklin County Fair grounds. This year, I was thrilled to find two racks of unmounted buck antlers, Ohio deer tags still intact. The seller was in a dickering mood, which adds to the thrill of the hunt.  I adore their incredibly sensual natural beauty.

aria

Baritone moon,
I watch from my loge
of evening trees, as you swell
low, largo, endeavor to please,
your mouth whole and deep.

a good omen

Speaking of auspicious, here at the manor, it's considered a good omen to see a deer. This handsome young prince was meandering through the ginkgo leaves this week and I snapped a few shots through the wavy glass panes of the kitchen window. Yes, I know, they do like to nibble young trees and tender plants down to nubs, but I feel a thrill whenever I'm paid a visit; I draw a certain comfort from the otherwordly peace and dignity a buck exudes.

A few weeks ago, I was returning to my favorite corner spot in the leather sectional, which I fondly refer to as "my nest", in the sitting room off the kitchen, when a handsome older buck, king of the forest, a huge eight point rack, like antennae to higher powers, lifted his head from munching near the window, and met my gaze.

He looked at me, through the window, for what seemed to be minutes, with kind, intuitive eyes, and I felt as if we were old, dear friends. This moment of fresh, gentle love will stay tucked in a special cupboard of my mind's eye, a gift not to be forgotten.

I was talking to myself about you the other day, 

we were wondering what became of you. 

Friend Owl, Bambi, 1942

sean's friend

We woke to the most deliciously cool morning. The first thing I did upon rising, was fling open all the windows, wonderful woolly socks-ish breeze flow through the manor, slowly filling each room with fragrant early fall air. It was the first morning in weeks, we were able to breakfast on the patio, where I relish the bird community.

My favorite plumpish sparrow is dubbed "Joan Plowright" and the more timid of the hummingbirds I call "Sean". Today, Sean's feisty hummer companions, pointy beaks out like sabers, attacked a group of chickadees, chasing them from the area where their feeder hangs. I was amazed at the Nazi-like behavior coming from such innocent looking little guys.

Later, while cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I heard an odd buzzing coming from the dining room. One of those spunky hummingbird friends of Sean, had made his way inside, through the open dutch door at the front of the manor. He worked himself into such a frenzy, determined to force his way through the glass window, that my attempts to shoo him out were useless. The stubborn tiny hummer had to figure it out on his own. Finally, after nearly a half hour of buzzing and crashing his beak into the glass, he discovered the open patio door and flew free.

I like to think birds are often messengers. What was this poor lil' fellah telling me today? Maybe that “stubborn and ardent clinging to one's opinion is the best proof of stupidity”. Michel de Montaigne Yeah, maybe.

pink

bleeding hearts outside my kitchen window
May 5, 2010

Pink was never my favorite.

If there was one pink, one blue,
I ended up with rinky-dink,
Lux-Liquid, plastic-rose-pink.

Pink sucked. It was weak.
It was Pepto Bismol, Baby Magic,
bubblegum-stuck-in-my-hair kind of pink.
I much preferred the dark mystery
of raw umber or aquamarine.

Tragic, today, I'd still choose green.
But my grown-up smarts can't resist
winter cheeks, a piggy-went-to-market,
or that perfect bleeding heart.


willow, 2010


This is a Theme Thursday post.

ginkgo

One of my favorite trees, here at the manor, is our huge old ginkgo.
Ginkgo biloba, is a unique species of tree with no close living relatives.
I adore their lovely, Asian fan-shaped leaves. The old popular name
of "Maidenhair tree" is because the leaves resemble the leaves of the
Maidenhair fern, Adiantum capillus-veneris. I took the above photo
last week in the manor drive.


Our particular tree happens to be a female and produces a fleshy
light yellow-brown, soft, fruit-like seed pod. They're pretty and look
a bit like small apricots, but contain butanoic acid and smell like
rancid butter, which contains the same chemical, by the way. To be
more specific, they smell like feces, or as my kids always said, "dog
poop". Our Ms. Ginkgo didn't drop many pods this year. Could the
old girl be menopausal?

The older Chinese name for this tree is yínguǒ, or silver fruit. The
scientific name ginkgo appears to be due to folk etymology. Chinese
characters typically have multiple pronunciations in Japanese, and
the characters used for ginnan can also be pronounced ginkyō.
Engelbert Kaempfer, the first Westerner to see the species in 1690,
wrote down this pronunciation in his Amoenitates Exoticae, 1712;
his "y" was misread as "g", and the misspelling stuck.

German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe sent Marianne
von Willemer a ginkgo leaf and on September 15, 1815 read the
following poem he composed to her. Later that month, he saw
Marianne for the last time, and showed her the ginkgo tree in the
garden of Heidelberg Castle, from which tree he took the two leaves
which are pasted on the poem.


The letter containing this poem with the two ginkgo leaves can be
viewed in the Goethe Museum in Düsseldorf.

Translated into English, the poem begins as follows:
.

Ginkgo Biloba

This leaf from a tree in the East,
Has been given to my garden.
It reveals a certain secret,
Which pleases me and thoughtful people.

breakfast club

I have six friends who join me for breakfast on a regular basis during
the summer. In fact, if breakfast is not ready, they will make
themselves comfortable and keep me company until theirs is served.
They are greedy little guests and often fight amongst themselves
over the food. After they stuff themselves silly, they take doggy
bags of leftovers home in their fat little cheeks.

Someone came knocking
At my wee, small door,
Someone came knocking,
I'm sure -- sure -- sure;
I listened, I opened,
I looked left and right,
But nothing was stirring
In the still dark night.
Only the busy chipmunk
Tap-tapping in the wall,

Only from the forest
The hoot owl's call,
Only the cricket chirping
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all -- at all -- at all!

Someone, by Walter de la Mare

from Collected Poems, 1901-1918

after the party

In the late summer, our magnolia tree's seed pods turn a rich,
vibrant red in celebration of summer's end. As I swept up the dried
pods and leaves from the patio floor this morning, I couldn't help but
notice how beautiful they were. Don't you think the small dark green
leaf in the center looks like an ancient Trojan mask? Nature's confetti,
after the masquerade party of summer.

Here something stubborn comes,

Dislodging the earth crumbs

And making crusty rubble,

And looks like a green staple.

It could be seedling maple,

Or artichoke, or bean.

That remains to be seen.

from Seed Leaves by Richard Wilbur

mossy, late summer birdbath on the patio

the space my body fills

I have an affinity for trees. For me, they emit a certain sense of
security and peace that surpasses that of some humans. They dance
in the wind, throw confetti in the fall, creak, sing, and reach for the
stars. They are always there for me and I feel a special bond of
kinship. Funny, one of my childhood nicknames was "Tree", which I
didn't particularly like. Although, looking back, it was very telling.
"Willow", as it turns out, is befitting, as well. I guess I will always be
a tree.

As you already know, I adore the adventure of the hunt at flea
markets, garage sales and thrift stores. It must be the thrill of
allowing my sixth sense to take over. I was out and about Friday
afternoon and happened on a garage sale. The elderly lady had just
a few dismal items displayed in her driveway, and normally, from
the looks of it, I would have driven on by. But something urged me
to stop and take a gander. One of the few old books she had
displayed on a broken lawn chair was The Space My Body Fills,
poems by Etta Blum. I walked straight over, picked it up, paid the
woman $1 and went on my merry way. She probably thought, "Well,
that's a girl who knows what she wants."

Etta Blum was born in 1908 in New York City and earned her

master's degree from Columbia University. She was married to the

Yiddish writer, Eliezer Blum. I was previously unfamiliar with Blum's

poetry, but soon became totally captivated. I felt as if she wrote

these two poems just for me. Maybe she did.

.

.

I Am the Tree

.

.

I am the tree ascending.

At the topmost branch

I've become the bird,

starting from tip to

climb into above.

.

Afterward, cloud.

Why not?

.

My purposes are clear.

.

.

.

The Fountain, the Fire

.

.

The fountain, the fire,

the smoldering,

and the embrace of love.

I touched fingers lightly

to all of these.

I became a tree among the trees

(my leaves pretending to be wings)

before going to sleep.

.

I said to the birds:

"Who will tire first,

you or the fountain?"

.

.

artwork: Weeping Willow by Claude Monet

the f-word and my neck of the woods

WT surprised me this morning by telling me he was taking the
afternoon off. "We're outta here!" So, after lunch we jumped in the
old Land Rover and headed off for one of our favorite haunts.

Here's a view heading west on I-70. We were lucky enough to enjoy
some dramatic N.C. Wyeth skies. As you can see, our neck of the
woods, here in central Ohio, is flat as a pancake.

It's a 40 minute drive to the Heart of Ohio Antique Center. It's one

of the largest in the mid-west with 116,000 square feet of vintage

stuff from over 650 vendors. If you like antiques, this place is

heaven.

I especially like browsing the book vendors and keep my eye out

for interesting vintage glass bottles. But today, this adorable framed

hand tinted photo (11 x 13) of a little guy in a wool beret caught my

eye. There was a haunting quality that drew me to him.

It's sad to think this priceless treasure was separated from his family

somewhere along the way. Actually, he looks like he could be WT at

this age. It was a bargain at $10. WT enjoyed digging through his

favorite tool vendor's ware and found a lovely vintage wrench.

Thankfully, we missed the heavy rains that passed through while we

were inside. In fact, we've had so much rain this summer, the

cornfields are gloriously lush.

In no time at all, we're back in our little town. Lots of old limestone

buildings in the main square. What is this one now? It's actually a

Donato's pizza shop, which I think is totally ridiculous.

It's always a little cooler on our drive home along the river. Ahh.

Our town is covered with these charming vintage limestone walls.

They're literally everywhere. There is an abandoned quarry site just

a few miles south. It's been turned into a high end housing

development. Oh, well.

Okay, we're back to the manor, safe and sound. It was an extra fun
day. Thanks for tagging along with us. Oh, and in case you're
wondering, the f-word I happen to use is FUN.

Here's the little guy in his new home.