So — with the continuation of COVID, the political shenanigans, and the wildfires, I have been remiss in posting new offerings. However, during sleepless nights, I have been coming up with some haiga that I posted to Facebook (of course!) — which I now share with you. You’ll get a sense of the timeline from spring to fall and the events unfolding.
Under limbs bare of leaves but still with summer’s warmth we find hope on top of wool blankets that scratch bare skin and know this is just one way to paradise -- surely there are others. Blindfolded we cross the finish line hand in hand, battered by our dance of finding mystery beneath the lies we dressed our public face in. Shall we dress our desire in rags? Or offer it as a tithing to a distant godhead? And if we do neither, what angel will cast us adrift to rock on blue-green waves in search of distant lands until parched and pleading the moon sets us free on the shores of our cloistered universe.
I return time and again to the challenge of the “golden shovel” poem. I find it offers just the right mixture of challenge, structure and opportunity to spend time on a particular line or phrase I read that stuck with me. In this case, Connie J. Jasperson’s #FineArtFriday musing on Hope by George F Watts 1886 had a line that grabbed me and would not let go: “Hope is blindfolded, battered, dressed in rags, and cast adrift in the universe.”
alone with my wit
at the heat shimmer raze
the long grass of spring
and I sigh for past dreams
of cavaliers who link their hand in mine
to lead me through the farandole line.
I see a lot of families out walking, biking and generally enjoying together time right now. Which is the silver lining of all the ruckus. So, it only made sense for childhood to be on my mind as a I played with four of the March 2020 NaHaiWriMo prompts: patches of snow, plum blossom, return of the migrants and thunderheads.
I spy croci
peeking through fairy rings
snow patch find
white snow turns pink
when the south wind blows
we honk with the geese
among cedar and fern
we wandered dawn to dusk
porch light migrants
with each flash of light
we count one-Mississippi
big guns overhead
Ellen King Rice recently honored me by posting the above poem on her Naked Came a Fungus blog. She is gathering a “vibrant community” of writers to share some “word-smithing” using South Sound mycology as a spring board for inspiration. To what purpose, you ask? To hook you, gentle reader, into exploring some of our regions’ diversity and to invite you to donate to Feline Friends, a local organization dedicated to caring for abandoned cats and kittens.
a crescent moon
climbs the leafless dogwood tree
you trace my lifeline
Felines and fungi — an unlikely combination, yes? Not so! Ellen King Rice is shepherding a “community of vibrant learners in the arts of word-smithing and mycology.” Folks living in the South Sound can visit her blog and take their minds off the relentless January rain. After a bit of escapism, they could choose to donate to Feline Friends, a local organization dedicated to caring for cats and kittens.
Some days, we just wake up feeling snarky. Like today. But, lucky me! I could combine three January NaHaiWriMo prompts (first tea/first calligraphy/first snow) to burn off a bit of aggression with a bit of humor. As an aside: per Lexico, a slang British term for urinate is “slash” which seemed perfectly appropriate to use.
we sip ‘til full
then step out to slash our names
in new-fallen snow
Caption Me by bambe1964 is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0