November's night notes

I shed my thin skin and sigh. Autumn Leaves and lonesome notions flirt with me; fly away and die, must they?
I, too, fall in love with the brown crusts of summer's swan song. I'm not sure why. I watch the leather curtain of summer rise and fall again as Mother Nature teases us with cool nights and copper, warm mornings.

She opens the season with her first splashes of color and kind afternoons. I can just imagine her as she reaches for Her water colors, palette and extra long brushes. I gratefully say goodbye to the outrageous hot oven of summer; it's wrong to complain - nearly a sin, nearly non-religious = = I shall repent one snowy day when the fireplace embers read poetry to me and my prayer shawl wraps around me like warm, soft memories of seasons past

Last season's popping ideas have lost their luster, their grit. Their once sturdy messages seem to have survived summer but now are limp and pitiful. What was I thinking when I sped to my pc to jot out a bit of bahooey about what it takes to be a first rate blogger? I presumed I would toss my straw hat into the global blogging world and soon appear on GMA within the month.

The art and photography and chatty homilies that once looked good and appeared worthy, now negated my humble intentions to inspire, entertain. I saw no meaning in them, no true motive, no hope of spreading a kind smile across onces face - perhaps a pucker, a grimace, but not a grin. Even the brutal edit didn't help. I grabbed my yellow highlighter to help with the edit. "I'll highlight the words I need to delete," I spoke through a clinched jaw. Out with the lazy verbs, in with marvelous metaphors and sensational similes. "Once readers find me, they will log on like Elvis fans in full-blown frenzy.

Hope, for a moment stood tall. Then sat down next to me on the garden bench. I stared into the night and wondered and waited for a deep and high winded stream of wisdom to fall into my dimpled brain. Silence, Hope's best buddy said her hand gently in mine. "Shall I continue to create, to make sense of my thirst for purpose and divine expression?" I whispered to her. "Instead of lively art,the look of my line is lame and brash and loaded with commonality."

Like leaves and mediocrity, my autumn mood crumbled under foot. Silence listened as I grumbled and wept and tore tissues into tiny bits, then rolled them a ball and fashioned a tiny figure with them.

What should I do when all is dry and my puny attempts fail?"
I looked up into Hope's kind eyes and waited for her to grant me some kind of litergical grace to jump to my feet in expectant ecstacy and find myself surrounded all manner of spectacular ideas and holy-led abilities. After all, my heart hungered for hope and purpose and delicious change? Better than any chat room or face place or counselor's couch, I was flanked by two Life Changers, Hope and Silence, and in my own backyard, no less.

Time and again, I had walked and talked, pondered and pined there. I'd searched the ground for crusts of truth, golden ideas, cones of hope. The afternoon sun slipped behind a creamy cloud hiding it's warmth for a moment or so. The Autumn night would soon be mine. I quickly picked up my old rake to finish my never-ending leaf raking job. Soon, the biting winds flew through the grounded leaves as I sensed vivid verbs and strumming ideas coming alive among the dry leaves. Thrilling thoughts seem to dance and swirl in circlets and make tidy piles of possibilities. "Where did these little dramas come from?" I smiled as I hung my trusty old rake near the porch door.

Perhaps a land far away where Autumn leaves and artists magically never shed their thin skin or color
or Possibilities.
or Power?

By morning, I looked about my soft front lawn and walked over its vividly painted carpet. The leaves were damp from the morning dew, warmed by the sun. Once more I raked the Golden crop into wide folds and fell headlong into the piles of soft leaves, still soft from their life on the Tree. I rolled about in them turning and twisting while singing and laughing and crying the joy tears from such kind and delicious moment. Hope and Silence were there as well and we had quite a great morning being who we are.

CONSIDER THE LILIES , , ,: WISTERIA AND OTHER FINE ART

CONSIDER THE LILIES , , ,: WISTERIA AND OTHER FINE ART

inspirational ideas that work for the good of the artful soul. Life plan, purpose, production. How to make art that sings and dances. Art that makes a positive contribution to our world. Making sense of making art.

A moment in November

autumn words

autumn words

Those fiery, feisty, fluffy words

Fly freely from the limber limb

Let go to flit and flirt with me

Entice and swirl upon my page

by nature's mighty breath

They scatter under foot

I rake them into tidy piles

Then load them into winter's song

I harvest, reap and dance

Those painted, golden Autumn words

They tumble in

November days, then

Seep into life's restless soil

They rot and crush to icy sludge

Push deep in winter's heart

What do I gain from Autumn's death?

The Master Poet answers me -

"Find rest in dormant days,

In darkened solitude, I carve, create

Life's masterpiece called Soul."

I kneel to earth, kiss heaven's hem

And from the hardened, icy crust

I listen to my friend, December,

Sing Holy, Holy, Holy

And from afar

I hear a host of Autumn words

A choir of well-bred thought

Sing powerful, quiet harmony

That warms my weathered heart

Oh, those lovely, flighty Autumn words

Though withered, dead and gone --

they live!

I glean from their emotion

Pen line and paint a vibrant verse

To nourish Spring-fed prose

That longs for Summer's rose

For I, the pecking poet

Nibble verbs and nest my brood of words

To catch a May-day notion's yearn

I'll linger by mid-summer's gate and

Wait 'till Autumn words return

Autumn Words