Husk Poetry

I began walking the boulevard near my home earlier this summer -- a three mile stretch that takes me from paved, rural suburbia to dirt roads, farmhouses, cornfield, pavement and our small downtown. Because I'm not the type of person who likes doing only one thing at a time, I took lots of photos with my iphone to pass the time. I became enamored with the large field of corn that almost stretched for a mile of the walk. Since it has stayed there unplucked I assume it is cow corn so I have had the chance to witness and write about its lifespan. While I turned these posts into poetry, I found the images equally as moving -- the way the silk changed from blush to withered brown, the growth from lean, slim bodies to plump overripened ears that burst forth from their husks. I loved to watch the husks sway in the wind and whisper to each other and sit soaking in the later heat. I watched as the ears leaned toward each other and eventually entwined. It was uniquely moving even without putting words to the actions, just watching and bearing witness to nature's own story. I have posted what I have written including links to earlier pieces on the blog already, but thought I'd gather them here again in one place.

Part 1 (Walk 8/9/13; Published 8/10/13): Husks

Part 2 (Walk 8/9/13; Published 8/11/13): Blondes

Part 3 (Walk 8/27/13; Published 8/27/13): Husks II

Part 4 (Walk 9/3/13; Published 9/24/13): Sleepy, Sun-Soaked Days

Part 5 (Walk 9/22/13; Published 9/24/13) : Husked

Husked

I pass by the silent field at sunset

after the concert has ended and cold blue light

has filled the empty spaces

where head-bangers danced.

I see the forms stacked atop each other

soldiers on a war-torn battlefield

These are the homeless, drunk and bloodied

On life's disappointments.

They stayed too long at the party

Stewed on their own regrets

Baked on unfulfilled dreams.

They swelled, then burst with

unrealized potential and unwarranted pride

They drank too much of promise.

Bald, disrobed, neglected of sun's embace

They bask in the shadows

These former long-haired redheads

Who once defined youth and spontaneity

Laid out on the barren field.

"Get up," I want to shout at them

"Rock on,"

The harvest moon looms full.

But when they stir

They simply cling to each other

Cuddled in the faded light.

Even wasted they lean in

Sharing their one hard-earned truth.

Neither dancing nor howling matter

In a life that's been husked

Only love remains.

Sleepy, sun-soaked days...

In these sleepy, sun-soaked days, life begins to slumber

and wither.

Bodies seek comfort in each other

Lives once bold and hungry for sex and song, promise and power

that too soon grew fat and lazy, begin to dream again.

Small, sleepy dreams sized to fit in their shriveled forms.

They sleep on porches, resting their heavy heads on each other's knees

like weary, obedient dogs.

Their limp hair intertwines like the gnarled fingers of ancient lovers

who have all but become one.

In these sleepy, sun-soaked dog days when life begins to slumber

The clock ticks

the air too heavy for sound to travel far

the young gather to sit amidst the old and bear witness.

Dry lips croak unsaid sentiments

These are the quiet days

Of tender blessings

When time and touch

are dreams enough.

Let these dog-tired forms find comfort in each other.

Let parched lips brush the hallowed cheeks of spent lovers.

Let the sun's hot, sweet breath

make them plump again.

  Rekindled desire spooning with grace.

Fall

...the world burst into color and I was left holding the sun.

Blues and Reds

I did well at the Tunbridge Fair and while I managed to remain cool enough when we approached Floral Hall for Joan to say, “you’re mighty calm. You don’t even seem excited to find out how you did,” I was pretty eager to learn. The photo entries in particular were plentiful so it took some time to find all my shots, but I was happy to have received two blue ribbons – one for my black-and-white entry of Joan’s two old “guard dogs” TarBaby and blind Puddleglum and one for my picture of Alfie gently pawing Waffles face as they playfully battle over a rose petal. This won a blue in the color other category. My picture of Gretchin lifting Ellie into the sky won a red ribbon in the color portrait category.

As for my artwork – my pencil sketch of Lorelei scored a blue, while my mixed media work of Joan snuggling a puppy and my ipad drawing of me and my guardian angel pugs both received red.  It was fun to see all the work of others. There were some great dog shots.

Collage Draft: Hungry Mind

 

I intended to write a blog post tonight, but got distracted by Facebook. I tuned into the Open Group at Bedlam Farm (a Facebook community) and saw Beth Heffern's challenge to do some interactive photo editing. I haven't had time to work on any photo collages lately and I was intrigued by Beth's photo as well as her idea to have members of the forum edit the picture of the Knickerbocker Staircase in their own way in order to learn from each other. By the time I took on the challenge, members had done some incredible editing, warming the shot, transforming it to black and white and creating some intriguing abstracts as well as stories to accompany them. I started the above collage and have a lot more to do to it before I call it complete, but unfortunately it's time for bed and I have to get up early to work on my Obamacare article. I'm happy with the beginning, however. The child on the staircase is named Sadie. I captured her photo at the Bedlam Farm Open House the other day and asked her mom's permission to use her photo in a collage. I have some others I will be using in the future, but when I first saw the staircase I pictured a child sitting on it. She and the cats, I imagine, are being inquisitive, listening to voices nearby. The other girl is my niece Catherine. I am considering lightening her hair in the picture to more closely match Sadie's. We'll see. I haven't quite worked out the whole story yet. I added broken glass on the staircase and I am imagining an argument that the child is overhearing. I am pleased with the dimensionality of the piece, the way Catherine is running toward something and the play of light. I'm trying to decide where to add hand-drawn elements and if I will add a further border or any embroidery. We'll see. I may even take things away. It's just a start...

I'm interested in what the picture is saying to you so far...

Schnorkie

Last Sunday we took my niece Ellie to Quechee Village to ride the train there. While she and her parents shopped inside, my mom and I rested near the entrance. It was hot and we were soon joined by other weary shoppers looking for a seat and some shade. The most interesting of these was a tall, slim blonde woman and her dog, a teeny comical wisp of a creature, part Schnauzer and part Yorkie -- "a Schnorkie" her owner proclaimed her. At four years of age, she had reached her full height and weight. She was happy to climb up on the wooden bench next to her Mom (just out of sight) and pose for my pictures, stopping only to meet and greet the other shoppers passing by. Her exuberance and no doubt unique appearance brought a smile to every person who stopped to pet her. It was interesting to observe their interactions. Some people seemed annoyed at first to have a dog hop in their paths. They would start to walk on by, but her persistence would make them look down and in every single instance, they warmed to her -- a smile passing from their lips to their eyes. She seemed to excel at hospitality. She wore her self-appointed job well.

Writing Prompt: Old Orchard Beach

Home again after a whirl wind trip to Maine. The scenery was beautiful, but it was even more special spending time with my friends from college. Years have passed and left a mark -- at least two of us were icing various body parts after a day of walking -- but we fell into easy conversation and step beside each other.

Write about a day spent with friends.

Apocalypse

Coming home from the airport tonight, we stopped in Montpelier for dinner. The sky was ablaze with color. The clouds seemed like blood-soaked cotton hovering above the buildings -- an apocalypse in the making.

Cemetery

Birth and death are bookends

I see that here.

A nursery of growing trees

In ordered rows

Conjures images of gravestones

A cemetery in my mind.

I see the wildflowers cast around them

And reminisce of florists and bouquets

Placed on the graves of those I’ve loved.

Not as morbid as it sounds

Just a passing note

That birth and death

Often reminds us of each other.