Day Twenty-three, NaPoWriMo

There are no rules?

I tire of being told
“there are no rules”
because I think there are
there are some rules
or at least some things
that apply to a situation
or to a drawing to
make it come out better
better in the end
or as you hope it will.
“Do your own thing’ was
what we used to say
and a lot of “no rules”
means the same thing
but I’d rather just
sing my own song
than be told I can
sing any way I want
without worrying
about someone else’s
rules because those
rules don’t exist.
Keep your eyes on
your own paper
I’ll do my own thing.

I think I just paid a nominal fee for a series of video talks telling me there are “no rules” to do something I am interested in doing. Probably they’ll get to the more “how-to” part of things shortly but so far it’s all about getting people to believe they can do something because there are no rules…


Day Twenty-two, NaPoWriMo

Letter from V.

Another letter from V.
He’s out and about in the town
And sends a drawing of the bridge
Describing the jay blue sky
Arcing above the locals
passing in their work
Ignorant of the red
And gold and greens
That lay, a treasure,
All around them.
The sepia words are so small.
They spill down the page
Flowing with the river
Toward the sea.

Went to the Clark for a little plein air time and to see the last day of the Drawn to Greatness exhibit. Sat up on the hill under a cloudless sky. It was pleasant in just a sweater and a vest but a few times I held onto things due to wind.

Although the day started out all about the birds and hill, inside I visited my favorites from the exhibit and did a little people watching. Last days of exhibits bring out interesting folks looking at stuff!

Day Twenty-one, NaPoWriMo

There on the floor,
the unexpected.
Finding a cat’s whisker
is a rare event
despite the multiple
cats and their
multitudinous whiskers.
They seem unusually shed
but it must happen like
any hair, certainly more
often than say the kitten’s
teeth, which I’ve never
found a single one after
generations of kittens
grown to cats
and gone now beyond.
Today, a single fine
black whisker which
must be Molly’s,
the singularly black
matriarch of my three.
She shows no interest
when shown this treasure.
The kittens, lighter tabbies,
show no concern at all.
It will be lying on the table
when I return tonight
and I’ll consider its fineness
again and consider all it has
encountered and think of the
collection I’d have if I’d saved
all the whiskers I’d found
over all the years and cats
But I don’t save them,
anymore than I save the
first green grass of spring
or those first sour apple
starts of summer.

Day Twenty, NaPoWriMo

This morning before work I headed out, hoping to do a little painting before work. And I did. But there was this glaring bright thing up in the sky that hurt my eyes! Sun? What’s that? I don’t remember…

A long grey sad
glowy at the edges
it comes over
the last hill of winter
in February a day
warm enough to melt the walks
is welcomed gladly
in April it had better be warm
it had better not bring snow
Surly? perhaps. Winter is
a string of many days and
furnace-driving nights
As much as you can revel
in the icy challenge of it
eventually it has to go.
The birds have returned,
the daffodils are waiting
and well, we’re all waiting
for that clear day
that turn of air
the softening of the tree line
bursting with maple red
and willow gold
and spring.

Day Nineteen, NaPoWriMo

A quote from Vincent that I’ve been chewing on the past few days, ended up this way. The ending isn’t quite there yet methinks.

Deep in snow, walking with cold.
The shining air, stirring around the trees
rearranging the drifts, whistling
on the brown garden stems,
It has always been winter, you might think
it will always be winter
on yet another morning of snowflakes
and white crusted garden and walk.
But as unchanging as that moment
standing in the snowy night,
the heart knows winter will pass
and come again and return once more
after spring and summer and fall
the snow will return, squeak and slush,
but first the green shoots shivering
and the long days of hot blue sky
and the smoky days of fiery leaves.
In each a moment, all is always like this:
the endless tulips, the eternal cornfields,
the brilliant maple at last giving way
to the white and snowy field and
frosted windows, the breath made visible,
and the thought returns that it was always
thus, and our heart will always remember,
a familiar step on the porch step,
welcoming each return in turn.

Day Eighteen, NaPoWriMo

Hey you don’t have complete control over what goes on in your head, especially late at night!

All the old stuff precariously stuck
in my head, there’s no telling when it may,
and it may, surface at the most
inopportune time, you know how that goes.
What was I saying? Oh yes, all the thoughts
the memories, the tales of things long past
they come back, and often do, unlooked for,
unasked and sometimes unwanted, they appear.
It is sweet to remember my grandma
the summer fireplace with my dad singing
warm days in a boat fishing on the lake
the whistling of wind with January snow
But here, an ancient song learned long ago,
comes back to ask sternly: who’s the fool now?
But having made me look up the lyrics
I’ve still no answer for that rousing line
So memory that’s butted in, who’s the fool now?

Day Seventeen, NaPoWriMo

The radio spits out
news that can’t be held
listening as witness,
eyes opening and turning
to the weirdness of snow
on the seventeenth
of April, snow, hail, sleet
doesn’t this seem
more likely than
all that world stuff?
Mid-April, not mid-March
The days are more
February than May
more grey than sun
and all that again today
This weather three sixty
made fields fine brocade,
green and gold and white,
shining drops on each twig
each an upside down world
each the moment’s truth
and then gone.