Painting goes on

And here we are like one big WHOOOOSH, at the end of June. I’ve gone a few times now to the OOMS conservation south of me toward Chatham. It’s a nice little spot with different options for parking and sitting not too far from the road.

Last night I drove home from Mom’s in a heavy rain but eventually got ahead of the front and saw this amazing light, definitely beige-not-grey area where the sky was lighter and less heavy ahead. Eventually the front caught up to me at home and it poured there too but I was already painting by then. I was working seriously to get that lighter area and then the darkest part of the silhouetted view. Sure mixed up a lot of DARKS.

IEastward, rainy night.

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So Much Depends…

On a red shopping cart.

Day Thirty, NaPoWriMo

It’s good to jot down words:
a line of conversation,
two words or three that
appear on the windshield
during the drive to work
good to capture them in
the dailyness of life
snatching them from
wherever words and ideas go
when they decide you’ve
ignored them too long
or aren’t paying attention.
Listening and looking for them,
muse-like they appear regularly
and, having paper and pen
at the ready, they stay.
The day to day after day
of describing and remembering
is an adventure without
known destination. The road
turns or brinks a hill
and there you are watching
birds boiling up on
paper-scrap wings to
a sky yet unseen.

Thank you to all my April NaPoWriMo visitors, readers and commentators. Hope you had a great month and thanks for sharing my thirty newly written poems!

Day Twenty-nine, NaPoWriMo

I can tell I’ve been listening to the lays of Bilbo.

Here, small works,
the labor of the world,
are known, that day by day
we hurry through
both chores and song
and lightly running
pass down one path
then next and next
penultimate unknown
a day is reached
and then the last
how many paths til
that rest place found
Neither knowing nor telling
the days lead on.
Sit! Stay then,
telling tales and singing
here where life lies
and sweet work of living
guessing what may be
past the hill’s edge
there where the clouds fly

This morning Mom and I went to visit the Cohoes Falls and then breakfast and then some pokemoning.

Day Twenty-seven, NaPoWriMo

Jumped? No.
Not at all.
Falling? Not exactly.
Allowed myself to fall?
Gave myself willingly
to the spring surge,
the tidal pull?
More than likely.
Look the wrong way
and it plows down
and sweeps you away
unexpected.
Not necessarily
surprised but still…
Turn upstream and see
that last bit of ice
that dark wave of
night-long rain coming
Be ready to lift
your joyous feet.

Cohoes Falls, today.

Day Twenty-four, NaPoWriMo

That’s what I started out with, but then I sat looking over a little pond, thinking I might be painting or sketch-booking or something. Instead I fished my binoculars out of the trunk and sat watching a pair of blue herons building a big nest way up in a tree. There were lots of smaller birds and a handful of canadian geese too.

A heron slides past,
into the pines, some miracle
slicing air between branches
He returns, stick
held out enticing
Taking, she places,
he rearranges,
another gift and another
careful chosen, flown,
offered and offered up
shaggy plumage shifting
She leans her curves
against his solidity
above the growing nest
waiting patiently each time
for the return, the gift,
the hopeful placement
the careful adjustment
the inevitable eggs
the unstoppable departures.

There was some serious lopping after writing that one, hey it happens. All you people and you know who you are who ask – does it need that ‘the’ – can smile now.

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.