Sunday, August 20, 2006

Fall, a murder of ducks

camouflaged hunters sat, poised
my canoe rotated
china blue sky spun
wood ducks flushed
boom boom boom
I grabbed my throat
a scream escaped
my partner blocked his ears
we spun violently
red, yellow and brown leaves
moved upon the waters surface
away in concentric circles
as the wild birds fell

Friday, August 18, 2006

once upon a time when I was a very little girl

I just wonder who owns the shadow...

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Great Joy

This last sunday was Ric's memorial.
I looked forward to the community gathering and sharing but dreaded it's passing. Like holding a fresh picked Indian Paintbrush flower that within two seconds of pinching off the hairy stem all the life escapes it's vibrant body. A special something that inhabited the lovely wild thing, that is never to return as that flower again.
So we sat in a hot room; listened to music, cried, laughed, and spoke of a man who never criticized anyone or their art. Who accepted his diagnosis of a cruel and virulent cancer as a gift. Who for the last eight years of his life opened his heart in a gentle and kind way to all who came to him. Even at Sloan-Kettering during his stem cell agony when he could barely pull himself off the bed, he sat up and listened to a young woman visitor who was in great mental pain. He was a Buddhist.
Ric was often scruffy with food and paint on his large t-shirts and jeans. And his hair! A young artist described how his hair resembled a burdock thistle. It was soft brown straight hair that moved in the slightest breeze. He would push the wispy strands away from his face while he concentrated.
He was a collector of ideas, words, images and people he would embrace then release. When he spoke- it was a often gathering of strange and surprising images that slowly escaped his mind and lay like marvelous exotic seeds before his students.

On Sunday's he would sit in a local cafe with all the newspapers on his table open waiting for people to come and discuss anything and everything. Many came. He was open to the unknown...
His death a was peaceful passing from conscious to the unknown, he was a man who was comfortable within himself. He was a teacher who opened doors that seemed locked. He unlocked my creativity when I was sure it was gone. All the paintings I have posted on this site have been inspired by his great joy.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Oregon the green and fair

My image captured during a blissed out moment in Oregon.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

poem about to be published

Otter Lake Clan
(A Community in Forest County, Wisconsin)

We Indians gathered
the scent of sweet grass spiked
as women weaved baskets

my, mixed breed, great-grandmother laughed heartily
as a hand carved pipe, filled with pungent tobacco, passed around
to Lumber barons, white people

My, white, Grandpa was such a flirt
he pinched flesh
so many born without his name

red onion dyed threads attached to the baskets
as the umbilical cord twists, giving life
too many adopted

my mother was born, out of the mystery of these unions
many whispered how she had high cheek bones
We are one, weaved into the tight sweet-grass baskets