The color spills from the canvas

Into the stark white

tucked-in corner of the great museum.

Buoyed upon this current of color,

and playing within its flow

Comes laughter: joyous and gentle.

 

Does no one else hear?

 

This Maypole whirlpool

Of a happy moment

Sweeps me along,

Woos me

In the shoe-shuffling,

Mouth-muffled quiet

Of the great museum

Into laughter of my own.

 

Visitors’ eye whip-flick in my direction.

 

I am standing quite still

In a stark white tucked in corner

of this great museum,

Yet I am far away in time and place.

I am with the artist on a very good day,

A day full of laughter, light and color.

The smile on my face lifts like a hot air balloon.

I am completely free and spinning into joy.

#GuggenheimMuseum #ModernArt #AbstractArt

A slender, young girl

Strolls in the sunlight

With her hair perfectly styled

Wearing her high tops

And blue-patterned sundress

With matching mask.

She is the ideal picture

Of the new, young chic.

#COVIDandMandates #VirusandMasks

Written for Ray Bradbury, author of Martians Chronicles,

 on the occasion of the first landing on Mars

 

Once,

past the tomb

of this gray gypsum moon

alien spaceships chased

the craters of the sky

and Mystery wore robes fluorescent green.

 

Then,

through eons of red sky and earth

breathed the spirit

of the ghost people

who flew the stars

and measured the universe

with candid chasm eyes too true

and whispered songs of sighs

too sorrow-soft for ears to hear

who swift and light

sparked the night of our innocence.

 

Till

the quests of leaden savage arrows

slashed gossamer shadows

to pierce the night of our dream, and…

a lost ghost people died.

#RayBradburyandMartianChronicles #MartianLanding

The presents are all unwrapped

And gifts stowed away

In their rightful spaces:

Closets and drawers

And other special places.

The Christmas meal gobbled

And vanished,

The table has returned

To everyday dress.

 

There are no guests

To be lingering on.

This is 2020, no guests allowed

For safety’s sake.

After-Christmas sales are few

As the stores are closed.

 

Traffic near the mall

Is stalled by overflowing

Cars from restaurant take-out lines,

Because those seeking a change

From the food at home

May not dine inside or outside.

All this is a gift of 2020.

 

Parks are attended by very few—

Maybe one, two or three

For a little time—

Kids with a new toy,

A dog with its owner—

Then the park is once more open,

Dormant and waiting

Like spaces long unexplored.

 

Here and there a few people

Are seen about on sidewalks,

Wearing their masks of choice.

It’s been a sad Christmas season.

That’s all too clear.

 

Now, except for a pyramid of tree

With its fading fragrance of pine,

And the lights on the house,

All signs of Christmas are gone.

#ChristmasandCOVID #ChristmasandRestrictions

He wasn’t there

(I know).

The jolly fat man

In the red snowsuit.

 

He wasn’t there.

 

My mother told me later

He couldn’t have been there

Bending over near the chimney

Straightening up the toys.

 

He wasn’t there.

 

And he didn’t turn and nod

To me standing barefoot

In my nightgown

Chilled and thrilled

At the kitchen door.

 

I must have been dreaming.

I know.

 

The presents are all unwrapped

And gifts stowed away

But in the joy of a memory

In the heart of a child,

The four-year old me—

 

I know

And will forever know—

He was there.

#Christmas #ChristmasandChildhood #SantaClaus

Adrift in the Rings of Hafliet in the softness of gloetied evening on the planetoid Laslan, the people gather. It is the night of Graet Stoeree, and the Lastuons come to the Graet Plaes.

From the Eebn Plaes, the dwarfish Caevns come with faces hidden beneath blackened domes glinting above their velvet suits worn only for the Graet Stoeree Gathering. From the Flat Plaes, the homeless Roemrs come in their hafcast capes and Lostiem dress. From the Vels, the Leeds come in their golden robes, bringing the Graet Stoeree feast. Down from the Skie Mas, the Munteers come to wait beside the Graet Plaes arch and greet the travelers as they gather on the plain of Landen Plaes.

This night all will eat together as one family.

When the feast is over and the Graet Songs have been sung, as the last flowing of the gloetied passes beyond the Skie Mas, the Graet Stoeree Telr rises from the Landen Plaes and stands beneath the Graet Plaes arch to tell again the Graet Stoeree.

“Once in the Lostiem in the black void beyond the farthest sun in the Emptee Plaes, there was a green planet of blue and white.

On this planet there was a man, strong like the Munteers, as handsome as the greatest of the Leeds, wise like the Caevns and gifted with a power stranger than the mystic games of the Roemrs. Like us, he did not belong to that planet but came there from a better place. Unlike us, he chose to go there and could return to his home at any time.

He came in a starship which glided slowly over the land until it came to rest in the place, Bethlum. So great was  he that he could guide the starship when he was just a tiny one. He was so small the people of that planet thought he was just an infant.

There was a man and a woman in Bethlum who had no child, and they cared for him as if he were their own son. After he had found a home with the man and the woman, he told his great father who then sent an army to tell the people of Bethlum that they should honor and protect his son.

And the people did. Great Leeds, called kings, came to give him gifts, and homeless ones came to receive his wisdom. But some did not believe the power of the tiny one and tried to harm him. So he hid from these people and pretended that he was one of the people of that planet and belonged to the man and the  woman. The people then forgot his father’s great army and he grew and lived like the children of that place.

But one day, his great father called to him saying “You are grown now, my son, and you must do what I sent you to do.” So, the son, who now looked like a man, left the place where he was and began a new life….”

In the shadowless night of Graet Stoeree

On the plain of Landen Plaes

The Lastuons listen with the ears of children

In the hushed silence of their hearts.

#Christmas #ChristmasStory #ChristmasandScienceFantasy

I am told that I am angry,

that my anger has been cultured

out of mind.

 

I am told that I have not sought

the mountain top

because the path was sabotaged-

mother, father, brother, sister

all contributing traps, fences,

exploding mines to bar the way.

 

But I never was a serious climber.

It is too hard, even without

gendercidal barriers.

I do not like to fight,

though I have and I do.

I must sometimes fight

to be allowed not to scale

some looming mountain peak.

 

Yet it is true.

I feel my gender’s anger

for the oppressive fear

that denied my freedom of dress,

the freedom of traveling alone,

of living alone.

 

Why am I,

like the many of a hated race,

made to feel an ever-present fear,

Ambush always seeming imminent,

No place of safety,

and no freedom to forget

the nearness of the threat?

 

Why has this constant terror

been supported as tradition,

a culturally accepted norm?

 

For this crippling of my life

there is anger–

a raging inferno that would, if loosed,

be matched only

by the devastation

at the birth of a volcano.

#Feminism #ViolenceAgainstWomen

drips metronoming

with unchanging beat    drip drip

dull December rain

 

#RainPoetry

You listened.

And as I spoke,

I saw in your eyes

not the anger

nor the fear

I had seen before

in other eyes.

 

For as those others

heard me speak

they saw a reality

that threatened

what security they had.

 

But you listened

to the pain,

to the frightened

lost child that spoke

You drew from me

what I most needed

to share.

 

You listened.

For the first time

in my seeming

endless search,

I found someone

to listen.

 

You gave to me

the greatest gift

I have ever received.

There is no greater gift.

 

You freed my soul.

#ListeningandCompassion #Communication #Depression #Compassion

The glow from an unseen fire

Is both warm and cruel,

Revealing every crease

In the deeply lined face

Beneath a well-worn mob cap

From which a few gray,

Somewhat greasy looking curls

Have escaped.

She is an old woman.

Her skin dark from days of sun

And perhaps also from her lineage.

Her right eye is clouded by cataract,

But the left is alive with light.

This is a face that would have appealed

To Rembrandt to detail in a miniature

Portrait, perhaps, or in the shadows

Of a larger commissioned work.

Even the vague dark background

Of the portrait before us

Is reminiscent of his paintings.

True to the title, the woman,

Leans forward from her pillowed chair,

Her mouth open with a slight smile,

Her gnarled hands reach out from beneath

The heaviness of her shawl

In a gesture intended to clarify her words,

And draw in her listeners.

She pulls you nearer

Leaving you wishing

You could hear the story

She is so eagerly sharing.

#VirturalPortrait #WordPortrait #Storyteller