Wordless Weds. = Tuesday toes in Calif?

see prior post about alienation in Spring.....

Lost Spring

Strewn

sprouts

in loam

of tiny green

mounds…

Sheets

of linen

hung in clouds…

Shrouds

of light

beyond

near sight...

Recall a lust

held in trust.

Winter lingers, a liar

to a Spring of

Saint Elmo’s fire.



I have a sense of alienation this Spring, as though nothing will ever be the same.  Winter is lingering much longer than usual in central California, with rainstorms reminiscent of the Pacific northwest. This shot was from our usually barren front acre, during a freak hailstorm last month.  It was followed by an even rarer snowstorm the following week, tricking the flowers and trees to retreat into dormancy even longer.

sunday 160: life's minutiae

Hospital monitors don’t soothe a newborn cry.Mothers don’t cry at dinner tables.Loud drunks don’t listen.Did postpartum depression have an evolutionary purpose?

 

(This is a flash fiction in exactly 160 characters, including spaces.  I took liberty with the spaces between the sentences for a better rhythm in the grammar. For more fascinating stories and poems visit the host with the minute 160, Monkey Man HERE .Try one yourself, and let us know!)

Tuesday Toes = Wordless Weds in Philly

In my muse's absence, I revert to my version of Wordless Wednesday: Tuesday Toes. 

Where have YOUR toes been?

Today I actually have a gift from my travels to Philadelphia.  I thought of my friends in blogland as I snapped this shot outside the Sheraton Hotel downtown. Of course the highlights of the trip: friends, the Rodin sculptures, and Hand Surgery/Rehabilitation Symposium.  (this was street art, emerging from the sidewalk and walls like the "Gates of Hell")

Toe photography began when early travels took me to New York.  I was newly married, headed for a college buddy's wedding in New Jersey.  I had not traveled out of California. Tired of the familiar profile shot for perspective in the forground, my buddy Kim and I began to shoot my foot with famous landmarks.  So what next?  Sisterhood of the traveling feet?

In Rodin's Hands

When I miss you,

I miss your hands to curl
my heart into.

-bluegrass blues on mandolin.
-drawing designs for a higher view.
-reconstructing tools into instruments.
-cuddling cat fur.
-morphing into tighter spots.

-compressing into vicelike strength.

-spreading a pyramid of support.
-pressing flesh with delicate fasciculations.
-articulating to tap, trace, scrape, slide or ruffle.

I miss inter-lacing through the windows of our souls.

Missing someone can take all shapes, forms and feelings.  What do you notice most when you miss someone?

 This poem is generated from a trip to Philadelphia, and the Rodin museum.  Before I spent 4 days studying hand surgery and rehabilitation, I spent 1 1/2 hours circling the bronze figures of hands, feet, nudes and faces at The Rodin Museum. 












This is what I miss.....

between the first and the last

Harmonic murmering - swinging open the doors
Soft eyes - in the vortex of the windstorm
Steady gaze - held in a familiar hammock
Slow motion blink - film strip strobing by
Upturned corners - grinning over and over inside
Inhale the scent - to lift a balloon above the sky


Owed to my teachers: of yoga, friendship, and love.