Rainbow House

...Two writing workshops, a retreat in a multi-colored cabin in Big Sur California, and the book The Artist's Way, and this is all I have come up with:



Rainbow House: 

I cannot name for you all the colors I see,

because Mauve
is next to sage
in a velvet pillow
softened
by uncounted bottoms
meditating
the Great "Om".

because asparagus green
is covering rough planks
under-painted by a sky-blue
and bleached
by sun and wind and bare feet and hands
in yoga poses
like "downward dog"

because the shadows hold
molded corners
trimmed with lavender
next to seafoam catching
sunrise beams
at just the right angle
under a cloudless
sky

because the water
in the bathtub
is shining across the splashes
of Monet's, Margaret Lofton's,
Don Louis Harrington's
paintings extending
reflections

because the orange I loathed
is re-birthed at every turn
in cantaloupe duvets covering
hot pink sheets
raspberry pillows and turquoise
drapes

because a door is a window
and a cabinet is a pie cellar
and a window is a ship's hull
and a north wall is a mirror
multiplying the colors
in a corner

because lamps
are gossamer balls
and ceilings are parasols
and corners are 4+2, or 4+4 or
4 plus
one

because the paint on the wood
is a palate,
in progress
of never the same two colors
over never the same two adjoining
surfaces distinct only
in connection to
the rainbows
cast

in light.

rewrite: Spring Fever's Touch

Sonnet to Wrists (1)

Some might say they wear a heart on their sleeve,

others blush a facial rush so red they bleed.

Others' secretive heat of embers rise

from an ancient hearth, deep within birth’s bed.

They burn an inward brand, through met eyes

to hands withheld beyond cuff’s end.

As collared dog will snarl, chained and hackled,

so damned pulses surge to hands and pretend

in tingling wrists bound tightly by shackles,

unsurfaced, unread, unheard, unopened.

How does one release passion’s hidden lock?

It requires no key, nor combination.

Thine own hand’s end unties the binding knot

by mere touch at hand’s origination. 

Spring Fever's Touch

For when the heat of embers rise
secretive beneath birth's bed
or burn inward through met eyes
to hands withheld beyond cuff's end

Just as a collared dog may snarl, toothful and hackled,
emotion's pulses surge to hands upended
as same as bound by shackles
unsurfaced, unread, unheard, unopened.

To release passion's simple lock
requires no key nor combination
for hand's end unties the knot
by mere touch at hand's origination.

The clouds before the ground

The sun warmed the clouds before the ground.
Inside the diner, the air preserved the
food from the kitchen to the table.
The garlic in the food was spicy on
two plates, one paper, one china.
The calling of the children and
the workers clattered our teeth.
But the sun outside warmed the
clouds before the ground.
Our feet were crossing roads but
words moved us forward.
The houses passed us by but
our lives unfolded.
The sun melted the chocolate in

your eyes for a moment.

Sunday 160: Alexithymic

Alexithymic I vacate a vacuum of vocable volumes. Verily a void of values is in view. Viable visions all too few, very vile vapid vicissitudes are vulcanized.  

This is a Sunday 160, a short story in 160 characters, spaces included. If you can make 160, post on Sunday and tell myself, and our host with the most, Monkey Man http://petzoldspracticalprose.blogspot.com/">HERE

Ha! have a happy week, I'll catch my muse one of these days......

In the meantime, please send me yours!

Assessing a life

Nursing assessment: 

female, " Ms. Doe"

caucasian, (white... with blue ink tatoos).

Age, unknown

over 50 under 80

(1-9-6-0 on her lifeline palm!)

Breaths 20, shallow, uneven

rise on her chest (with names:

"Jules Graham Alden"?)

Heartbeat 100, rapid pulses

and faint (beneath inked 

tiny poppy wristlets).

Abdomen, soft, rebounding,

normal sounding,

(at her navel, a Celtic knot surrounding).

Skin intact, free of bedsores

on heels, hips, elbows

(hosting animals in scores:

hummingbirds behind her arms

around her heels, talons like thorns

tortoise-shell across her sacrum forms).

Strong pedal pulses (revealing anklets,

written with lore of Pacific Crest, 

John Muir, and Yukon footsteps).

..............diagnosis: "dementia, Julie G. Alden, family unknown".

What would Dostoevsky say?

What Color, Grass?

What color is

grass 

today?

Through opalescent

filtered light

not the same

as tonight.

See, I rise:

earth hits the skies

azure stone

settles my eyes.

Tear-tones

leaking laser-

cut crystalline

star flashes.

What shades of

grass emerge?

rough edges

erased to shine.

On the cusp

of its zenith

the sun sucks

and grey-washes.

Mutating marbled

erasing away

receded rolling

Green Granite Grey

"There is no subject so old that something new cannot be said about it," Fyodor Dostoevsky.
(Although it was forbidden by his parents, Dostoyevsky liked to wander out to the garden of the hospital where his father worked with the poor. The patients sat in the garden to catch a glimpse of the sun. The young Dostoyevsky spent time with these patients and listened to their stories.)  I'm off to work, hospital, hand therapy, with stories to listen to......