Art

Describe one simple thing you do that brings joy to your life.

Daily writing prompt
Describe one simple thing you do that brings joy to your life.
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Describe one simple thing you do that brings joy to your life.

Painting.

I was always told that I couldn’t paint. “You don’t have a clue. Give it up now. You’re wasting your time, and ours.” Same with drawing and any other form of visual and creative art. I tried to build model aircraft – Spitfires and Hurricanes, Gloucester Gladiators, SE5s -. They were ugly, lumpy, had crooked wings, and never flew properly. The few that I managed to launch often fell apart on landing. Same with model kites. The one I did manage to build took off in a half a gale and got stuck in a tree.

Failure!!!!!

Much later in life I re-discovered Henri Matisse. “I make meaning out of shape and color.” Then I stumbled across Salvador Dali’s famous statement: “I don’t know what it means, but I know it means something.” From there I started to take lines for a walk, and moved into cartoons – you will find some earlier on these pages *click here* – or – *click here* – or just explore these early pages for yourself.

From these cartoons, I moved, with the encouragement of Geoff Slater, the Art Director at Kingsbrae International Residencies for Artists (I was the first writer in residence, June 2017), to actually painting, for the first time, with acrylics on canvas. This led me to my Pocket Paintings / Peintures de Poche, made with acrylics on 4″ x 6″ postcards. What fun. I now have well over a hundred of these and, guess what! – just like my books, I give them away to my friends for free.

These simple, linked acts – writing – painting – gifting – bring me great joy.
Long may it continue.
Pax amorque.

Coming Soon ….

Coming soon ….. to a Rollator near you.

Yesterday I checked the galley proof and all seems well. The distortion on the photo above is all mine (!) and the original cover is much clearer, better, straighter, and brighter.

I have not posted for two weeks, and yet some of my faithful followers have still clicked on this site to see how I am doing. Thank you so much.

Several things happened last month. (a) I started a stretching and exercise program. (b) I upped my walking to 4000 steps a day. (c) I used a combination of Rollator [Nexus 3] and shopping cart to build up, slowly, to an hour a day of aerobic exercise.

That’s all good news for the physical body and the mental state, but not such good news for the creative cycle. Blog postings have suffered and my online social presence has been greatly reduced. On the good side, I have been out and about, around the garden and around the block, and have re-established contact with neighbors, friends, and the local canine newbies and golden oldies.

I also managed to edit and correct and revise Seasons of the Heart and this chapbook of poems, based on my meditations on Anam Cara (by John O’Donohue) will soon be available to gift to my closest friends.

As you probably know by know, I do not sell what I call my “Covey Collection” of self-published chapbooks and books. If you wish to support my efforts as an artist, you can do so by clicking on this link and seeing if there is anything that fancies your tickle, sorry, I mean tickles your fancy.

B & W

“Slim words couched
in the empty whiteness
of the page.”
John O’Donohue,
Anam Cara

black words
          white page
thoughts
          floating in space

airs and graces
          whirlwind words
blowing through
          freshening
cleansing

cotton clouds
          silky sky
that one word
          waiting
to be spoken

that one thought
          soon to be word-borne
out from the dark

a new existence
          to brighten us
blind us with light

We’ll Rant and We’ll Rage …

We’ll Rant and We’ll Rage …

Spring is here. An election is near. Road repair season has started.

1. Spring potholes – they are terrible and they are everywhere.

It was so bad in one area of town that people filled them with water and put out little plastic yellow ducks to float on them.

That way they could be seen, which saved the loud clunk of them being heard and felt.

In one place, some street artist used the potholes as the centerpiece for porno pictures.

Success –  early next morning, the potholes had been filled in.

2. Spring road repairs – horrific – and all too abundant.

We have a sign at the bottom of road saying “Caution – Construction  – drive carefully for the next 6 kms.”

At the 1 km mark, a lollipop person with a STOP sign. 

Ahead of us, 24 cars – behind us, the traffic line up is building. 

We wait 15 minutes.

A white half ton appears, followed by a line of cars. 

The half ton pulls into a drive ahead of us.

We count the cars as they drive past.

99 of them. Then a pause.

The white half ton reverses out of the drive and pulls up in front of us.

On his tail gate a sign that says “FOLLOW ME”.

He pulls away, and the first car follows him, as do we all.

He drives at 10-15 kph.

After 1.4 kms, we see the road works – the actual working space is less than 200 meters long.

We keep driving. 

At the 3 km mark, the white half ton turns off, into someone’s drive.

Alas, the driver of the first car has no sense of humor and doesn’t follow the leader into the drive but sets off at speed down the road.

I count the cars that are waiting to return – 59 of them and more arriving.

It has taken us close to 25 minutes to negotiate 200 meters of road repair.

3. Bridge closures – there are three bridge crossings from the south side to the north side of the river.

One is at Mactaquac, over the dam, about 15 kms up stream from the Westmoreland Bridge, the central crossing point. 

The Mactaquac crossing has been reduced to ‘one way at a time’ traffic for the last two or three years, and will stay like that for most of the summer. 

Don’t ask, they won’t tell and I can’t tell, because I don’t understand.

The third bridge is the Princess Margaret. 

It is closed to all traffic for the next five weeks and this is the third year that someone has been working on it.

So, for the next five weeks, we are all reduced to crossing the river by one bridge, the Westmoreland, unless we drive 15 kms to a ‘one way at a time’ crossing or 20 kms down river to the Burton Bridge at the Town of Oromocto.

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light!
My thanks to my good friend, Dana Webster who inspired me to write this by sending me a rant of her own. NB Click here to link Dana’s Creative World.

What sacrifices have you made in life?

Daily writing prompt
What sacrifices have you made in life?
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What sacrifices have you made in life?

Oh dear, so many, many sacrifices. Here, let me count the ways. This morning, for breakfast I sacrificed a banana, followed by an orange. Last night, for supper, I sacrificed a lobster – and it was lovely. I thanked its spirit for allowing me to nourish myself upon it. Then, for lunch, I sacrificed three eggs and cooked them in an omelet. You know what they say “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs”. Nor can you be a robber baron without breaking legs. Sorry. Wrong post. That belongs under “Have you ever broken any bones?” To which my answer is – “Only those of other people.” Maybe I’ll write that one later. But for now, two poems for your entertainment!

Squeezed Orange

Clock greets the hours
with hammer blows,
on a quivering anvil.

Rooster crows
his thick, rich cocoa rico:
morning provides
smells of roasting beans.

Squeezed orange –
glass fills with a golden liquid,
as fierce and sweet
as sunshine on a branch.

A wasted globe,
this orange bath robe,
spent and exhausted,
soon to be transubstantiated.

Breakfast

Yesterday,
I sacrificed a chicken.

Unborn,
it lay within
it’s calcium cocoon,
dormant,
a volcano sleeping
beneath thick snow.

Tap, tap, tap,
the silver spoon
bounced off
the hairless skull:
a sudden crack,
a spurt of orange blood.

Note: This poem is taken from my poetry collection Obsidian’s Edge – From Morning to Night: A Day in Oaxaca

Son Spots

Sun Spots

A painting and a poem dedicated to an only child who, in spite of all his achievements, was never good enough to earn the love of his parents.

Emptiness

The emptiness of air
          leaves the birch standing there,
framed by a space
          that will fill with chatter
and a flock of birds.

When evening comes,
          darkness frames the ash.
It sparkles
          with the gold dust of stars,
that swim through space.

Beneath snow’s empty page,
          grass and flowers root.
They will grow green tongues
          and rage next spring
at the coverlet
          keeping them in place.

A touch of warmth.
          Tiny flowers start to show.

What language do they speak
          as they spread their petals
and let fresh spring words flow?

My head fills with emptiness.
          My mouth is a silent space.

I sit and wait for words
          to break like sea waves
and create, who knows what,
          when they fill that empty place
within my heart and head.

White Space

White Space

A place of silence,
          white space
at page edge,
          bearing witness
to the absence
          of words.

A place to pause,
          rest,
to think.

A place,
          like the white space
between lines of prose,
          where eye and mind
can pause and rest.

Bewildering
          the pounding
of earwig music,
          the advert repeated

again and again,
          the omnipresent
sound byte.

Everlasting,
          the loop, the loop,
the interminable loop
          that intrudes on
silence.

Words

Words emerge
          from the silence
of blood and bone.

They break
          that silence
the day they are born.

Silence,
          once broken,
cannot be repaired.

A word once spoken
          cannot be recalled.

The greatest gift –
           knowing how to be alone,
how to sink into silence.

A world of words
          smothered at birth
and that world,
          dismissed, forgotten,
sometimes still-born.

A lost world of words
          whirled on the silent wind
that fans the unborn fire within.

The spider web of the mind
          blown clear by the wind
that blows unspoken words.

The hush of the tadpole
          swimming
into its own metamorphosis.

The sultry oblivion
          of blood and bone.

Poetry that expresses the authenticity of being. Playful, yes, but packed with meaning. Taste it on the tongue. Savor it in the mind. Touch the words on the page. Indulge yourself in the white spaces between the words. Read and re-read each poem. Dive into its depths. Swim – but do not let yourself drown. When you surface again, return to the light and remember, all will be well.

Illumination

Two Poems to help you find your way in the dark!

1

Suit of Lights

I am a man of straw
          shivered by raw winds,
frosted by the cold
          enveloping this enigmatic body
with its rattle of drying bones.

I walk with two canes,
          not just a sick man,
but a stick man.

My broken body
          hangs on the coat hanger
of my battered bones,
          its worn-out sack
knitted from skin,
          bonded with blood.

The magic hour descends.

Earth glows
          with a different light,
my world is transformed,
          translucent, bright.

A touch of the almighty,
          this beauty surrounding me,
blessing me.

I wear a sudden clarity
          with this suit of lights.

2

Illumination

You must find it for yourself.
         Were I to tell you what it is
and where it dwells,
          the light it brings you
would be warped,
          untrue.

Only
          you can find
that light.

Only you
          can strike the match,
ignite that blaze,
          trap its warmth
in your own bone cage.

Enlightened,
          you must dig and dig,
deeper and deeper,
          until you lose yourself
in a bottomless pit.

When you are lost,
          look up.

In the dark above,
            you will find
a tiny pinhole of light,
          a star to guide,
a glow-worm
          to light your way
in the darkest night.

Silence

Silence

silence
          between words
tranquil movements
          the world
stands still
          suspended
in space

silent space
          between the stars

Aurora Borealis
          soundless night
drenched
          in silent light

listen –
          can you hear
your heart beat

can you hear
          the silence
of your house

time
          sifting silent
through an hour glass
         filled with light
drifting into
          night

Silent Light

Silent Light

Silent light,
          breaking soundless,
dispelling night’s mists,
          lighting up flowers,
so graceful,
          when decked out in light.

At night,
          the moon turns into a mirror,
a silver boat
          suspended in space.

Silent,
          its light enlightening
the heart’s dusky craters,
          the mind’s gloomy shafts,
where hidden treasures hide,
          waiting for the light.

The Value of Space

Space, round an object,
     reveals its aura,
its implicit innocence.

Consider the shimmer –
          a sunlit orange
basking in its basket.

Observe
          the pride of the cat,
nestled on cushions,
          its coat prickling
with sunlight.

Space
          surrounds us.
We walk within it,
          live because of it.

Space
           fills us.
Water
          in our body’s sponge
a part of us,
          as we become
a part of it.

Author’s Notes

We crave the space around us, the silence between words, but invasive noise destroys us, body and soul. We must seek the sanctity of silent light and space.

What does freedom mean to you?

Daily writing prompt
What does freedom mean to you?
View all responses

What does freedom mean to you?

When I look at that one word, alone on the page, I think, above all, of the multiple meanings attached to such a word, then I think of how it can be twisted in so many ways to make it mean whatever the speaker wants it to mean. So, let me begin by asking, what does freedom mean, in general, not in my own specific case.

Freedom – “the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.” Interesting – no mention here of right or wrong, of truth or lies, of harassment or of perjury. Freedom – speech with no hindrance or restraint.

Freedom – the “absence of subjection to foreign domination or despotic government.” Wow! The first is very interesting but the second is extremely problematic. We need a definition of despotic and of government. We also need further clarification as to who decides what governmental despotism means. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder and if there is no arguing about taste, is the definition of despotism purely subjective? Who shall guard the guards? Does a despot consider himself or herself to be despotic? Do his or her followers? Or is it only the people who suffer and become victims of the despot’s hands, feet, orders, laws, commands, bullies, or general conduct?

Freedom – “the state of not being imprisoned or enslaved.” This is certainly much clearer. Thank you.

But consider where this very brief analysis has led us. And we haven’t even started on the Biblical meanings of freedom – “freedom from sin” – “and the truth shall set you free” – and here we are only scratching the surface of the possible religious and philosophical meanings of what the Spaniards call libre albedri’o, or free will.

What does freedom mean to you?

And now we move into the personal and the personal circumstances will change for each one of us. In my own case, freedom is my new Nexus 3 Rollator. It allows me to put aside my canes and walk around the block, something I have been unable to do for several years now. Wow – freedom to walk on my own, just leaning on my wheeled walker. Freedom to talk to my old friends, many of whom I have not seen or spoken to for a long time. Freedom to meet and talk to new neighbors, many with their lovely children and wonderful dogs. Freedom to breathe in the fresh air of early spring and to visit the flowers as they start to grow. Freedom, for me, is also the ability to see with my own eyes. Last month, I had my lenses laser-polished and now I can see again with 20/20 vision. Wow – that is really freedom, to to be able to read all but the tiniest print, without needing to use glasses. Freedom, for me, is also the ability to be able to cook, shop, move, live, without excessive pain. My new powers of walking have helped me with that. Long may it continue. It is also the good fortune to have enough money and strength to live in my own house and not to need a care home or regular home help.

Freedom – Such a magic word – such a powerful word – such a personal word. The freedom to choose to be myself, dependent on nobody else – and long may that freedom continue.