Rainbow Flower and Pot
Finley has decided, quite rightly, that what she wants to paint, draw, or colour, is much more important than any of the page prompts in the drawing book I got her. That said, this could easily be a comic book cover – or the cover photo of my next book.
“I want to see the world again through the eyes of a little child” – Picasso. The gift of so doing is precious.
Compassion
Finley #3.
We are working together on paintings.
This is Finley’s third effort. It is called Compassion.
Mirror images and tinges of warmth and reaching out.
Fin #2
Fin, while filling in squares, created a portrait of Moo.
This is my style of art. That’s how I paint. I hope you enjoy it.
Bye.
Nos Sadwrn
Saturday today, just another Saturday. Took a morning whirlpool bath, had breakfast went shopping, then decided to post something. But post what? Anything.
Qui tacet consentire videtur – whatever that mans, and I am sure someone out there can help me. Life takes funny steps at my age, and forgetting things is one of them.
Ephemera – the title of the leading painting, shows a poem being half-obliterated by autumn leaves and early snow. Everything seems so ephemeral, so quick to pass by. As for me, I blossomed and flourished like a leaf on a tree, but now I wither, slowly, shrinking back into myself. Or is it just a version of my myself? To thine own self be true. So easy to say. But I am no more myself, I have become the fifth of the twelfth. Or, as Apollinaire, whoever he was, once wrote: je ne me sens plus la, moi-meme. Je suis le quinze de l’onzieme. Oh accents, accents, accents – you can’t find them when you need them and you can’t lose them without expensive elocution lessons. And even with those lessons, rhythm and accent come creeping back again, when least you expect them to.
Jyst nos Sadwrn arall yn – and maybe there’s someone out there who can sort that one out for me too. But in spite everything, I guess it’s anither day, another post, and a drop more water under the Mirabeau bridge as well as just another Saturday night. meanwhile – Odeur du temps, brin de bruyere – et souviens-toi que je t’attends –
Flower Power
The hollyhocks are back. A little bit late, but just starting to reveal themselves in all their glory. It’s been a strange spring, with frost warnings (and two actual frosts) in June, heavy rain, T-Storms, a tornado watch, extra hot days and, thankfully cold nights with the temperatures at +4C, even this month, July.
The yucca plant is flowering again, with three flourishing stems this time. It only started to flower late last week, but it, too, is full of promise. Somehow, while there are flowers, there is still some hope, some beauty, and some time and space for rejoicing.
Ah, daffodils, my favourite flowers.
Daffodils
Winter’s chill lingers well into spring.
I buy daffodils to encourage the sun
to return and shine in the kitchen.
Tight-clenched fists their buds,
they sit on the table and I wait
for them to open.
For ten long days the daffodils
endured, bringing to vase and breakfast-
table stored up sunshine and the silky
softness of their golden gift.
Their scent grew stronger as they
gathered strength from the sugar
we placed in their water, but now
they have withered and their day is done.
Dry and shriveled they stand paper-
thin and brown, crisp to the touch.
They hang their heads as their time
runs out and death weighs them down.
Click here for Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Daffodils
Vis brevis, ars longa – life is short but art endures. Maybe my daffodils will last longer than the yucca and the hollyhocks. They will certainly outlive this year’s bloom. Time and tide wait for no man, and flowers too are subject to the waxing and the waning of the moon. That’s life, I guess. Long may it last.
To Meditate is No Disgrace
The Water Tower
16
There comes a time when you can do no more.
You need to take a break, to step aside and wait
for the tide to turn and energy to flow.
The hard yards may be behind you,
but there’s hard yards waiting round the bend,
waiting for the break to end.
And you, you might bend and take a break,
but you must never break.
No one else can see what you see
or do what you do.
Nobody can take your place.
To take a break
and meditate is no disgrace.
Click here for Roger’s Reading on Anchor.
To Meditate is no Disgrace
My Morning Coffee
The Water Tower
15
“The only photo I took today was of my morning coffee.
Looks calm and peaceful, doesn’t it? It wasn’t!
The wind gusts were unrelenting, with just
enough moments of calm and warmth from the sun
to give me hope.
There was also some rain, snow, and a little hail,
just enough to get me running for cover.
A wise man once told me that
‘some days you’ll be the hammer,
and others the nail.’
Today I was the nail.”
On the Seventh Day
The Water Tower
14
On the seventh day he would have rested,
but there’s no rest for the restless artists
who create in thought, word, and deed.
They can rest from the deed
and take a day off work,
but thought and word go on.
And even if their day is silent,
with no one to talk to, no words at all,
the everlasting bunnies of thought
dance on and on,
beating their drums,
planning, sketching, designing,
outlining, shuffling the cards,
mixing colors and words
in endless games of creativity.
Another Long Day
The Water Tower
13
“Another long day but I completed the sky,
then finished the wharf’s grey asphalt.
Large areas are easier to spray with my air gun.
It’s hard to paint them with a brush.
I also got the base coat on to the ever-greens.
Much more difficult: I painted the inside of the cage
around the ladder that leads to the roof.
Fiddly work, time consuming, but nice
to get out of the way.
No painting tomorrow,
but Saturday and Sunday look good.
As for Monday, I don’t know yet
I’ll have to wait and see if it rains.”
Click here for Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Another Long Day
Fight the Good Fight
The Water Tower
12
“I fought the weather all day.
Relentless winds. Overpowering gusts
threatening to topple the tower,
to throw me off the ladder.
Very challenging, the painting.
An understatement like the undertow
when the tide threatens to take us out to sea.
I was treading water in the middle of the ocean,
huge waves under my armpits, lifting me up,
dragging me down, and me quite powerless.
The strain, both mental and physical of biking
up a long steep hill, into a driving wind.
It felt like Sisyphus pushing his rock.”
Click here for Roger’s Reading on Anchor.
Fight the Good Fight
rogermoorepoet 