This is a painting of me, by me, painting an Abstract piece of art.
Happy Weekend, Everyone!!!
A Painting of painting
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Monthly Archives: March 2017
Junk mail
I’m so glad my email box knows this is junk mail!
Missing you
The Nuances to which we differed was minimal compared to how we were alike.
Love you, Daddy
Don’t let the coppers stop us!
The goods are hidden under a canvas in the backseat. I pinch my nose. The smell’s giving me a headache.
“Lux,” Frank says as we putter down the road.
I remember the advertisement. Lux soap, rich in fragrance.
“Every box has a layer of soap on top. Not Ivory. Miss Helen says it’s not strong enough.”
“But you can’t smell sealed moonshine anyway,” I say.
“No. But she says if I’m stopped, I’m supposed to say I’m delivering soap to Common’s Variety in Houston.”
“And if we are stopped, say I’m your little sister. It would look daffy otherwise.”
“Deal.”
We settle in for the drive, Miss Helen’s directions between us.
“You know what she told me before I left?” Frank says.
Before I’ve counted to three, Frank says, “Get there as fast as Holly Gap gossip.”
I backhand his shoulder and laugh. “Then we should already be there,” I say, and settle into Nervous Town where a daddy finds out his daughter lied.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket by CD-W
Don’t hide! We need you!
We wonder how she sleeps at night
with such a mighty horn
We know she takes it off most times
pretending she’s a mule.
We Ruminate and contemplate
Why is it that she hides?
Since her beauty is a treasure
where real magic lives inside.
Be yourself, our dear one
Show your colors bright!
For without you, we authors have
no words that we can write!
featured image photo credit
Where Poems live
CD-W
There’s a place were poems live
a secret place well hidden
away from the madness
away from the strangers
where life, with all it’s twists and turns, flourishes and grows.
The place where poems grow
is a never ending pasture
where little sprouts are watered and pruned
waiting to be nurtured waiting
to be harvested by the author.
If I could, I’d spend more time in that pasture
I would feel the creative winds kiss my cheeks
and smell the air left behind from inspiring rains
I would listen to the seasons and taste the warmth of words upon my tongue.
I visit there sometimes
I twirl and dance and run and play
And when I’m tired
I lay on the green and stretch my arms toward the sky
I twirl the clouds around my fingertips
and smile at their tickled laughter
All in that secret place
where poems live.
– CD-W
An odd memory I found briefly written in a journal
“Yesterday, we buried Sugar, our pet rat. Now, she’s no longer in the freezer next to the Haagen Dazs.”
The things we do for our children!
Do your loved ones visit you after they’ve died?
None of you will question that as we live our lives – go to work, parties, travel, have relationships, etc., – experiences combine and create how we view the world and ourselves. And grieving the death of loved ones is an experience we all share.
First, let me say that I do not call myself a “religious” sort. I consider myself more as spiritual and intuitive and I never considered the possibility that a deceased love one would contact me. Until it happened.
In the 1980’s, when I thought going through infertility would drive me over a cliff, I had an early morning phone call from my grandfather who had died in the 60’s. “Grandpa,” I said. “Why are you calling? You’re dead.”
“I’m calling to check on you.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
My husband woke me to get up for work. I was furious and sad that my call had been abruptly ended. The “dream,” was not like a real dream made of scene or stories. I only saw Grandpa’s face, and I felt him as real as the pillow my head rested upon.
Not long after, my deceased grandmother “called.” I said the same thing. “Grandma, you’re dead. Why are you calling?”
“I’m calling to check on you. How are you.”
“I’m fine.”
Then she asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes. Will you ask God to give me a baby?”
There was a long pause as if she were thinking. Then, she said, “I have to go now.”
(Today, I have two grown children, two grandchildren and another due in May.Who knows, right?)
Mom’s first contact with me was different. I had just left the cemetery when a song I’d never heard before came on NPR radio. To this day, I cannot find that song but its words were something like, “don’t worry, we’ll see each other in heaven.” The song made me smile.
Later, in a dream-vision, Mom had simply smiled at me, looked youthful and happy, and pain-free.
As my father lay dying, I asked, “will you check on me after you’re gone like Mom, Grandma and Grandpa did?”
He said, “I’ll always check on my babies.”
Wherever Dad is, he must be very busy since he has yet to “contact” me. That’s okay, too. He’s probably teaching Mohammad Ali how to play checkers or dominoes.
Some people call these signs “Pennies from Heaven.”
Knowing my experiences, I recently ran across this article. Take a look. Perhaps it will apply to you as well. And please, let me know if it does.
Caught red (yellow)-handed
“Prostitute the Sphinx” by Toulouse Lautrec Henri
“My God, it’s Marcy’s!” The temperance union president stared rage into Sadie’s eyes.
The restaurant became silent. No clinking of cutlery, no chattering of women.
Sadie frowned and glanced up at Mrs. Stoddard. “Excuse me?”
“I said that’s my Marcy’s scarf. I gave it to her.” With one swift move, Mrs. Stoddard pulled the scarf from Sadie’s neck and examined the fabric. “See, right here.” She pointed to a tiny section of the material where, in faded ink, “M.S.” was printed.
Sadie squinted and folded her arms. “I found it, ma’am.”
“Where! Where did you find it? Where is Marcy? Tell me this instant. Someone find an officer!”
Sadie froze. “An officer? I don’t understand. You can keep it, if you’d like.”
Patrons murmured and buzzed like a Swarm of bees in a hive with no queen.
Sadie turned her frightened gaze away from Mrs. Stoddard. “Meta, I think we should head back.”
“You are going nowhere, young lady. Not until you answer some questions.” The woman’s lip quivered as she held the silk scarf against her cheek.
I searched the restaurant for support. Anyone. If only Sheriff Tobin were here. But the faces around the tables were unfriendly, their eyes condemning.
Excerpt from The Last Bordello
Feeling sad about aging? Why? You’ve never been this age before.
We all have our time. I used to be a one-year-old. Not anymore. Now, it’s my granddaughter’s turn to experience that year.
At her birthday party, I had a wonderful conversation with a friend I rarely get to see. First, we talked about her aging mother. Then we talked about our kids. Her’s are 13 and 11. Mine are 23 and 27.
Kristin’s already missing her aging and ill mother. She talks about what will happen when her growing boys leave the nest. Her eyes puddle with tears.
And then I told her what I tell myself when I feel like so much of my life is formed of memories, of cycles of life that have concluded.
“I have been a one-year-old,” I say. “Now it’s my granddaughter’s turn. I have been a two-year-old. Now it’s my grandson’s turn. I have been a mother of young children, fortunate to have watched them grow and thrive. Now, it is my children’s turn to experience parenthood. But, I have never been sixty before. This, too, is a new cycle. And who knows what will happen.”
We all have our time.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 