Showing posts from March, 2017

Hanging With the Wind

It was very windy and I feared my tripod would topple over along with poor Karma (my camera). But all the wind did was try to steal my hat, over and over. I had the thing pinned––well you can’t just roll a beanie to a side of your head and expect it to just stay put! That would make you a very mean person. You have got to help it keep its post with a hairpin here and there. But if I had consulted the weather people before I stepped out of doors, I would have added 100 times more hairpins to keep the wind’s fingers to itself. You may not be able to really see the pretty long sleeves blouse here, but you can see it in an old photo on here somewhere . I often get  this feeling of it . I find the cut classy, professional, girly, and fussy. I think it is the sort of design some stylish business-headed girl who brings in lots of revenue would wear to work––with a sharp pencil skirt or a pair of properly tailored trousers. So here I have paired it with fuchsia tights with a seri

Winter Diary: in Transition

Let’s say words are plastic bag caught in bare branch of  tree It is winter’s noon Let’s say I regret not using cotton tote bag at the groceries Let’s say saying is saying like aye aye to nothing that is saying Let’s say this is Egglish translating to Inklish Let’s say I speak not Inklish not Egglish Let’s say it is gibberish, garbage, polythene flying in tree Let’s say it’s a flag, a bird, a flag, a bird, a flag a bird, aflagabird Let’s say Let’s say into a winter’s noon the sky fell Let’s say the sky fell into a plastic bag dancing on leafless tree branch Let’s say it bothered not tree it was being ruined...aesthetic? AES-AES-AES-the-tic! Let’s say it bothered not man-made thing it was sense? noise-sense? Non-sense! Let’s say we were not there to see polythene bag and tree on dry winter’s after-morning Let’s say I was there and it hurt to see it all Let’s say I wanted to climb the tree Let’s say I wanted the bag gone Let’s say I could not see the t

Orchid by Grace Schulman

Orchid by  Grace Schulman Not raised but found, this dancer, idling on trash, abandoned in the compactor room, fated to be smothered in a green bag, seven blooms caught me, hot pink smiles in deadpan weather, on the year's shortest day, with the long night ahead. Gingerly, sponging off ashes, eggshells, silvery powder (talc, I hope), from its mossy planter, I slide it toward high windows, and it changes like fire: sherry to red-purple to magenta, colors of blood, of beaujolais, of sin} and holiness, of saints on stained-glass panels, light shining through, a diva's fan. Fuchsia, the color named for a plant that must have jolted Leonhart Fuchs, the botanist, when he discovered it in the 16th century, my orchid's serious name is phalaenopsis, for moths in flight. Its wingy blooms blink, teasing, just out of eye's reach. Sunsets they turn the color of red ochre mixed with manganese, powdered and blown     through reeds by the early cave