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 series of wonderful…

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 tree cared not

Orchid by Grace Schulman

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 painters, fearful
of beasts, to gl…