Thursday, August 4, 2011
A tattoo of thoughts and ideas,
A scarring of images; internal rage and pain,
A lingering kiss filled with joy, humour and love
An etched still of lingering observation.
Fibres entwine here.
Graphite smudges across a perfect surface.
A trio of essences collide;
Mineral, mind, material.
Words are formed
Within the sacred bounds of my notebook.
Their decisive combination develops into meaning.
Spidery scrawls lumber across the manuscript.
Dark retractions blemish the page;
They symbolise process, not mistake.
Tear not a page.
Neither scrunch nor discard it.
Savour the process.
The pendulum will stop swinging at centre.
When energy ceases to swirl
The process, she is complete.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Outside, the streetlights luminate a stage dressed in white; the snow drifting silently before us like a mesmerising troupe of whirling dervishes, as we sit with our heads resting together like a pair of bookends.
'They look like feathers fluttering down to Earth. Don't they Mumma?' she speaks dreamily.
'They sure do, Honey. Those angels must be having one hellava fight up there, huh?' I squeeze my girl into me. She giggles with delight; my favourite sound in the whole world.
'Did you know that snow is a living thing?' says Neve.
'How so, Doll?' I reply, glancing down at her gappy toothed smile.
'Well,' she enthuses, 'today the snow is born and when it melts it dies,' she states, full of authority.
'Well, I'll be darned! You're right,' I tease with my hands on my hips. 'How about you give that snow some privacy while it's getting born and go brush your teeth!' She hops off the sofa and I pretend to growl at her like a big old bear, chasing her up the stairs with her dressing gown fanning outward like a phantom's cape.