retreat

watercolor of Quenby by Jeanne

stepping back from chaos

looking up with awe

innocence sees parent twinkle in the eye

against the stars

the glow of the moon

and smells the tribe its own

breathing in its sweetness

expelling the sigh of contentment

life’s pink cheek

its tender skin…

an anagram from my name

I created this anagram from my name:

GRANT GRACE JEANNE MARIE MARGARET DELOCA SISTER VIRGINIA MARY OF CHRIST POLAND SMITH

TO.

GRACE
GRANTS
CHRIST’S
REIGN
OVER
EARTH
STARS
MAGIC
EVIL
AIR
AND
AN
ARMY
OF
LOVE

animals gathering

illustrator: JRZ

 

The Owl and the Pussycat
by Edward Lear
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
   In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
   And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
   What a beautiful Pussy you are,
      You are,
      You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”
II
Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!
   How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
   But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
   To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
   With a ring at the end of his nose,
      His nose,
      His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
   Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away, and were married next day
   By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
   They danced by the light of the moon,
      The moon,
      The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
 
“The Owl and the Pussycat” by Edward Lear. Public domain.

Firefly

lighting up the night-shade leaves

!

how bright

that fly

lights up the leaves

lit by the moon

and stars!

Where is Picasso

mime, puppet, red hair,

stars, patterns,rosy cheeks, pol-

ka dots and blue stripes!

If only plugs could speak…

photo by way of frizztext

“plug me in!”
he’d shout

cuddle me in
to power and heat

listen to the tunes
feel the waves

find rest
your conduit

link to the stars
tide of the moon

your energy key.

Fantasy and Moonlight

Jeanne’s creation
@ the PaintMixer.com class in Utah

Dragon rears her head at moon
Stars bless the pair;
Pair them in the light
Bed them in the sea.

Another night
in the waves.
Synchronicity.

Don’s Loch Ness Monster
@thepaintmixer.com
May 29,2014

From the green depths
arises monster gills-
seeking moonbeams
to soothe
his swaying thirst-
his restless curse.

Pattern #35 Horse Sense

Drawn on iPad by Annika Poland (4 years old)

hooves to mane-beyond
thunder, stars, grass’s grazing
wind whipped strokes of wild!

Tongue Twister Relative2

rocks
boulders
pebbles
dust

certain
doubtful
rattled
trust

planets
moons
stars
sun

crawl
squiggle
sprint
run

A Pavarotti Visit

 

Calligraphy by Jeanne Poland

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Honda Pavarotti

by Tony Hoagland

I’m driving on the dark highway

when the opera singer on the radio
opens his great mouth
and the whole car plunges down the canyon of his throat.

So the night becomes an aria of stars and exit signs
as I steer through the galleries
of one dilated Italian syllable after another.

I love the passages in which the rich flood of the baritone
strains out against the walls of the esophagus,
and I love the pauses
in which I hear the tenor’s flesh labor to inhale

enough oxygen to take the next plummet
up into the chasm of the violins.
In part of the song, it sounds as if the singer
is being squeezed by an enormous pair of tongs

while his head and legs keep kicking.
In part of the song, it sounds as if he is
standing in the middle of a coliseum,
swinging a 300-pound lion by the tail,

the empire of gravity
conquered by the empire of aerodynamics,
the citadel of pride in flames
and the citizens of weakness
celebrating their defeat in chorus,

joy and suffering made one at last,
joined in everything a marriage is alleged to be,
though I know the woman he is singing for
is dead in a foreign language on the stage beside him,
though I know his chain mail is made of silver-painted plastic
and his mismanagement of money is legendary,
as I know I have squandered
most of my own life

in a haze of trivial distractions,
and that I will continue to waste it.
But wherever I was going, I don’t care anymore,
because no place I could arrive at

is good enough for this, this thing made out of experience
but to which experience will never measure up.
And that dark and soaring fact
is enough to make me renounce the whole world

or fall in love with it forever.

“Honda Pavarotti” by Tony Hoagland, from Donkey Gospel. © Graywolf Press, 1998. Reprinted with permission.