L'aura del Campo

My neighbor's maple. Convincing others to do right

My neighbor's maple

This is the way the tree looked:
tall with silver bark and silvery leaves,
a crook not too far up for Pidge to reach.
He'd climb up there to where we couldn't see him.
It was Gozdziak's tree,
before that Lentz.
The Parkers planted it when I was born.
But I never liked it.
Every autumn it wore a golden crown
replacing it with pale sea green again come Spring.
I resented it.
It flourished when my elm took sick.
Stood there gloating when it died,
not even big enough to have orange orioles
nesting in its hair.
Not fair.
For over 50 years it's stood there
mocking me with glee.
For although I may plant poems,
only God can grow a tree.

[164.12]

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HENBIT ALERT: WATCH FOR CRAWLING PURPLE FLOWERS DISGUISED AS WEEDS.
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L'aura del campo

Spring: 7 Bahá 164 (27 March) 70º.

'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos'
♣ Federico García Lorca ♣

Convincing others of doing the right thing.

Hub and I have had some good discussions on how to approach members of the city council and how to address issues to the public in ways that they can HEAR it and understand.

This gets back to what we as writers are faced with at times: what we intend to portray in our writings and what the audience chooses to believe. Both are fiction; many times two entirely disparate fictions! However, in addressing serious issues to the public or to the powers-that-be, the fictions need to be closer to each other. To inspire others to do the right thing? One must convince them that they already want to do the right thing, that they know what that right thing is and that they have the tools to make the vision bloom forth in reality.

I think of Mavis Moog and her logical mind. Mine is not. I am a weaver of wind and ash, creating a firestorm out of nothing. It still can move things around, but dissipates over time, leaving a trail of awe and wonder, creation or destruction. This is who I am, not always what I mean to be.

This city has serious issues. Hub will try to convince them that there are other ways, other solutions, that other towns have successfully addressed issues that this place is reluctant to tackle. That is his strength; that is his way.

Me? I'm half thinking of explaining to them that their lack of decisions or making the wrong decisions will merely lead to more misery. I'm thinking of reading to them two poems: "A radiant moon has set" , "Picking up the trash" .

As Hub tries to connect with logic, numbers, figures and encourages them to do the right fiscal (as well as social) thing, I may just address the heart. I might read them poetry!

WRITING

"To keep a good perspective
is all I wish for me.
To know that all my sorrows
would be joy to those not free"

This is how sketch [164.14] starts out. It will need work of course, but I share it prematurely as an example of what happens when I start reading rhythmic poetry like Langston Hughes.

Two poems from February now separate items: "Footprints in the snow"  (for Nyia Page), "Violets" 

I'm starting to plug my blug blog poems now reviewable/ratable: "The moon is blue ice" , "Song of an Age" , "Plain cover jacket" , "In search of Iris" , "Crow feathers" , "Like water for chocolate," , "Love-lies-bleeding" , and "Spear" . Any suggestions as to how to get more reviews? I'll have to check out the "I want to eat up your poetry" site to choose some hungry souls (that won't get indigestion from what I write).

Me, my friends and my family

Staying up late talking does not help me get to sleep. I do love sleeping through the mornings though. It's when I sleep best.

The wireless connection where I'm staying has been on-and-off. Makes it difficult if I don't want to leave to work on my portfolio or on my blog. I'll just have to discipline myself to enter sketches into MS Works files for later edit and possibly posting here.

I ate tuna on Monday. I felt fine. Even made some French press hazelnut coffee, but I didn't put the ground coffee in the freezer like I should've; let's be kind and say it is a tad 'stale'.

Tuesday and I did get up earlier. I called Gare. His son Caleb is scooting about at 8 months and always smiling; little-Gary, 4, is a tad ill, he's in pre-school; Allison is training for 5k runs this Spring. I really enjoy calling Gare; he's my fix of sunshine.

I visited Gare and his family 4 years ago today. This is what I wrote: "Not in the picture" .

It's 58º at my mom's house. I think Spring is catching up to them. Here it is in full bloom. The redbud, pear and forsythia are in full display.

Daily Scripture

O SON OF SPIRIT! My claim on thee is great, it cannot be forgotten. My grace to thee is plenteous, it cannot be veiled. My love has made in thee its home, it cannot be concealed. My light is manifest to thee, it cannot be obscured.

— Bahá’u’lláh

from Hidden Words of Bahá'u'lláh, Arabic #20, link: http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/HW/

WATT'S GNU!

War, famine, pestilence ... Do you really need a link?

I could tell you Tiger Woods won another golf tournament or that Kansas University got spanked in the NCAA basketball playoffs, but anyone could've told you that. And watt's gnu about the same-o, same-o?

IMAGES and RAMBLINGS

magenta: redbud in bloom
white: clouds of pear
yellow: dandelion suns and wands of forsythia
indigo: the winking stars of vinca
pink: the fragrant knowledge of hyacinths

A bird chirping from the yew ... before and after I sneezed.

A cacophony of birds at dusk. They're baaaaaack! Definitely.

A grey-white cat in the window watching the dogs who have entered her domain.

~ violets cry blue; roses turn black / write me another; I'm all about that.

The weather is becoming more springlike = stormy! Let the fun begin. So far ... nothing to report. Does an earthquake just north of here in Nortonville count as weather? (They had a very local 3.1)

READING

Finished The Lost Garden by Canadian writer Helen Humphreys. Totally awesome piece of lyrical writing. Very poetic. I recommend it to anyone who likes Virginia Woolf or poetic prose.

Langston Hughes. Because I wanted to write a bluesy piece, because every American should read him: especially those from this town in Kansas where he lived as a boy, especially those from where he grew up in Illinois, especially those who want to know who defined the Harlem Renaissance, especially all Americans who want a glimpse into a former place and time. From the tips of his fingers: the pain still lingers.

B.H. Fairchild. Awed by the prose poems, "Rave On" and "Memory of a possible future".

BLOGVILLE

Very important notice from the SM I found over in schipperke's blog entry: "Invalid Entry" :

"Rating Requires a Review" will eliminate feedback from readers who do not wish to type-in a textual review of your item. The item's average rating is shown only to you.

In other words, we-all have a third option for review/rate! I put all my new poems on this option to see how it works. I assume I can change it later?

Folks have congratulated me, but Nada won't pass on her crown of diamonds ... hmmmmm ... maybe she can loan me a pair of shoes ... yeah ... the slippers with rubies will do. But I also like emeralds.

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 Kåre Enga
~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
The Fish