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For this week's Collage Play with Crowabout, Nancy sent us very funky images. They were a lot of fun.
Very different from what I've done before. A bit of exercise for my silly side:
EDITED TO ADD: This one, for Composition for Collage, with Claudine Hellmuth:
And, this is the perfect post for this week's The Three Muses challenge: Whimsical, Quirky, Humorous!
Images are linked to flickr, where you will find full credits and larger sizes.
... vote to allow him to marry.
Today, at the market, a middle-aged couple, squeezing
tomatoes. They remind me of you, one gaunt, grey,
with sharp cheekbones; the other large and reddish.
I remember you exiting the plane at the Missoula airport,
both in huge fur coats, New York queers and proud
of it. Christmas, and you two glittered and grinned
brighter than the trees. I wish I could tell you, again,
how you filled up my house with your games and quarrels,
and how I miss you now, all the empty corners. Every day
there is something I wish I could tell you. A woman
at my office has a Mariachi band made of stuffed frogs
and tin guitars. I am making a garden, dreaming
into spring, pale daffodils, crocus, orange columbine.
The sunroom will have a heated floor of satillo tile.
I gave your buffalo robe to a Chickasaw poet, who one day
will give it to her daughter, and she to hers. I have tried
to put your things where they belong. The Hudson Bay painting
to a man who never loved a picture before. Your gold
LaBaron convertible to the artist who painted the woods
you went into, finally. Sometimes I look for you there.
Are you where you belong?
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Crystal Ball, for Soartful:
Fantasy, for Take a Word:
Images are linked to flickr, where you will find full credits and larger sizes.
This building is a maze.
I cannot find my way.
You wait for me, somewhere.
There are many people
but none of them are you.
A pelican fies in
through an open window
and regurgitates a child
onto the plank floor.
I pick you up, but you grow
too large for me to hold.
You are old now, bent and thick.
The pelican returns to retrieve you.
I am alone in the parlor.
I see the sky out the window
and you, on the pelican’s back,
flying into it.
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This day blooms
under wide meadows
of sky. We lay
our sun-stunned bodies
in constellations
of clover and buttercups.Salmonberry bubbles
of sweet red light
break on our tongues.
Shooting stars
in the flowerbeds,
pollen in our sheets.
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Today is supposed to be a day for men to celebrate fatherhood, and for us to celebrate them. And for many, some of whom I know, this is a celebratory day, a day of pride and gratitude and appreciation.
For others – far too many – this day elicits ambivalence at best, and, at worst, reminders of failure, loss, absence and abuse.
I have had several father figures in my life, and the men in these photos represent a wide range of experiences.
There is a lot of writing done on how we should learn to mother ourselves. That writing is full of words like nurture, gentleness, and self-care.
I've seen nothing on how we should learn to father ourselves. What qualities would that entail, do you think?
Sunday Postcard Art had the most difficult challenge this week: Me.
So this is me, in the middle of a sleepless night (past the middle, actually.) After fruitlessly seeking inspiration, I decided to do what I do in my house all the time: make a vignette.
Someday GoddessDaughter will make a shrine in my memory, and it will look very like this, with the addition of some beads, jewelry, a teacup or two, and something Harry Potter:
The image is linked to flickr, where you will find full credits and larger sizes.
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