Monday, January 30, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
© Karen Powell
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Where Does the Road Go?
"You Want to Go Ahead...Are You Sure?"
Foggy, creepy day-
Fog won't go away...
It rests around the mountain, deep
As if into our bones, it seeps...
It curls upon the hills and weeps-
Foggy, creepy day.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Magnificent Orb 'Caught'
Sunset Yellow (off of Beacon Heights; Blue Ridge Parkway)
Here are a few random,
lost photos that I retrieved
of noteworthy spring color. I am thinking
that it can 'offset' the drab doldrums
of muddy browns and gray-grays
we are left with now, this snow-less season.
Enjoy your day!
Monday, January 16, 2012
Long legs waving back and forth,
I have, at last, found a tailor-made perch to sit and wonder.
The smell of brown bark, nearby pine and some still damp earth
are the scents that I smell, here.
And it is my resting place.
At 50 (now) when I spy a tree limb--strong, and sufficiently horizontal;
close to the ground, my mind goes back to this--the sacred spot,
in the low lying tree just two houses down from my safe, yellow, front-porched Milwaukee bungalow.
In this—my tree limb resting place, I am invisible. I am surely, of the divine. And I am more than a front porch traveler and bigger than a child.
I would sit here…and quietly (and privately) allow my own mind to wander and my own thoughts to spread out some, a bit. In this, my protected and much coveted place, I was allowing my mind to grow. Did the tree know this? Did it feel my groaning, too?
They say that when a tree grows it breaks its bark. Perhaps I too, was breaking my bark.
What better place to do this, than in a tree?
Maybe it was just idle time, but in this, the resting place--
to me, a girl of just eight, or nine and ten, it was legs dangling, arms holding, hair blowing, sunlight dancing, breeze playing, leaf wiggling, one leg flopping…bird singing me-time.
(My mother would say that as a somewhat self-centered, first-born child--I have, perhaps, always been good at this.) And I smile.
But I have found it useful still, to preserve, to hold fast to, and to cultivate my own playful, watchful, solitary, just-for-art eye. For, the more that I look, the more I see, in the splendid world of solitude.
My world is (much) bigger now, but long for-I do, the tree,
and (perhaps) my childhood innocence…
but more than this—
the supreme sense of wonder that it held.
I might add that--
as a still wandering and now-fully-grow’d-up young women,
I am perpetually lingering and in a semi-permanent state
of watchfulness for it.
Or is it that we, each, try…to go back home?
…Me to my tree, and you, to your river.
This artwork is my mother's. It touches my heart. (So gentle.) A thoughtful depiction of something sweet, tiny, and cute. 'Wa...