God Giving

I hear god up there laughing
in her sleeve then weeping
on bent knees then sweetly
giving head to something sublime so
brightly rising shine on
all we refuse to see.

I feel thunder up there down
all swelling ‘round a telling
us all the place of storming
calling rainfall to the ground
our only found of soul
where feltness whispers wisdom


kingdoms crumble in the wake
of earth’s crash us shattering into
the soft skin
of fragile, fierce, fertile, flow being
bent straight to the root
digging deep, steeper stilling
down to the center where
nothing fills something strains


steeper stilling

ancient tree of fullness within
unfolding without
beyond all loss.


It’s quiet here in my home, an old place as homes go. Morning calls beyond windows open, a hushed symphony in a city moving gently. I had no idea I missed it this much. But the ease and appreciation are telling on me.

The drive here from Georgia blurred past, a 6 hour stretch whispering hints of days gone, telling stories wistful, satisfied with wishing and fullness. I always tell myself I’ll be back there very soon, to enjoy the richness. Then 6 months blink. This is life, isn’t it? Moving rapidly through us, playing us, driving us and flowing us along. That we can seize the day, seize the moment or create something in the midst of such a tumult of demand is amazing to me. But this is the voice of a mother…

A mother feeling the end of something, remains of the summer curling up in the fires of a sun too hot. At this point next week, I’ll be heading to day two of classes and my daughter will be into her second day of high school. Life refuses to slow down. And roles are shifting, weighing in the balance of needs long unmet.

That’s why I appreciate the days spent with family, grabbing time to water tomato plants, watch the butterflies and look down a long gorge past trees and at the river flowing fully. Time is precious, the way we live our moments of eternal now, what we choose to do, to invest in for days to come, to spend and know we’ll see no more.

Standing in awe of Monet’s works at the High in Atlanta, it struck me how some of his most significant pieces unfolded out of the autumn of his life. I reflected on how much my daughter has been voicing my heart’s cries, upset with how much she did NOT get out of the summer, out of a week, a day. And how busy we’ve been, nothing “lazy” to our days.

Blurry But Color Vibrant
Blurry But Color Vibrant

But my daughter echoes a sentiment I have come to learn to manage, a longing filled with layers whispering so many possibilities and so little time.  I want far more in one day than is even humanly possible. Then I stand there in front of a vast expanse of Monet’s color beseeching reflection upon reflection and all that’s left to do is sigh. So much we may produce in our “late” years if we’re willing to dance the dance of allowing life to be what it is, of time to wash us in a tide of creation, of seizing the moment to take one more brush at the layer of color on a canvas, of artfully flowing with the deluge of demands refusing any apparent artistry even when our efforts provide no guarantee of vital monumental proof – proof we loved and felt so deeply moved by life itself.

Somewhere in it all, we manage to live fully when we can both grab and release, keep and drop all we long to express in a life weaving threads made precious by our own values and the immeasurable worth of each breath . . . and . . .

the winged sprite feasting on yellow, refusing the burn of brightest sun, gracing the face of life for just a moment of color . . .

The Feast
The Feast


reaching . . .
reaching . . .

In deep nights I dig for you like treasure.
For all I have seen
that clutters the surface of my world
is poor and paltry substitute
for the beauty that is you
that has not happened yet.

My hands are bloody from digging.
I lift them, hold them open in the wind,
so they can branch like a tree.

Reaching, these hands would pull you out of the sky
as if you had shattered there,
dashed yourself to pieces in some wild impatience.

What is this I feel falling now,
falling on this parched earth,
like a spring rain?

Rainer Maria Rilke
Book Of Hours
Love Poems To God

The Accidental Pointillist

copy-2-of-dscn0921In case it isn’t clear and obvious and maybe even loudly heralded…

The Accidental Pointillist or Pointillist Ponderings is another one of my blogs and you can reach it here:


Or by clicking on the link to the right.

Pointillist ponderings is a poetic, whimsical, wandering and pondering point of points. Anything remotely connected to the point or love and points is highlighted there.

Check it out.


The Outsider In

Seldom do wwilliedanielstreee find such poignant examples of the resilience of outsider artists persistently honing a craft as uncovered by the story of the Highwaymen Artists. Anyone looking for inspiration will discover a wealth of tenacity singing from the works of Willie Daniels, John Maynor and others of this revived crew. 26 recognized original artists of whom only one woman hails, these creative souls quietly revolutionize lines between privilege and providence. A glimpse into their history, technique and recent success nurtures a heart of appreciation for fate’s twists.

Fort Pierce, Florida, as many towns in the U.S., withstood the ravages of racism in the late 1950s. Those who felt it most painfully worked the citrus groves and packing houses. The heat and hurry of it all left little room for extras in the lives of African Americans working  their way out of racism’s grip. But a unique group emerged, merging their lives in a rush of learning oils in the style of A.E. Backus. Taking evenings and weekends to hone their skill, they found success in broad sweeping brushstrokes, painting canvasses of Florida’s lush landscape. Vacationers appreciated the unique and thickly rich reflections of trees against shining marshlands, setting suns and the reminder of times spent in leisure.

For these artists, the notion of schooling to hone their craft was simply that: a notion. Financial restrictions and the color of their skin closed doors taken for granted. Unable to afford typical supplies, they improvised, using Upson board as canvas and piling them into the trunks of their cars to travel the highways of Florida in search of buyers.

Lack of time to focus solely on art was the tool in fate’s hands whose impression wrought an unusual style. Hurried knives and brush strokes pushed the edges of conventional technique, unfolding a soulful primitive appeal. Daniel’s gnarly oaks and Maynor’s signature reflections went for $25.00 a piece in those days. Need for extra income painted hues more intense for these artists whose practicality rested in a sense of pleasure to accomplish, no matter who did or did not get the credit. They would sometimes sign one artist’s name on another’s work in order to please buyers attached to particular artists. It was about pushing past barriers.

By the late ‘60s, interest in the works of these fast learners waned. But their spirit endured the lull and found recognition in the late ‘90s when art experts, Gary Monroe and Jim Fitch, enthusiastically highlighted the appeal of their style and historical wealth. While the Highwaymen Artists never knew themselves as such, they have grown to be called by their selling technique, the Saturday drives along Florida’s highways distinguishing them historically. What once sold for $25.00 now goes for sometimes 10 times the amount. And the unfolding of fate’s strokes across the world of art reflects beautifully in their work. The Highwaymen Artists are worth knowing by name, by the colors of their resilience.