Beth Camp's Blog, page 32
October 22, 2019
OctPoWriMo #22: Broken Pieces
A large brooch with a sedate row of trees
and three junks on a calm riverin conventional blue and white ceramicwas placed next to a row of pillboxes,each differently, delicately colored,no dates, no names.The placard simply read:"Poetry shard: Cultural Revolution."I knew what these bits of Chinese ceramics meantas they lay before me:Remnants of sanctioned violence,a pillaging of lives, of history
and three junks on a calm riverin conventional blue and white ceramicwas placed next to a row of pillboxes,each differently, delicately colored,no dates, no names.The placard simply read:"Poetry shard: Cultural Revolution."I knew what these bits of Chinese ceramics meantas they lay before me:Remnants of sanctioned violence,a pillaging of lives, of history
October 21, 2019
OctPoWriMo #21: Don't Go Screaming . . .
Don’t go screaming into the wind.
Boundaries and routines are meant to be tested,
and we test them.
Van Gogh knew this as he painted his way
into what others could not see.
Sometimes if we cross a line,
we can’t go back.
Perhaps we'll be measured by what we can accomplish,
by our failures, and by those times,
we give into sorrow and joy.
Vincent Van Gogh (Wikipedia)
I remember standing in the
Boundaries and routines are meant to be tested,
and we test them.
Van Gogh knew this as he painted his way
into what others could not see.
Sometimes if we cross a line,
we can’t go back.
Perhaps we'll be measured by what we can accomplish,
by our failures, and by those times,
we give into sorrow and joy.
Vincent Van Gogh (Wikipedia)
I remember standing in the
October 20, 2019
OctPoWriMo #20: Yellow Tang
Deep in the wild blue sea,
somewhere off the islands of Hawaii, the Yellow Tang saltwater fish,its length a little longer than my hand,swim along reefs anywhere from 6 to 150 feet deep,hungry for algae found on turtle backs.Perfectly balanced, its brilliant yellow no camouflage, not even at night, the males shimmer when they mate.
I could stare at such a fish for hours.If its tiny brain has a
somewhere off the islands of Hawaii, the Yellow Tang saltwater fish,its length a little longer than my hand,swim along reefs anywhere from 6 to 150 feet deep,hungry for algae found on turtle backs.Perfectly balanced, its brilliant yellow no camouflage, not even at night, the males shimmer when they mate.
I could stare at such a fish for hours.If its tiny brain has a
October 19, 2019
OctPoWriMo #19: If I Could Dream . . .
If I could dream my way
into a purple sky,at dawn or dusk, I’d admirethe stars all over again, dotting what unknowntrajectory, maybe the half-moon,on its own journey, clouded with purple mist.I could float my way
to a lavender-filled field,
discover a bouquet of lilacs bursting with spring,
even a single, dignified purple rose
that marks more than farewell. I’ll remember the color of your
into a purple sky,at dawn or dusk, I’d admirethe stars all over again, dotting what unknowntrajectory, maybe the half-moon,on its own journey, clouded with purple mist.I could float my way
to a lavender-filled field,
discover a bouquet of lilacs bursting with spring,
even a single, dignified purple rose
that marks more than farewell. I’ll remember the color of your
October 18, 2019
OctPoWriMo #18: A Quilter's Patience
I have collected this aboriginal fabric, inspired by Australian culture, now tucked in a little blue bin.Enough for a quilt, but I’m waiting for inspiration.I don’t want to stitch up alternating squares or blocks in a borrowed European hierarchy, but some designthat captures the essence of those aboriginal maps, where each mark carries meaning. I’m waiting, hoping the ‘right’ pattern searches for
October 17, 2019
OctPoWriMo #17: Am I a Clone?
Am I a clone?
Woke up dreaming lines
from some forgotten life, 1-2-3 diversity:
My family a community
of quilters and writers, each stitching
our way into something new.
I have a nest and all the rest,
you, sweet kids, sweeter grandkids,
not suburbia, those tidy rows, ack!
Even my quilts don’t line up properly,
I’ve dropped a comma or two,
try to follow the news,
not too much because, I’d lose
Woke up dreaming lines
from some forgotten life, 1-2-3 diversity:
My family a community
of quilters and writers, each stitching
our way into something new.
I have a nest and all the rest,
you, sweet kids, sweeter grandkids,
not suburbia, those tidy rows, ack!
Even my quilts don’t line up properly,
I’ve dropped a comma or two,
try to follow the news,
not too much because, I’d lose
October 16, 2019
OctPoWrMo #16: Father Time
On a small patio made of stone, blue sky above,
I turned my tricycle into another circle,my baby sister watching me.Did we have any sense of time? Maybe bedtime. When was mother coming home?Dark. Alone with my sister. Something fell on the bed and thenanother something scrabbled towards us. We ran out of the small room, screaming. Police cars filled the parking lot, red and blue lights flashing,
I turned my tricycle into another circle,my baby sister watching me.Did we have any sense of time? Maybe bedtime. When was mother coming home?Dark. Alone with my sister. Something fell on the bed and thenanother something scrabbled towards us. We ran out of the small room, screaming. Police cars filled the parking lot, red and blue lights flashing,
October 15, 2019
OctPoWriMo #15: Mother, May I?
I wasn’t as pretty as my sister.
Wearing glasses, awkward and tall, I was invisible as I cleaned up after my mother’s parties, the stench of stale beer and full ashtrays tickling my nose. Once, I saw stars when she hit me, something I’d said or didn’t say. She ran for a washcloth. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said. We never told, and I didn’t ask ‘Mother, may I?’ when I turned seventeen and left, my
Wearing glasses, awkward and tall, I was invisible as I cleaned up after my mother’s parties, the stench of stale beer and full ashtrays tickling my nose. Once, I saw stars when she hit me, something I’d said or didn’t say. She ran for a washcloth. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said. We never told, and I didn’t ask ‘Mother, may I?’ when I turned seventeen and left, my
October 14, 2019
OctPoWriMo #14: Bowerbird
In the spring, the bowerbird gathers leaves and flowers.We suppose, being male, he doesn’t have a nest in mind.He brings a certain rock or mushroom in his beak,found or stolen from another bowerbird nearby,and lays in pattern all those elements of art --color, texture, line -- to entice her eye.And once she comes, he sings anddances while she watches.She may return.They may mate.Then she moves on
October 13, 2019
OctPoWriMo #13: Hug a Tree
A walk in the deep forest reminds me
of the serenity of uncluttered time, cloudless blue sky, green pines, and a winding, mountain trail,days without end, perhaps a connection to somethingmore, something spiritual.Once, on a spring hike, we crossed a meandering streamand spotted fresh bear track on one of the large stones, just made minutes before, water dripping. We had no whistles.We were far
of the serenity of uncluttered time, cloudless blue sky, green pines, and a winding, mountain trail,days without end, perhaps a connection to somethingmore, something spiritual.Once, on a spring hike, we crossed a meandering streamand spotted fresh bear track on one of the large stones, just made minutes before, water dripping. We had no whistles.We were far
