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 |  Look around. Let Nature nurture your Soul. I record images I sense and share them here. |
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NURTURE your NATURE  Nature can nurture our writing, can nurture our soul. What is the language of Nature? And how do we learn it? We look at the natural wonders around us and do not see them, hear, taste nor smell them. They do not touch us anymore than we dare touch them. And then we wonder why we feel so dead. To breathe in and live like a child again opens the Land of Wonderment. It's still there after all these years.   |
For:
Write a nature scene from the point of view of a child. Now try writing it again from the point of view of nature. What inspired you more? "Look! A dandelion." Sandy ran barefoot across yesterday's mown lawn. One golden orb had apparently escaped. "But, there's only one." She pouted. "I wanted to make a chain." Buddy ran by chasing a stick and, distracted, Sandy followed. The grass feels cool under my feet, not at all like that dead white carpet in the house or that hard concrete porch. Sandy ran past soaring red flowers towards the shade under a tree. "Look! A little blue flower." She caressed it's petals. "And here's a pink one. What's it called," she called out. Her mother merely nodded, thinking obviously the weed-and-feed isn't working, need to respray. Sandy ran towards the fence. The neighbors rose bush had dared to cross the border. She plucked the intrusion, "ouch," and ran to her mother with her prize. "See what I found!", Sandy squeaked. Her mother said "thank-you" with half-a-smile... pruning shears, need to find my pruning shears.   Look! Here comes Sandy and Buddy! Rose and her smallish friends sounded gleeful. Grass nodded it's usual dull response, nice to be appreciated; her bare feet feel good against my blades. Your just pretending to be Eeyore, Dandelion exclaimed, come here, come here, Piglet. Rose guffawed! See, she likes me. Me! Rose sighed. If it weren't for her mother... Yeah, Sandy's grandmother never let her mother play with us when she was a kid. She stayed on that porch like a princess on a throne. Sad, when you think about it. Hollyhock overlooking the fence chimed in, she never looked our way. Cold as winter, that one, at least there's hope for Sandy. And Buddy likes us! Oak seldom spoke! Sandy. Sandy. The chorus from the neglected 'garden' beneath her soles cheered her as she plucked Rose. Oops, sorry, Rose exclaimed. There's hope for us all! Well, not for Chick-weed, but there's hope. Gotta teach them one by one, every generation that comes. We have to have hope that they'll learn," Grass rippled on with the breeze. Now you're almost sounding like Pooh, Scarlet Pimpernel gently whispered. Which do I prefer? I think Grass needs to let his hair grow in! Sandy and Buddy will be fine, as long as Miss-Priss-on-the-Porch lets them be. I often give inanimate objects a voice. I believe that 'lesser' living beings deserve a voice as well ... because ... I don't think of them as being less than me. |
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Form: Star Sevlin, a heptastich |
| "Prompt: It's a beautiful day to _____________." for
Cold. Dark. Gloomy. Yesterday will brighten up the leaves that have lost their yellow cheerfulness as they darken for impending summer. Summer? How about Spring? The memory of snow leaves a trace of white on high mountains. Yesterday's frosting reminded us that in the Rockys we aren't the boss no matter how much we whinge about it. Now the flag hangs limp under a lowering blanket. It's a beautiful day to stay inside. I walk the halls, say hello to my new neighbor Rhonda, water the schefflera. They know my name. Right now they are begging for me to clean the dust off their leaflets. Yes, it would be okay to sit by the closed window and watch the sunset. If there were one! It's also been a cool day to boil 6 brown eggs... as in literally 'cool'. And two cheese omelettes! Turning on the stove can make my rooms heat up... but it never got warm today. And it's a great day to write, enter a new contest, nuture myself. If I'm smart I'll even soak in a tub this evening. |
For
"Without freedom of choice there is no creativity." James T. Kirk, "The Return of the Archons" (Star Trek) What do you think? I've written rhyming couplets, stanzas, poems. Little comes close to rhyming with orange. I've tried growing gazanias where the sun seldom shines. I'm better off dancing with wanton dandelions.    Sometimes I must pay attention to my equals (characters), rulers (cat's rule!), slaves (tomatoes), artistic friends (dandelions) or family (geraniums). If I don't they won't take care of me. Orange gazanias don't want freedom. They want sunshine! My characters however do NOT want to be me. Cats want to be fed or petted ... on their terms; they seem to like stability. Tomatoes just laugh as if I were a joke. They snicker, "pick me", "no me" then hide and rot if I'm not careful. Geraniums just ignore me and take a nap if I neglect them. But those poor dandelions ... Every year the haters try to murder them. Lawns must be weed free, worm free, bee free... sterile. And green, even if that means painting them. Dandies don't ask for much. They're quite capable of surviving between slabs of concrete. Every crack is a potential home. But no ... no ... NO ... "resistance is futile". So they blow away with the breeze to where they can thrive. They choose to survive ... on their own terms. When I go down the sidewalk to the market for groceries I pass the proud irises waving their flags, admire the tulips, and later petunias, spaced out just so, praise the alyssum neatly bordering the path to someone's door. When I return by the alleyways I thank the neglected lilacs for their fragrance, the weedy elm for its shade, the untrimmed hedge for blocking the wind. I pluck sage without asking permission, crush it between my fingers before I inhale. I applaud every johnny-jump-up blooming in a gravel patch.   One can be creative within boundaries, even in a sonnet about the bland blond beige boring suburbs of Pleasantville. But if one must plant red geraniums with golden marigolds in front of your clipped 1" regulation lawn with a mini-flag so you don't forget what country you live in ... then you've chosen not to choose. And creativity dies when there are no choices. |
Half a century ago, the amazing courage of Rosa Parks, the visionary leadership of Martin Luther King, and the inspirational actions of the civil rights movement led politicians to write equality into the law and make real the promise of America for all her citizens. -David Cameron What happened to equality? How did we turn back the clock of time and commit the same horrible crimes that were a a social norm before Rosa and Martin's time? Your thoughts about what's happening across the United States. Ye are the flowers of one garden Have you ever weeded a garden? Not an easy task for someone like me who likes pretty weeds. Yes, I'm talking about you, Miss Daisy, Lord Dandelion and Sir Scarlet-Pimpernel. Sometimes we need to move you to make space for petulant Prince Petunia. We make way for those we find worthy and vanquish those we don't to the compost heap. We seldom pay attention to the fungus, mildew or rot unless we grow roses. And like the Little Prince, we know how thorny they can be when they act out. So... what do we do? We fertilize; we tear out beds; we buy fungicide, herbicide, insecticides. Anything that will kill. To change our way of planting, how we cultivate, make certain allies, is 'too time consuming', 'too difficult' or 'too expensive'. We don't consult Mizz. Bee, Master Worm or even understand that Tomatoes live well with Carrots; but Old Walnut will make Mistress Apple wither for sure. And yet, compared to Humanity, flowers get along quite well. Master Gardeners know this and with proper nurturing can fill the world with color and fragrance, and even Beauty, no matter how wild it may seem to others who prefer sterile green carpet some call lawns, hoseable painted concrete and plastic reproductions. Silk roses, no matter how lifelike, are still lifeless. Unfortunately, we lack the wisdom of knowing what's a weed and weed-out people too. Some are more worthy to marry, be a member of our family, our 'gang', our friends, neighbors, coworkers. Others aren't even welcome in our country, our societies or our churches. Some prefer plastic perfection to the messy real deal. And we don't even realize we have rot, blight, mold and mildew. Until Rose pricks our conscience. Is there hope for the Human Garden? Of course there is. Spiritual Leaders have pointed this out since the beginning of time. Humans however seem to be as hard headed as Brazil Nut or as deaf as Zinnia. And some just insist on being Saint Hollyhock, pretending they can rise above it all. But cut them off at the roots? We all die. Humans never seem to want to cultivate their own inner garden. We let mildew, mold and rot to take hold and infect others by spreading our virus with words or by painful touch. No one is totally immune from this disease. It has a name that can't be mentioned without people getting upset. No amount of money will eliminate it. No good intentions will cure it. No fancy laws will bring about the necessary change of heart. Until acknowledged and rooted out IT will persist. And what is it we are talking about? It's called Racism ... a well-known documented variety of human rot that devours the heart, destroys the community garden, threatens the existence of our species. It has friends of course: Xeno Phobia, National Ism, $$ Greed $$ and Just Plain Hatred among them. Such an unruly class of unholy synergism! But even our sweet elderly neighbor who cooks zucchini bread (... for everyone) and won't kill a spider is infected. And so are you. And that's the hard part. So are you. And that's why Rosa dear Rosa never lived to see it vanquished. It was always more than a seat on the bus. And we-all looked for cures while denying the disease. The disease is Racism and the cure is a spiritual awakening strengthening the heart, recognizing that We are One. This is one of a thousand exhortations found throughout Humanity's existence: “Ye are all fruits of one tree, the leaves of one branch, the flowers of one garden.” — Bahá’u’lláh A simple musical rendition: 984 |
| Looking for shooting stars 3.mayo.2020 1. A shower of fallen shooting stars nestled amid the biscuit root. 2. Vesper bell. And abovethepine and powerlines, the waxing moon. 3. Service berries blow their fragrance towards the hemlock; the river races westward. 4. Ripples adorn the backwash under the bridge tickling round stones, as if to roll them along. 5. Golden medallioned soldiers stiffen in the breeze; arrow-leaf balsamroot at attention. 6. Maple flowers and the ping of rain on my hat and jacket. from my walk along the Clark Fork this evening. |
| To be rebarned for Arild All glory fades, then's sold: old rags, old logs, spare thoughts, and what-once-was, and now is not. Like stout barns built for an age long past or ages to come: for cows, for hay, for modern art. Each with a story, unique and yet ... so much the same, abandoned to rot, perchance with luck to be rebarned. K.Enga (13.mars.2020) ** Image ID #2214946 Unavailable ** For
Note: my friend Arild refurbished an old barn in Pennsylvania and had a project called "Rebarn" to protect more. He died young from an anorism. |
| To market and back again 3.agosto.2019 It's a day of cleaning and planning my next trip but it's also Saturday and market time. The tents provide shade to the workers hawking pastries like Irina or coffee like Kat. The cookie lady is adorned with a floral hat. It's cool in the mornings but it quickly gets hot. Last evening we had a storm: wind and rain and lightning. Even after it had moved out the lightning streaked an orange sunset. August can be hot, thirsty, and tinder waiting for a spark. It will not reach 90º today. Some years it heats up to 100º. Feels like it won't get there this year. My winter squash is growing; buds are forming. If no one decides to weed them before autumn it's possible that they will survive. The yellow flowers are blooming in poor disturbed soil, probably yarrow. The daylilies are still blooming but the landscape has gone to seed. The bluebirds leave in August. Have they left yet? The south channel of the river is glass and the rapids are quieting. The tubers will be out later and maybe the paddle boats as well. But enough breathing in and out. There is cleaning to be done and my indoor plants are very very thirsty. |
| Trash 24.julio.2019 bobturn writes about an encounter with a youth collecting trash in "Invalid Entry"  . I responded: "Absolutely beautiful to read this! Not just the lovely flow of words but the meaning conveyed by showing it. I travel so I see the "past" and "future" and what's possible. The trash in the Balkans was unavoidable. The lack of trash in Tokyo was stunning. The younger generation in Costa Rica is far more conscientious than mine. It's visible. I hope to one day visit Rwanda where they have outlawed plastic. I want to experience how that has been accomplished. I've been able to connect with young people around the world. It counters any cynicism that we can't connect. Sitting in front of my window 24.juli.2019 I also thought about 🌑 Darleen - QoD  's comment on Char's blog entry.She wrote: "I have no significant places other than those that make me feel "safe". Ex-agoraphobic, 20 years of fighting anxiety, my home and more so my room is my safe place and the only place of significance for me, unless you count a really dark night with a sky full of stars and the moon." So, thinking of Darleen, what is my experience today sitting in front of this window? I don't see people unless they are on the white roof of Gild, the distillery I gaze down on. I don't hear people unless they are three floors below in the weed filled back entry to the clothes store, Betty's Divine. I hear the incessant passing of traffic, albeit muted. There are few birds here. No tree out my window. No bushes or flowers. No balcony. No crow or goose on the gable of the gentrified condos of The Babs today. It's a sterile inner-city landscape best described by humans and human activity. Yet, there are puffs of white in a blue sky and although the grass on the mountains has seeded there's still some green. It's been a wet year. I can also see the summer green of the maples and elms I walk past each day. Were I to get out of this worn-out swivel chair, disconnect from this screen and the cord plugged into the wall, and leave my coffee behind, I could walk across the hall and sit before a huge window and look across the river. I'd see people gathering for Wednesday's Out-to-Lunch. I might see kayakers or surfers by Brennan's Wave. The leaves of the poplar would wave at me and the tower of the Old Milwaukee Road depot would be flying the flag. Inside my plants are complaining that they need watering. And spoons, forks and knives are waiting to be properly soaped up, bathed, rinsed and dried. Living alone can make one hear one's own voice. The quiet suffocates like a pillow. And except for the moon, there are few lights in the city's night sky. |
| The Goddess of Lightning speaks Missoula, July 8th, 2019 The Goddess of Lightning graces us with her gusts from the south, forces herself through the screen mesh wets a 2 dollar coin I was given in Prizren. With four fingers I twirl it's scalloped edges minted in Hong Kong. As the world spins the rains swirl around us. It's been a wet year. Everything's green except early grasses gone to seed. If we ever have heat gardens will do well. It's odd to breathe in this moisture. The old hotel hallways bear layers of dust. My room is always dry. My skin usually itches. We are born thirsty here. But this evening it darkens early and the rumble of thunder precedes the cool downdraft that enters our perception. The Goddess of Lightning must be listened to. She insists, bawls out anyone who prefers silence. For Silence is drought. And Drought brings death. The Goddess pours down upon us her life-affirming moisture. |
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