Laughing With Trees

If you throw your arms around a tree in the middle of a laugh, 

the tree will give you a mystical secret.

Few think to do this while laughing,

laughter is immediate transport to its own magical land.

Those who have, when questioned, smile mysteriously and say,

"I only remember laughing."

Bob in New Orleans

go to the Temple of Unconcern 

slip out the back

follow the Alley of Echoes
to the Tavern of the Soul

it is filled with accomplished dreamers

...

The Flyaway Moon

Night falls. Nothing seems broken. Nothing has changed that anyone can see. 

Walls stand. A ceiling stretches across the branches of petrified trees. 

Bulbed lights leashed to rafters obediently switch places with the stars, the moon, 

and fall with the downcast eyes of betrayal upon the polished floor.

Old women in stiff soles the black robes laced upon their bare feet when they were young  

tilt buckets, bend to scrub the marble tiles - shallow tombs upon the dust where drums 

once beat when their bare feet ground the earth - and pretend to let no memories rise. 

Muttered whispers pour from their mouths.

The Triple-eyed-face, third eye turned inward, sits at the table peering, 

shuffling through his favorite thought. He collects a few hands, a few eyes, 

a few hearts, and tosses them in. When they're gone he draws a few more.

The old women collect in a corner, spinning. Hands keep spinning, spinning, 

reaching for the moon. It's just old women. No one notices.

Old men sit against walls of blackened out stars, blue smoke from pipes toked 

curls a tattoo across their palms. Another memory rises, another reach, another moon.

A bow is drawn, a string glides across the underbelly of a wave. The piano 

sails in from another continent. A reed descends solo footed onto the tiles. 

Young bodies, rigid in black cloth stitched against the looseness of their joy, stride

with well placed steps between the pools of light cast down upon the polished floor. 

This is a sophisticated dance. No one sings. 

The old men drape memories across the high heels, spiked kicks, slicked back hair 

and drop matches, smoldering, at their feet. All that's left of the old women 

are their spinning, spinning hands reeling in the moon.

She draws a mask across her eyes, approaches the table in one slow turn and sits down. 

Ombre tones in languid waves pour from her face. The Triple-eyed face, two eyes leering, 

deals the cards. One by on they land flat and floating, face up. 

The numbers are always the same. They never change. She knows that.

"Win or loose, there's no in between, numbers never lie," laughs the Triple-eyed-face. 

He laughs again and tosses a spade over his shoulder, "I win." 

Another grave is dug, another tile is laid in another hollow room.

Voices sing softly, sha na na

in a language no one knows.

Little hands stitch straight lines

in the fabric piled before them.

Who's to say, who's to see

the little hands are broken,

who's to listen to their song?

She rises, opens the window, reaches up, lifts the moon from the sky, turns 

and offers it to him. "A gift? Too mystic." says the Triple-eyed-face, 

third eye hinged against emotion. He reaches for her cards. 

She smiles, replaces the moon. It tilts and out comes pouring 

the mellowed howl of a pent up wind.

(note: finally edited and now titled The Hollow Room (2016)

Where Have All The Children Gone?

Don't know. Didn't see

which way they went.

Said they'd be back later.

Might be down by the river

up on the hill

sleeping under a tree.

Could be way over yonder

working the fields

or, they've gone off to sea.

Maybe took to a dreamwalk

out of the blue

barefoot wandering free.

Should be on their way home now

back before long.

Look up and there they'll be.

Till then, open the curtain

set out the lamp.

Might be, they'll need to see

their way home

and, would you light

a candle for me?

Butterfly Logic

Someone told me once, "Whatever you are thinking when you see a butterfly is a good idea." He also said, "Sleep when you are tired. Eat when you are hungry. Work so others can play only if they are children."

I know many things. I know the first star you ever saw will always be your own lucky star. And I know if you work for wages, you will always need money and you will work till you die. A wage brings just enough to eat, a night's sleep under a roof, then you get up and work for another wage and another meal. That's the way of it.

As to that, you must keep secret from the wage payers. Once they find you, they never let you be. But, if you use butterfly logic, you can get away. Otherwise it's a struggle because the wage payers are good talkers and have everyone's ears.

I always dream free in case a butterfly comes by.


...

Sketch

Now to get back to what I was doing before the computer and camera problems. This is a sketch of the front of my house, the thumbnail for a watercolor illustration for a poem called "Our House" - a poem I wrote when my son was little and we didn't have any money - about the richness of having a home. I thought if I took a photo of the sketch and put it up here, it would help motivate me to finish the picture. Or maybe I like it just like this. I won't know until I try. Laetitia Thistledown is still yet to manifest. She's a tricky one.

Window Vase

The rain does not stop. 
It still feels like winter. 
Every day, I look past the vase in the window to the garden
which is green because of the rain. 


We all have landscapes we look at everyday, 
faces that are so familiar 
we should be able to draw them from memory, 
but we can't. 


My garden changes in winter, 
I know it is different because some of it has gone
but I don't know exactly what is missing. 
The garden has changed slowly over time and
unless I compared it to a photograph, 
I couldn't point to what was once there. 


Winter is like this, 
I know the leaves have fallen 
but I don't know which fell first. 

Just A Quick Note

...to say I'm having problems with my computer and the pictures

I like to post. I should have things sorted out soon. 

In the meantime, I think I'll have

a cup of tea, or coffee. 

In the meantime I've been changing the blog name back

and forth from Judy Sevens to 

Laetitia Thistledown.

I'll draw a picture of Laetitia.

Misbehavior

The blanket thinks it's a magic carpet

and flops up and down all night.

That cup insists on telling fortunes.

It will only take tea.

The clock doesn't work. It would rather dream

about traveling through space

than sit and count time.

The piano plays sonatas in the middle of the night

because it's inspired by the moon.

The telephone is tired of hearing voices.

It disconnects as soon as it rings.

And the book, the book keeps disappearing.

Why? It's a mystery.

Worst of all the candle believes it is the eternal flame

and will not blow out.

I simply cannot remain in this house

where no one behaves!

The Blue Room

wooden room

entrance blocked by strings

hollow room

empty till it's strummed

guitar man come back

fill up the room!

...

The Time Of One

This is Island, a continent surrounded by the sea. Those who live here, even those who do not know much of anything, know the woodlands is the birthplace of the Bird Of Life. And, most everyone knows if they, themselves, were born in The Time Of One or The Time of Two.

Each dusk, a tiny bird lifts above the trees. It circles inland, then turns and flies directly towards the sea. It flies across the bare field, over the river and disappears into the white fog expanding the reaches of Island's outstretched fingers into the sky.

Each dawn, the tiny bird reappears through its foggy gateway from some unknown world beyond Island, perhaps beyond the sea itself, carrying in its beak one tiny seed. The little bird flies back over the river, across the fields, into the trees and buries its seed in the woodland's floor.

After many years of planting, one of the seeds, only one, begins to grow into a tree. When its crown reaches through the protective bower of the woodlands into the sun, seemingly overnight, the bird builds a nest on its highest branch.

The next morning when it returns from its mysterious flight, the little bird carries not a seed but a tiny white egg and places it in the nest. That same day, from out of the whiteness which is like the whiteness of the fog through which the egg appeared, another little bird is born. Thus begins The Time Of Two, The Days Of Song. For many years, the two birds sing and fly together through the woodlands.

One dusk, the two little birds fly side by side into the mists. In the dawn, only one returns, carrying a tiny seed in its beak. Those few who have seen this solitary flight swear that this seed is planted with a tear so small there can be no smaller tear.

This is Island, a continent surrounded by the sea. The sea holds Island much like earth holds the sea and, in turn, much like sky holds earth. Everything gives way to something. Yesterday gives way to today, the day of the smallest tear.

A Clay Figure

She is called "Elizabeth" after the name of the model who posed for sculpture class.  I made her by molding and carving damp clay I had shaped around a stick figure made of strong wire which is, in turn, supported by a metal pipe. She has stood for years between two windows in a corner of the old shed. The clay is very dry now and if she were to be moved or jostled, she would crumble away from her armature. As it is, she is both disintegrating and standing in time.