Blooming Colors

Oops. Lost the text. The photo of the flowers from my garden 
remained. Almost lost the blog. Technical difficulties. 
Timely though for I have but one or two more poems and drawings 
that belong in this picture book and then Judy Sevens
will be concluded. After that, I will either continue here 
or provide a link to my new URL.

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Today, June 1st, I found the lost text that belongs with the photo of flowers:

Today's news from Space Weather - there is a new sunspot 'hurling plumes of plasma off the stellar surface'

The past few months have seen a succession of rainy days. Then the sun comes out and like everyone else I drop everything and go outside because each sunny day might be the last for weeks. Pictures, I'd rather take them than draw them. Writing, I'd rather be outside barefoot and barehanded. 

The climbing rose has gone crazy with blooming.  As soon as the sun warms the garden, we are outside gathering roses. I dug out my old stovetop hyddro-still. The baffles and gaskets are still intact and Libbs and I made rosewater. The first gurgle of hydrosol out the copper spigot spills the scent of roses throughout the kitchen and we make plans to distill the lemon verbena and rose geranium. They too are lush this year. But for now, it's all roses. I've ground up dried petals in the spice mill. Luckily the spices last ground they were those used in perfumery as well as for cooking. The resultant scented powder smells like exotic incense. I'm making Gulkand, a rose preserve by layering fresh rose petals and sugar in a glass jar then sealing it tightly. The climbing rose continues to bloom.

...............

That was last week. For three days now we've been back to the skies of gloom. The syrupy coating on the rose petals has re-crystalized into a cold, hardened lump. To make Gulkand, one must set the jar in the sun every day for weeks, so much for that. I saw not a single bee today. When bees are deprived of ultraviolet light, they remain in their hive, are no longer attracted to flowers, stop gathering pollen - much as people behave who are deprived of the sun. Lethargy. Depressed. Sulking? Still, the ever present greyness Marley and I walked out into this morning gave up to color amidst the varying greens of ferns, sorrel, and grass. Roygbiv is well represented out in the garden, sun or no sun. It didn't take long to gather up a bouquet.

Inside the house and without the dominant green surrounding each, the colors are overwhelming and their brightness suggests artificial pigment, impossibly unnatural or supernatural? The intensity produces something akin to visceral anxiety and the subdued lighting of the above photo provides relief by making the blooms appear more real, or I should say - natural. What or why this should be, I've no idea. And this is just by viewing the spectrum the human eye can see, generally speaking of course.  Somewhere amongst the flowers are the Forbidden Colors - the green that is red, the yellow that is blue - and the bee's ultraviolet and probable other spectrums. If we could see into the spectrums not visible, would the colors be even more overwhelming, nearly blinding, or would they merge with those which were heretofore  visible and present us with an altogether different hue?

In light of the colors blooming and the generally unseen, this is how this morning's world media news reads to me - gloom plus doom. I think I'll stick to the news of the sky to begin my day until the sun comes out again. 

The indigo eye opens to the spectacle before it. 

The true voice which is blue hides

in the shadows of many trees,

a small blue lily 

that shrinks from the sun.

The verdant field with its creatures of song 

pines for song's return

from its last fearless course

into the face of wonder.

Below the field a river like all rivers

empties into the sea,

upon its back the reflection

of eagle's yellow eye as it circles

high above this hollow earth.

and the bright orange poppy

that colors the field with its silken petals

has pulled into a knot

unopened by the sun.

At the beginning is the red dragon. 

When the wondrous poppy was called upon 

to heal the increasing pain

dragon fell sleeping 

within its orange petals.

The indigo eye sighs 

gazes upward

and waits

deep into the purple night.

Voice In Song

In this moment that I know of

songs are sung

in every language spoken

and those long gone.

In this moment that I hear of

voices stilled.

No more would we be hearing

the songs they sang.

In this moment that I sit in

I don't sing.

I listen for the echoes 

of songs once sung.

In this moment that I hope for

songs are sung

by all the voices with us
for those now gone.
...

Mohini Dancing

From behind the ring of fire
made when the moon
covers the sun,
she's danced out of hiding
to earth attuned
her veil undone.

Wearing earth on her body
clay on her face
mud in her hair,
shells dangle from flowers
twined round her waist,
her feet are bare.

She moves her hips
her right arm twirls
the sun's ring round
her wrist aloft,
making scent and sound
of stars a crossed
this tambourine earth.

...

Binky, Boo, And Beetle Too

Binky and Boo were related somehow. Beetle was too. Everyone knew that.

They did not live in the same house. Binky's house was in the east. Boo's house was in the south. Beetle's house was as far west as a house could be without falling into that ocean.

They did not look the same. Binky's hair was straight. Boo's hair was curly. Beetle's hair had hardly grown in.

They did not like the same food. Binky spit out anything red. Boo would eat nothing green. Beetle put everything he found in his mouth.

But they all shared one same thing, Grandma's smile. When Binky, or Boo, or Beetle smiled, everyone would say, "There's that smile, Grandma's smile."

Binky, Boo, and Beetle did not see each other every day. On certain days they would go to Grandma and Grandpa's house in the north and Grandma would smile and tell everyone, "My angels are here." Grandpa would chuckle to himself, "Here comes the wrecking crew."

For at that house they were not angels. They were together and together they made more ruckus than ten hundred indomitable boys. Everyone knew that. When everyone saw Binky, Boo, and Beetle too all together at that house, they whispered, "Those boys are together again." and tightly shut their doors and windows.

One certain day Binky, Boo, and Beetle played loud, louder, loudest ever! Grandpa was deep in a book and deaf to the world.  Grandma stopped smiling, held onto her head to prevent it from flying off, and shouted, "Quiet! I must have quiet! Go to that other room! Quietly! Sit down in there and keep quiet!"

"Here we go again." Said Binky to Boo.

"Oh no, not again." Said Boo to Binky.

Beetle cast himself upon the floor and had to be carried to that other room. Once there, they became quiet, very quiet.

"Let's go somewhere Grandma can't find us. " They conspired.

"Yes, let's trick Grandma and make her laugh." They plotted.

"We will turn into little sneaks and crawl out the window." They agreed.

Binky snuck out the window. Boo snuck out the window. Beetle snuck out the window too.

"My, how quiet they are." Grandma said. She was not accustomed to hearing herself think and it had taken some time for the quiet to be perceived by Grandma.  "I wonder what they look like when they are being quiet?"  She tiptoed to that other room and peered through the crack in the doorway. She did not see them.

She opened the door widely. She still did not see them. "But, they're not here." She worried.

She looked in all the house. "I cannot find them." She fretted.

"They're gone." She gasped.

Grandma ran out of the house, down the street, back up the street, calling out all the while, "They're gone! They're gone! Someone has stolen my boys!"

And everyone whispered behind their tightly shut windows and doors, "Who would steal Binky, Boo, and Beetle too?"

The three little sneaks were so tickled with their trick, they laughed and turned back into people. Laughter was their magic word. Grandma, who was running by on her way back down the street saw Binky, she saw Boo. And, she saw Beetle too, sitting outside the window, together, all laughing.

Grandma became indignant, causing her red hair to shoot sparks. Binky was impressed. Boo was impressed. Beetle sat down immediately and practiced looking innocent.

"Grandma's not laughing." Said Binky to Boo.

"Let's climb back in the window."  Said Boo to Beetle.

Beetle pointed at the window. There stood Grandpa, not saying anything.

Now, on this certain day, Grandpa had finished reading his book and was no longer deaf to the world. It had occurred to Grandpa that the world inside the house was silent. This unusual discovery intrigued Grandpa and had sent him looking. He had looked in that other room and had seen the window was open. He had looked out the window and had seen the three little sneaks turn back into little boys. And, he had seen Grandma sparking indignantly. Grandpa had seen it all.

"What's going on?" Grandpa asked, knowing trickery full well when he saw it.

Binky said nothing. Boo said nothing. Beetle did not say nothing, Beetle said his first word.

"Food." Said Beetle.

"Beetle talked." Said Binky.

"He did." Said Boo.

"Oh my" Said Grandma.

"What's for dinner? " Asked Grandpa. "I'm hungry too."

Beetle had already climbed back in the window and was sitting at the table, ready to eat. And eat they did.

"What angels they are."  Grandma said and smiled her smile at Grandpa after Binky, Boo, and Beetle were asleep.

"What?" Asked Grandpa, deep in another book. But Grandpa was smiling too.

...

The Perigee Moon and the Camellia

This cousin to the camellia which gives us tea, came to full bloom
 in the garden on May 5th, under a Wesak moon.
It takes well to that same soil that gives us the redwoods and
rhododendrons here on the Pacific north coast. Some people have made tea
from its leaves and say it contains more caffeine. I've never tried it.

I took this photo with the eastern sky and the rising moon behind me.
When I looked at the picture, I was surprised to see a tiny moon
 above the tip of a petal noting the day.

That so translucent a bloom

without scent 

would be reminiscent of 

 a simple cup of tea

in the dusky morning,

  

who would have thought 

what that would one day signify

on a perigee moon

on the fifth of May

...

This Wooden Drum

Earth, Air, Fire, and Water

here am I your long lost daughter.

To ocean’s sand and mountain’s loam

I have returned I have come home.

I wandered off a little child

into a storm, a tempest wild.

No wind no rain did fuel this storm

its tumult was of mortals born.

Earth, Air Fire, and Water

Here am I your weary daughter.    

I've traveled far through dimming skies 

and stumbled long with blinded eyes.

Pray let me sleep and dream awhile

on lily petals by the Nile.

Or I could curl up in a bower 

atop the tallest redwood tower.

Earth, Air, Fire, and Water

here am I your beloved daughter.  

This wooden drum is all I own

my hands upon it brought me home.

... 

Photograph by ©Brian Allison

bcaphotography.com
brian@lostcoastprinting.com
lostcoastprinting.com

as always, poem by Judy

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