Angel (III)
 
 
His lips purse around
            a trumpet,
            its slender form
            curving slightly
            under stone fingers.
 
His wings are folded
            but still in view.
 
He plays his silent music
            high above the heads
            of the rushing crowd,
            those with time schedules,
            lectures to give,
and taxis to catch.
 
He plays his silent music
            from his perch
            high above the world,
            hoping someone
            will finally stop to listen.

I painted these pictures of the angels Gabriel and Michael as an offering.  There is a museum in Houston called The Menil.  It is more famous for its contemporary and avant garde art, but it does house an exceptional collection of icons.I have heard that the Greek and Russian Orthodox Christians believe icons become windows to heaven and that if you pray in the presence of an icon (not to the icon) your prayers will go directly to heaven.  I sometimes visit that museum just to say my prayers in the room with the old Russian icons of Gabriel and Michael. Many of my prayers have been answered, In gratitude, I painted these paintings. These are mixed media with Christmas gift wrap feathers and rhinestone jewels. I like to believe they open up "windows to heaven" just like the ancient icons. .

Angel (I)
 
Wings tremble in stone.
Strong fingers hold fast
            to a massive box,
            a box with no lid;
            a box with no beginning;
            a box with no end.
The inscription is unreadable –
            the language of angels.
What lies within? Sealed and
            forever out of reach?
In the twilight, the angel’s eyes
            look sad;
            his hair flies back
            from his face
            and his countenance
            remains forever solemn.
All the burdens of the world
            are jammed into this box
            and it is getting heavier.

I have written many poems about angels.  I have traveled to England, France and Italy (and other places) and it is always the churches, and the temples that call to me.  I took this picture in the garden in my backyard in Houston... but the poem was inspired by an angel I saw in Oxford, England.  That was before I had my wonderful digital camera.  I still have pictures from England, but I will have to digitize them before I can share... so for now, my lovely garden angel will have to stand in for the angel with the box.  I believe in angels.  All types  Cat angels, dog angels, icon angels, stained glass angels and the angels of our loved ones who have passed.  Angels (in whatever form) are always a reminder that we are spiritual beings having an earthly experience.

Silent Echo
 
 
 
“I want to go back
to that sure thing
To home base, to the middle
of the stone mother…”
 
                        Pablo Neruda
                        Stones of the Sky XXIII
 
 
I watch for a silent echo
            my light flashing off the sides
            of solid stone, bouncing in circles.
It glints across centuries,
            from life to life,
            and moves in darkness.
Then I remember Light can split apart,
            leaving only traces of pureness
            hidden, but discernible to divine rescue.

I wrote a series of poems with epigraphs from lines of Pablo Neruda's poems, enough book, which I hope to get out soon.  Several years ago, I bought a copy of Machu Picchu. I didn't understand the poetry, It seemed obscure. So obscure that I got frustrated with it and gave my copy of the book away.  Years later, I picked it up again.  This time, I read the book with different eyes and it opened up an entire world of images from Neruda -- this was a trove of mystic poems that lit up the soul.  In almost every poem, I found a line or two that spoke to me and I wrote what I heard from the music of his work.

Amber Leaves
 
The sweet gum trees
                display a pave set
of gleaming amber leaves,
                all clustered,
around an ebony trunk
                against a sapphire sky.
 
In the forest, all things
                become treasure,
the glinting egg-shaped
                river stone,
the jagged bit of petrified wood,
                the ruby yupon berries.
 
The leaves of the sweet gums
                most of all, the citrine
yellow, garnet red, the amber,
                topaz and the emerald
of all the leaves just turning.
               
Most of the beauty of the forest (our six acres, anyway) goes unseen.  The leaves turn for a few days and are brown.  The baby cardinals are born in the immense woods but are not noticed.  The hummingbirds arrive in thousands from Mexico but are lost in the enormity of The Piney Woods and only coaxed out by the sweet nectar of hummingbird food.The flowers on the forest floor are so small that they would fit in half a dime... and no one notices unless they are looking for them especially.  Sometimes it is a blessing to have a poet's eye and sometimes it is a curse.  When I see a glorious patch of untouched forest ripped up for a parking lot, or the neighbor's 100-year-old deciduous trees cut down for a few dollars, it is heart wrenching.  Sometimes, the people closest to the forest, well, "can't see the forest for the trees"!! 

People buy up a lot in the middle of the woods and immediately bulldoze all the trees down to make a meadow... all those beautiful, imperfect, gnarly old trees.  If the same people planted more tomorrow, the trees would never look the same in their lifetime.  That kind of action complete destroys the beauty of a place. Besides, if a buyer didn't want to be in trees, why would he or she even buy a part of the old woods? There are plenty of acres of Texas in Central and West Texas devoid of trees altogether.  It is heart breaking.  Not to mention all the creatures dislocated and forced to flee from ancient homes.  In our tiny woods, we can see the devastation of forty different old pines cut down.  All that is left now are the tree stumps.  We know it has been 20 years or so since a previous owner went into the forest and cut down every large pine to sell to the highest bidder.  The rotting tree stumps stand like markers to the devastation.  As long as we own the place, no one will cut down any live trees... but then... we are city folks who treasure the trees because we did not grow up with such abundance. 

The Hobbit Tree
 
At the edge of our forest,
                beside the curving creek waters,
                the Hobbit Tree stands
                like a tower.
 
It still lives, although
                a massive cave
                has been hollowed out
                where the trunks meets water.
 
Here, one can imagine
                a vision of Texas faerie folk,
                maybe dressed in green or brown,
                but definitely with wings.
 
The light plays on the water
                creating a moat around it,
                the dark depths beckoning
                twinkling with midnight lights.
 
All around, a carpet of moss
                spreads across the roots,
                covers the rocky promitories,
                that surround it like a wall.

The first day that we went to explore our 6 acre forest, my dad took us up into the woods, along the deer path, to show us the curving creek -- which we have dubbed Fawn's Creek.  We were in the woods, making considerable noise, when the white-haired gentleman who is our neighbor made a beeline right to us...To introduce himself, and, well, to make darn sure we knew where the boundary of his property was.  He traced an old delapidated fence wire... so rusted that it was only visible where it  had been nailed into the posts... the rest had rusted away.  We followed him through "Texas jungle" until we reached the creek.  He pointed to an old knarley tree and said "here...here is the boundary.. after this tree is my property"  The tree he pointed to looked like something out of The Lord Of The Rings.  It was huge, still allive, and there was a cavernous hole at the bottom of it.  It seemed just the place for a hobbit or a faerie to reside.  From that moment on, we named it The Hobbit Tree.  We go back there every once and awhile to see if we can find an Texas faeries.  There probably are some... if we just knew where to look

A Forest of Fantasy
 
The dark, staunch trunks of pine
stretch like sentinels toward
the Texas sun;
 
Beyond, a woods of yellow,
orange and red sweet gums,
backlit by morning sun,
 
Creates a forest of fantasy,
a magical golden world of light,
of shimmer and of dancing blaze.
 
Deep in the flaming leaves
the sun plays and shimmers,
gilding every inch with glitter.
 
Here is a world beyond imagination
an ephemeral paradise
a garden that dazzles and disappears.
 
 

I took this picture on day when my dad and my husband and I decided to go for a drive to see the leaves.  It was one of those glorious Texas autumns in which the leaves did turn brilliant colors.  In the south part of The Great Piney Woods, as far south as Houston, beautiful autumn colors like this happen about once every 5 years or so.  It is a special thing to see the leaves turn.  In the northern parts of Texas, they change all the time.  The light behind these golden leaves provided back lighting for miles of forest. I tried to capture it, but the photos couldn't capture the enormity of it... I loved taking those pictures with my dad.  He is the reason I got into photography... He built his own darkroom in the house I grew up in in Houston.  He made it out of closet. He has taken thousands of photos and he likes to reminisce and to share them with me.  Photos of Japan and China and Bangladesh.  I will be sharing some of my photos and writings about England, France, and Japan a little later.Yesterday was Texas Independence Day  March 2 and you cannot forget March 6 --- the day we all will remember The Alamo.  More later and keep watching for the gold where ever you are.

Currency of the Forest
 
The bright gold leaves
are tumbled on the forest floor
like a trove of treasure
in a dragon’s lair; each one
as rich as a gold coin,
more valuable in their transience.
 
Here and there, the green turns
to yellow, the yellow to gold,
the bounty of an ephemeral moment
in paradise before
even this illusion turns brown
and then to dust.
 
 

I love to see the yellow and gold leaves carpeting the forest floor.  There are a few days each year when this happens... just a blink in the flow of time.  In the end, all living things go back to brown earth... even those that have gleamed like transient gold. This is not a morbid thought.  Any instance of beauty that can be captured on film, in paints, or even in memory will love on in human consciousness.  The secret is to take the time and then have the discernment to see all the treasure that is around us every day.  Like the saying "if a tree falls in the forest where no one can hear it, is there any sound?", the thought of all the beauty of the forest where no one can see it (or has the ability to appreciate it) is of big concern to me.  These acres and acres of precious woods won't last long.  Every time we go up to the farm, we see another swathe of piney woods decimated to make room for progress.  Even by the end of my lifetime, there may not be as many lovely golden leaves to see and appreciate.