Yesterday, I was having more trouble than usual in making a decision. I decided not to paint as I did not believe the result would be any good.
Snatching a few moments after lunch and before going in the spa, I used green ink to sketch bubble chains with knife or claw like weapons plus eight and ten pronged star shapes ending with more prongs or spikes.
I imagine microscopic strings of metal snaking and undulating as they meander through the cosmos. The armament is used to defend, attack, and infiltrate asteroids, comets, and anything else that can assist its survival and reproduction.
The serpentine forms protect the dandelion clock like heads as they disperse and germinates more seeds of destruction.
There is a pink airhead, Altair who dreams of becoming a bear. With no fur of their own they find a den in town To toast ‘cheers!’ and praise burly hair
My ‘80s sister, Wimbledon day party, very heavy false lashes
This year my sister would have been sixty. As Mardi Gras is in the air, I authored the following poem in their memory, Gossamer consonance.
There is a photo of me from the same event at the end of this post.
Well my friends the time has come All night long fond memories Of us boogieing on down In Blackpool of ‘84 My wistful sister dreams as Lionel Ritchie serenades Confident dragon hearted A helping hand and support With impish sense of humour The eighties is our time to Raise the roof and have some fun Throw away the work to be done Curious invert spirits joined Relishing life’s offerings And let the music play on Play on play on Everybody sing everybody dance Lose yourself in wild romance Australia with my soul mate French lorry driver for Sis Our gossamer consonance stretched Ten thousand miles forty years I imagine them beyond the veil Forever young partying under Perpetual mirrorballs Yeah once you get started You can’t sit down Come join the fun It’s a merry-go-round Everyone’s dancing Their troubles away Come join our party See how we play
A wet day in South East Queensland, prefer for a whimsical verse and watercolour.
One of seven, my purpose is clear Learn from each other, trust them my dear Hunt, discover clues, stop for a beer Fog may descend, path no longer clear Senses enough to look, smell, touch, hear If we get stuck, can visit a seer Time to get moving, pack up the gear
This is the last watercolour picture painted today and the following poem from the storm the day before.
Summer storm Outside, deep air filled rumbles Echoed by pre-breakfast stomach gurgles Rapidly fading morning light rays’ Impeded by gloom grey clouds
Tinkle ping crash flash overhead Panes rattle in frames Storm’s expected to last for an hour Stan pants, shaking on my lap I type this on my phone with an index finger
Internet’s gone off, using mobile data Light rain increasing to very heavy in thirty three minutes The worst is yet to come
Drops pelt Hammering heavily on the tin roof High pitched whooshing increases ear pressure Tinnitus swells
Stan lies rigidly vibrating Momentarily stops awaiting the next sound On it goes seldom slows
Buoyantly supine quiescent Indolently inhaling Exhaling Heartbeats slowly strum eardrums Muffled glugs and gurgles murmur Sun’s sparkles glimmer Traced out onto umbrella’s canopy Stasis Water and air embraces Nine years awaiting this moment Complete serenity at almost sixty
Oh woe is me, obese me! I know, it’s just a wobble. This grizzling grown woe he, I groan, I moan, I hobble. Stiff soreness, new aches, new pains, Too overweight; I gobble. Energy waxes and wanes, ‘Not enough’ brain’s at the core; All good intent to nobble. I groan and drone on some more.
Drag my ragbag ailments out. Spring air’s chilly for my toes Is this a symptom of gout? Need socks with thongs to warm those, Believed ne’er the twain shall meet. Once airs and graces to show Now putting right on’s a feat. Sat while ironing clothes today, Stand to shower, shave’s too long First time for all, so they say.
Spirit’s lifted. Quite enough Of this meandering verse Boring readers, they could puff And drop dead, call the hearse!
In my haste to leave the house for work on Thursday, I left my phone at home. The 50 minutes commute in quiet contemplation went surprisingly quickly.
The return journey was spent squeezed between the sharpest armrest and a person who couldn’t seem to get comfortable in a seat with barely enough room for one person let alone sharing it with me and my portly stature.
Prior to sitting, they asked if I was saving the part seat next to me for someone. Could they sit down? I was flustered being in the middle of retrieving things I had spilled on the floor from my back pack. Hurriedly, I said of course, of course!
They seemed to be on a mission to call every person in their contacts with the same questions: What are you doing? What did you do last weekend? What are you doing this weekend?
Somehow, I managed to sketch ideas for variations on a self portrait I’m planning to paint in watercolour. The break from the phone provided space for inspiration to move me forward.
In keeping with last week’s water theme, the following is a poem entitled, More Precious than Diamonds. I wrote it ten years ago, against a background of drought.
Delicious drops of dew glisten in the
Cool light of dawn, slowly, slowly, dripping
From leaf from bud from twig. Clouds speed above,
Drizzle foreshadows a downpour, to drench
Landscape wide. Streams and brooks rush, swell, rise, run
Into rivers, flooding deltas, breaking
Free, flowing out to sea to oceans deep.
Dive into life giving blue, cleanse body
And spirit, swim west to sway with undines.
Grasp the chalice of aitch two oh. Deeply
Drink to link with Druids of old and new.
Oft’ used for scrying by many a seer
To reflect and look from seen to unseen.
More precious than diamonds, worth guarding well!
Below is a recording of me reciting this post including the poem.
theINFP 